any physical cause. It's my belief that within a few weeks or so, he'll be able to tell us who did t his to him.”
“What are the parents saying?”
The psychiatrist pauses. “This is all new behavior.” Monica taps her pen on her desk. In her experience, when the parents claim t o be completely surprised by the speech or actions of a child who has been a bused, it often ends up that one parent or both is the abuser. Dr. Robichaud is well aware of this, too. “I thought that you might want to g et in at the ground level, Ms. LaFlamme. I referred the Frosts to a pediatric ian trained in child sexual abuse cases, for a detailed medical examination o f their son. He should be faxing you a report.”
Monica takes down the information; hangs up the phone. Then she looks over w hat she's written, in preparation for beginning yet another case that will m ost likely fizzle before a conviction is secured.
Frost, she thinks, rewriting the name. Surely it must be someone else. We lay in the dark, not touching, a foot of space between us.
“Miss Lydia?” I whisper, and feel Caleb shake his head. “Who, then? Who's alone with him, other than the two of us?”
Caleb is so quiet I think he's fallen asleep. “Patrick watched him for a wh ole weekend when we went to your cousin's wedding last month.” I come up on an elbow. “You've got to be kidding. Patrick's a police office r. And I've known him since he was six.”
“He doesn't have a girlfriend-”
“He's only been divorced for six months!”
“All I'm saying,” Caleb rolls over, “is you may not know him as well as you think.”
I shake my head. “Patrick loves Nathaniel.”
Caleb just looks at me. His response is clear, although he never speaks it a loud: Maybe too much.
The next morning Caleb leaves while the moon is still hanging crooked on its peg in the sky. We have discussed this plan, trading our time like chips in a poker game: Caleb will finish his wall, then be home by midday. The impli cation is that I can go to the office when he returns, but I won't. My work, it will have to wait. This all happened to Nathaniel when I wasn't present to bear witness; I cannot risk letting him out of my sig ht again.
It's a noble cause to champion-protecting my child. But this morning I am hav ing trouble understanding lionesses that guard their cubs, and relating more to the hamster that devours her offspring. For one thing, my son hasn't seeme d to notice that I want to be his hero. For another, I'm not so sure I want t o be one, either. Not if it means sticking up for a boy who fights me at ever y turn.
God, he has every right to hate me for being so selfish now.
Yet patience has never been my strong point. I solve problems; I seek repris al. And even though I know it is not a matter of will for Nathaniel, I am an gry that his silence is protecting the person who should be held accountable. Today Nathaniel is falling apart at the seams. He insists on wearing his Supe rman pajamas, although it is nearly noon. Worse, he had an accident in his be d last night, so he stinks of urine. It took Caleb over an hour to get him ou t of his wet clothes yesterday; it took me two hours to realize I don't have the emotional or physical strength to fight him this morning. Instead, I've m oved on to another battle.
Nathaniel sits like a stone gargoyle on his stool, his lips pressed together , resisting my attempts to get some food into him. He has not eaten since br eakfast the previous day. I have held up everything from maraschino cherries to a gingerroot, the whole contents of the refrigerator from A to Z and bac k again. “Nathaniel.” I let a lemon roll off the counter. “Do you want spagh etti? Chicken fingers? I'll make you whatever you want. Just pick.” But he only shakes his head.
If he does not eat, it isn't the end of the world. No, that was yesterday. But there is a part of me that believes if I can do this-fill my son-it will keep him from hurting inside.
“What are the parents saying?”
The psychiatrist pauses. “This is all new behavior.” Monica taps her pen on her desk. In her experience, when the parents claim t o be completely surprised by the speech or actions of a child who has been a bused, it often ends up that one parent or both is the abuser. Dr. Robichaud is well aware of this, too. “I thought that you might want to g et in at the ground level, Ms. LaFlamme. I referred the Frosts to a pediatric ian trained in child sexual abuse cases, for a detailed medical examination o f their son. He should be faxing you a report.”
Monica takes down the information; hangs up the phone. Then she looks over w hat she's written, in preparation for beginning yet another case that will m ost likely fizzle before a conviction is secured.
Frost, she thinks, rewriting the name. Surely it must be someone else. We lay in the dark, not touching, a foot of space between us.
“Miss Lydia?” I whisper, and feel Caleb shake his head. “Who, then? Who's alone with him, other than the two of us?”
Caleb is so quiet I think he's fallen asleep. “Patrick watched him for a wh ole weekend when we went to your cousin's wedding last month.” I come up on an elbow. “You've got to be kidding. Patrick's a police office r. And I've known him since he was six.”
“He doesn't have a girlfriend-”
“He's only been divorced for six months!”
“All I'm saying,” Caleb rolls over, “is you may not know him as well as you think.”
I shake my head. “Patrick loves Nathaniel.”
Caleb just looks at me. His response is clear, although he never speaks it a loud: Maybe too much.
The next morning Caleb leaves while the moon is still hanging crooked on its peg in the sky. We have discussed this plan, trading our time like chips in a poker game: Caleb will finish his wall, then be home by midday. The impli cation is that I can go to the office when he returns, but I won't. My work, it will have to wait. This all happened to Nathaniel when I wasn't present to bear witness; I cannot risk letting him out of my sig ht again.
It's a noble cause to champion-protecting my child. But this morning I am hav ing trouble understanding lionesses that guard their cubs, and relating more to the hamster that devours her offspring. For one thing, my son hasn't seeme d to notice that I want to be his hero. For another, I'm not so sure I want t o be one, either. Not if it means sticking up for a boy who fights me at ever y turn.
God, he has every right to hate me for being so selfish now.
Yet patience has never been my strong point. I solve problems; I seek repris al. And even though I know it is not a matter of will for Nathaniel, I am an gry that his silence is protecting the person who should be held accountable. Today Nathaniel is falling apart at the seams. He insists on wearing his Supe rman pajamas, although it is nearly noon. Worse, he had an accident in his be d last night, so he stinks of urine. It took Caleb over an hour to get him ou t of his wet clothes yesterday; it took me two hours to realize I don't have the emotional or physical strength to fight him this morning. Instead, I've m oved on to another battle.
Nathaniel sits like a stone gargoyle on his stool, his lips pressed together , resisting my attempts to get some food into him. He has not eaten since br eakfast the previous day. I have held up everything from maraschino cherries to a gingerroot, the whole contents of the refrigerator from A to Z and bac k again. “Nathaniel.” I let a lemon roll off the counter. “Do you want spagh etti? Chicken fingers? I'll make you whatever you want. Just pick.” But he only shakes his head.
If he does not eat, it isn't the end of the world. No, that was yesterday. But there is a part of me that believes if I can do this-fill my son-it will keep him from hurting inside.
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