In The Boy—the first book in the series—we are introduced to Brian, a child who assumes that his experiences of the world are the same as everyone else. But eventually, he questions why his parents are so frustrated with him for the actions of other boys. And then he realizes that being five different people who share the same body is, in fact, strange. So strange, it's something no one, not even his parents, can understand.
Growing up with his inner multiplicity in a world designed for singular people is a daunting task, but when added to the abuse of a sexual predator, it becomes more than Brian and his personalities can bear. No one wants to manage this difficult life, but Brian is the leader and he must choose the direction their lives will take. Overwhelmed and lost, Brian wants to fade into the background like everybody else. But when he does, life becomes even more chaotic and broken. Making it through each day becomes more important than remembering the significance—or even the existence—of his multiplicity.
Learning to forget who he is and the abuse that shaped his childhood enabled Brian to survive when he was young, but success in adulthood requires consistency and a keen memory. The very skills that were needed in childhood are no basis for maturing. If Brian and his internal companions are going to survive, they need to find another way to engage the world. Fortunately, The Lady arrives with an offer Brian can't refuse...
There is little doubt that in today's world, loneliness would be identified as the reason he was so different, maybe even a little weird. But it was the 1950s, and the part of Brian's life that would now be counted as loneliness was then understood to be self-reliance.
Brian's family parroted most other families of that time. Their father had little to do with the children, spending long hours working and volunteering in the community. Their mother's responsibility was the home, projecting the norms of respectability, sophistication, and a masked ease with social status.
For either parent, what was unique in each of their children wasn't as important as how their offspring contributed to the family's overall purpose. Obedient children were evidence of the parents' success in creating a well-ordered life. Individuality fades when the goals of life depend upon everyone adhering to the rules.
Mirroring their parents' agenda, the children stepped into their respective roles. The younger brother was quiet and responsive to their mother. The older sister was helpful at home and dutiful in the world of school. Brian, the middle child, stayed out of the way. Well into his fourth year, he was too young to be of much help and too old to be needy. The family's purpose was the creation of comfort, and his role was to be comfortable. If he was lonely, he didn't know it.
It was the middle of the day, and Brian's toys were scattered. His mom was at the other end of the house, taking care of his baby brother when The Lady discreetly walked into the room.
Brian couldn't remember when The Lady first came to see him. Some of his earliest memories were of her kneeling beside him on the wooden living room floor. The green couch, the wrought-iron floor lamp, and the floral chair were tucked to the edges of the room.
She was always a surprise and comfort, a comfort almost impossible to imagine. She was solace when he was sad, and wisdom when he was confused. She was a listening ear when he was puzzled, and laughter that broke the burdensome silence. Brian was sure she'd once told him her name, but he didn't think it mattered. She was always just The Lady.
Sometime around his third birthday, The Lady shared the names of the others who lived inside his head. They'd been a part of his childhood for as long as he could remember. Many children Brian's age have imaginary friends to provide them with entertainment, solace, and guidance throughout childhood. But the vast majority of such internal companions fade away as the child matures, their imagination shrinking under the weight of the real world.
In all probability, this would have been Brian's path if not for the interference of The Lady. Aside from his parents, she was the only adult who directly interacted with him. The power of her recognition solidified the reality of his internal companions, authenticating what otherwise might have faded away.
With The Lady's blessing, Brian's internal world became a community of children. They were a motley crew of five boys with their own names, personalities, preferences, and moods. Amongst themselves, they even recognized relative ages.
The benefit of living in such an intimate, internal community was the potent antidote to loneliness. If Greg was tired and didn't want to play, then Michael was probably up for a game. If Brian was mad at their dad and didn't want to deal with him, then David— who was understood to be the oldest—would step up to the task. If their little brother needed someone to play with, Terry, the youngest of the crew, was the boy for the job.
In the isolation of the boys' secluded world, interdependence grew. They didn't always get along, but, typical of most children, slights and hurts were easily set aside. Anger was quickly surrendered for companionship and play.
The problem with such an active, internal world is that it eventually bumps into the reality of the external one. For Brian and the crew, what was comfortable in the confines of their shared body didn't find a welcome reception within the family. Their parents' belief that only one person lived in each body didn't jive with Brian's experience of multiplicity.
“But Mom, why should I clean up the toys? I didn't make the mess, Greg did. I don't even like these toys. You should get Greg to clean them up.”
It was a situation for which his parents were completely unprepared. Bewildered and frustrated, they turned to their local physician, who reassured them that imaginary friends were normal. This was a phase soon to be left behind.
“Your son will grow out of this in due time. There's nothing to worry about. Having imaginary friends isn't something that lasts very long.”
But the problem wasn't going away. If anything, it got worse.
“Brian, I need you for a minute. Can you come here?” His mother watched the boy continue to play with his toys, ignoring her. He was sitting just feet away, and there was no way he couldn't have heard her request.
“Brian, I called you!”
The boy raised his head, clearly irritated with her intrusive demand. “Brian's not here,” he said, turning back to his toys.
She fought to keep her voice under control. “I don't care who you think you are. I called you. Now, get over here and give me a hand.”
Reluctantly, the boy got up off the floor. That he was confused by her anger only made it more frustrating. She grabbed his arm and pulled him toward her. “I know you heard me. Why are you ignoring me?”
“I'm not ignoring you, Mom, honest. But you called for Brian.”
What might have once been mildly amusing was beyond maddening. Eventually, their parents found a pediatrician who took their frustration seriously.
“It's true that lots of children have imaginary friends, but your son seems to be taking it to an extreme. Your child is suffering from an overactive imagination, and it needs to be contained. He needs firm discipline, so you mustn't tolerate anything excessive in his imaginings.”
In many ways, it was the prescription his parents wanted. School was looming, and the last thing they needed was the embarrassment of sending a delusional child into the public realm. The war between Brian and his parents had begun.
