My eyes are flint; my heart is hard as a diamond. I do not fall for this touchy-feely bullshit in my profession; I'm sure as hell not going to fall for it in my personal life. "What can you do for me, Monica?" I ask bluntly.
The psychiatrist, I can tell, is shocked. Probably she's never heard anyone talk back to the BCYF
before. Probably she thinks she ought to put me on Prozac.
"Oh, Nina. I wish I could do more."
"You always do," I say, and that's the point when Caleb interrupts.
"I'm sorry, we haven't been introduced," he mumbles, squeezing my arm in warning. He shakes hands with Monica and says hello to Dr. Robichaud, ushering Nathaniel inside to play.
"Ms. LaFlamme is the caseworker assigned to Nathaniel," the psychiatrist explains. "I thought it might be helpful for you to meet her; have her answer some of your questions."
"Here's one," I start. "How do I go about getting BCYF uninvolved?"
Dr. Robichaud looks nervously at Caleb, then at me. "Legally-"
"Thank you, but legally, I pretty much know the routine. See, that was a trick question. The answer is that the BCYF is already uninvolved. They never get involved." I'm babbling, I can't help it. Seeing Monica here is too strange, like work and home have tunneled through the same wormhole in time. "I give you a name and tell you what he did . . . and then you can go do your job?"
"Well," Monica says, her voice as smooth as caramel. I have always hated caramel. "It's true, Nina, that a victim has to give an ID before we-"
A victim. She has reduced Nathaniel to any of a hundred cases I have prosecuted over the years. To any of a hundred lousy outcomes. That is why, I realize, seeing Monica LaFlamme in Dr. Robichaud's office has turned me inside out. It means Nathaniel has already been given a number and a file in a system that I know is bound to fail him.
"This is my son,' I say through clenched teeth. "I don't care what procedure calls for. I don't care if you don't have an ID; if you don't get one for months or years. Take the whole population of Maine, then, and rule them out one by one. But start, Monica. Jesus Christ. Start."
By the time I finish speaking, the others are staring at me as if I've grown another head. I glance at Nathaniel-playing with blocks, although none of these good people convened on his behalf are watching, for God's sake-and walk out the door.
Dr. Robichaud catches up to me in the parking lot. Her heels click on the pavement, and I smell a cigarette being lit. "Want one?"
"Don't smoke. But thanks."
We are leaning against a car that isn't mine. A black Camaro festooned with fuzzy dice. The door is unlocked. If I get in and drive away, can I steal that person's life, too?
"You sound a little . . . frazzled," Dr. Robichaud says.
I have to laugh at that. "Is Understatement 101a course in med school?"
"Of course. It's the prereq for Lying Through One's Teeth." Dr. Robichaud takes a final drag and crushes out her cigarette beneath her pump. "I know it's the last thing you want to hear, but in Nathaniel's case, time isn't your enemy."
She doesn't know that. She hadn't even met Nathaniel a week ago. She doesn't look at him every morning and remember, in sharp counterpoint, the little boy who used to ask so many questions-why birds on electrical wires don't get electrocuted, why fire is blue in the center, who invented dental floss-that I once, stupidly, wished for peace and quiet.
"He'll come back to you, Nina," Dr. Robichaud says quietly.
I squint into the sun. "At what price?"
She doesn't have an answer for that. "Nathaniel's mind is protecting him now. He isn't in pain. He isn't thinking about what happened nearly as much as you are." Hesitating, she extends an olive branch. "I could refer you to an adult psychiatrist, who might be able to prescribe something."
"I don't want any drugs."
"Maybe you'd like someone to talk to, then."
"Yes," I say, turning to face her. "My son."
I look at the book once more to check. Then I pat my lap with one hand, and snap my fingers. "Dog," I say, and as if I've cued it, our retriever comes running.
Nathaniel's lips curve as I shove the dog away. "No, Mason. Not now." He turns in a circle beneath the wrought-iron table, settles on my feet. A cool October wind sends leaves parachuting our way-crimson and ocher and gold. They catch in Nathaniel's hair, bookmark themselves in the pages of the sign language manual.
Slowly, Nathaniel's hands creep out from beneath his thighs. He points to himself, then extends his arms, palms upright. Curling his fingers in, he draws his hands close. I want. He pats his lap, tries to snap his fingers.
