"Nathaniel, it's okay."
He feels that tiny head shake once. Coming up on an elbow, Caleb gently turns his son onto his back.
He grins, trying so hard to pretend that this is entirely ordinary, that Nathaniel's whole world has not become a snow globe, waved intermittently every time things begin to settle. "What do you say? You want some of this cocoa?"
Nathaniel sits up slowly. He brings his hands out from underneath the covers and curls them into his body. Then he raises his palm, fingers outstretched, and sets his thumb on his chin. Want Mommy.
Caleb's whole body goes still. Nathaniel hasn't been very forthcoming since Peter brought him home, except for the crying. He stopped sobbing sometime between when Caleb bathed him and got him into his pajamas. But surely he can talk, if he wants to. "Nathaniel, can you tell me what you want?"
That hand sign, again. And a third time.
"Can you say it, buddy? I know you want Mommy. Say it for me."
Nathaniel's eyes shine, and the tears spill over. Caleb grabs the boy's hand. "Say it," he begs. "Please, Nathaniel."
But Nathaniel doesn't utter a word.
"Okay," Caleb murmurs, releasing Nathaniel's hand into his lap. "It's okay." He smiles as best he can, and gets off the bed. "I'm going to be right back. In the meantime, you can start on that hot chocolate, all right?"
In his own bedroom, Caleb picks up the phone. Dials a number from a card in his wallet. Pages Dr.
Robichaud, the child psychiatrist. Then he hangs up, balls his hand into a fist, and punches a hole in the wall.
Nathaniel knows this is all his fault. Peter said it wasn't, but he was lying, the way grown-ups do in the middle of the night to make you stop thinking about something awful living under the bed. They'd taken the bagel out of the store without letting the machine ring up its numbers; they'd driven to his house without his car seat; even just now, his dad had brought cocoa to the bedroom when no food was ever allowed upstairs. His mother was gone, all the rules were getting broken, and it was because of Nathaniel.
He had seen Peter and said hi, which turned out to be a bad thing. A very, very bad thing.
This is what Nathaniel knows: He talked, and the bad man grabbed his mother's arm. He talked, and the police came. He talked, and his mother got taken away.
So he will never talk again.
By Saturday morning, they have fixed the heat. They've fixed it so well that it is nearly eighty degrees inside the jail. When I am brought to the conference room to meet Fisher, I'm wearing a camisole and scrub pants, and sweating. Fisher, of course, looks perfectly cool, even in his suit and tie. "The earliest I can even get to a judge for a revocation hearing is Monday," he says.
"I need to see my son."
Fisher's face remains impassive. He is just as angry as I would be, in his shoes-I have just complicated my case irreparably. "Visiting hours are from ten to twelve today."
"Call Caleb. Please, Fisher. Please, do whatever you have to do to make him bring Nathaniel down here." I sink into the chair across from him. "He is five years old, and he saw me being taken away by the police. Now he has to see that I'm all right, even in here."
Fisher promises nothing. "I don't have to tell you that your bail is going to be revoked. Think about what you want me to say to the judge, Nina, because you don't have any chances left."
I wait until he meets my eye. "Will you call home for me?"
"Will you admit that I'm in charge?"
For a long moment, neither of us blinks, but I break first. I stare at my lap until I hear Fisher close the door behind him.
Adrienne knows I'm anxious as visiting hours come to an end-nearly noon, and still I have not been called to see anyone. She lies on her stomach, painting her nails fluorescent orange. In honor of hunting season, she said. As the correctional officer walks past for his quarter-hour check, I stand up. "Are you sure no one's come yet?"
He shakes his head, moves on. Adrienne blows on her fingers to dry the polish. "I got extra," she says, holding up the bottle. "You want me to roll it across?"
"I don't have any nails. I bite mine."
"Now, that is a travesty. Some of us just don't have the sense to make the most of what God gives us."
I laugh. "You're one to talk."
"In my case, honey, when it came to passing out the right stuff, God was having a senior moment." She sits down on her lower bunk and takes off her tennis shoes. Last night, she did her toenails, tiny American flags. "Well, fuck me," Adrienne says. "I smudged."
