My ears are filled with all the things Nathaniel is not saying: What's for dinner; can I play on the computer; did you see how fast that car went? His hands close around the Matchbox like the claw of a giant; in this make-believe world he is the one calling the shots.
The python's jaws ratchet shut, so loud in this silence that it makes me jump. And then I feel it, the softest jelly-roll along my leg, the bumping up my spine. Nathaniel is holding the Matchbox car, running it up the avenue of my arm. He parks in the hollow of my collarbone, then touches one finger to the tears on my cheek.
Nathaniel puts the car onto the track and climbs into my lap. His breath is hot and wet on my collar as he burrows close. This makes me feel sick-that he should choose me to keep him safe, when I have already failed miserably. We stay like this for a long time, until evening comes and stars fall onto his carpet, until Caleb's voice climbs the stairs, searching for us. Over the penance of Nathaniel's head I watch the car on its track, spinning in circles, driven by its own momentum.
Shortly after seven o'clock, I lose Nathaniel. He isn't in any of his favorite haunts: his bedroom, the playroom, on the jungle gym outside. I had thought Caleb was with him; Caleb thought he was with me. "Nathaniel!" I yell, panicked, but he can't answer me-he couldn't answer me even if he felt like giving away his hiding place. A thousand scenes of horror sprint through my mind: Nathaniel being kidnapped from the backyard, unable to scream for help; Nathaniel falling down our well and sobbing in silence; Nathaniel lying hurt and unconscious on the ground. "Nathaniel!" I cry again, louder this time.
"You take the upstairs," Caleb says, and I hear the worry in his voice, too. Before I can answer he heads for the laundry room; there is a sound of the dryer door opening and then closing again.
Nathaniel is not hiding under our bed, or in his closet. He isn't curled underneath cobwebs in the stairwell that leads to the attic. He isn't in his toy chest or behind the big wing chair in the sewing room.
He isn't beneath the computer table or behind the bathroom door.
You'd think I've run a mile, I'm panting that hard. I lean against the wall outside the bathroom and listen to Caleb slam cabinets and drawers in the kitchen. Think like Nathaniel, I tell myself. Where would I be if I were five?
I would be climbing rainbows. I would be lifting rocks to find crickets sleeping underneath; I would be sorting the gravel in the driveway by weight and color. But these are all the things Nathaniel used to do, things that fill the mind of a child before he has to grow up. Overnight.
There is a thin drip coming from the bathroom. The sink; Nathaniel routinely leaves it on when he brushes his teeth. I suddenly want to see that trickle of water, because it will be the most normal thing I've witnessed all day. But inside, the sink is dry as a bone. I turn to the source of the noise, pull back the brightly patterned shower curtain.
And scream.
The only thing he can hear underwater is his heart. Is it like this for dolphins, too? Nathaniel wonders, or can they hear sounds the rest of us can't-coral blooming, fish breathing, sharks thinking. His eyes are wide open, and through the wet the ceiling is runny. Bubbles tickle his nostrils, and the fish drawn onto the shower curtain make it real.
But suddenly his mother is there, here in the ocean where she shouldn't be, and her face is as wide as the sky coming closer. Nathaniel forgets to hold his breath as she yanks him out of the water by his shirt. He coughs, he sneezes sea. He hears her crying, and that reminds him that he has to come back to this world, after all.
Oh, my God, he isn't breathing-he isn't breathing-and then Nathaniel takes a great gulp of air. He is twice his weight in his soaked clothes, but I wrestle him out of the tub so that he lies dripping on the bathmat. Caleb's feet pound up the stairs. "Did you find him?"
"Nathaniel," I say as close to his face as I can, "what were you doing?"
His golden hair is matted to his scalp, his eyes are huge. His lips twist, reaching for a word that doesn't come.
Can five-year-olds be suicidal? What other reason can there be for finding my son, fully dressed, submerged in a tub full of water?
Caleb crowds into the bathroom. He takes one look at Nathaniel, dripping, and the draining tub. "What the hell?"
"Let's get you out of these clothes," I say, as if I find Nathaniel in this situation on a daily basis. My hands go to the buttons of his flannel shift, but he twists away from me, curls into a ball.
Caleb looks at me. "Buddy," he tries, "you're gonna get sick if you stay like this."
When Caleb gathers him onto his lap, Nathaniel goes completely boneless. He's wide-awake, he's looking right at me, yet I would swear that he isn't here at all.
Caleb's hands begin to unbutton Nathaniel's shirt. But instead, I grab a towel and wrap it around him. I hold it close at Nathaniel's neck and lean forward, so that my words fall onto his upturned face. "Who did this to you?" I demand. "Tell me, honey. Tell me so that I can make it better."
"Nina."
"Tell me. If you don't tell me, I can't do anything about it." My voice hitches at the middle like a rusting train. My face is as wet as Nathaniel's.
He's trying; oh, he's trying. His cheeks are red with the effort. He opens his mouth, pours forth a strangled knot of air.
I nod at him, encouraging. "You can do this, Nathaniel. Come on."
The muscles in his throat tighten. He sounds like he is drowning again.
"Did someone touch you, Nathaniel?"
"Jesus!" Caleb wrenches Nathaniel away from me. "Leave him alone, Nina!"
"But he was going to say something." I get to my feet, jockeying to face Nathaniel again. "Weren't you, baby?"
