Dan had cleaned the bathroom. He’d cleaned the kitchen. He’d organized his workroom and the books on the shelves downstairs and vacuumed every rug in the house. He’d swept out the fireplace and washed the windows. He shoveled the snow off the back patio, even though no one had used the back patio since September. Absently, he deposited the four toy cars he found beneath the sofa cushions into the silverware drawer, and he later discovered that he’d left a box of Cheerios in the hallway closet.
The house was cleaner than it had ever been before. . . antiseptic clean. Dan had even visited the Car-Vac and used a plastic hose to suck five years worth of ground in dirt from the floor of his Volvo station wagon. He’d even cleaned himself up. . . he’d gotten a haircut and was wearing a navy blue sweater Nora had gotten him for his birthday last year over an oxford shirt and khakis he’d spent half an hour ironing. Dan didn’t know why he was doing any of this, but he supposed it had something to do with the sense he had, unfounded or otherwise, that if he did all of the things he was supposed to do and tried as hard as he could to be perfect, the social workers would rethink the boys’ placement.
It was like Christmas, Dan thought. If you were good, you’d get presents. If you were bad, you wouldn’t get anything, except maybe some coal or a switch for your parents to beat you with. (Or so his notoriously evil tempered grandmother had told him, once upon a time.) Only this was probably futile.
Definitely futile, Dan told himself. There’s no way I can ever change anything.
Nora’s pager went off while she was in the middle of working a lima bean out of a curious two year old’s nose. “I don’t know how she did it,” The little girl’s mother shook her head, her eyes wide. “I was putting the beans in water to soak them- I turned around for one second and she had one up her nose.” She shuddered. “It’ll come out, right? It won’t be stuck up there forever. . .”
Nora smiled. “Don’t worry. . . it’s coming out. I had a little boy in here the other day who stuck a seed in his ear that was sprouted. . . his uncle ran a green house and he dug up a growing seed and stuck it in his ear.”
The mother sighed. “Stephanie, mustn’t put things in our noses. . .” she told the little girl. “Or our ears. . .”
“A ickle bean!” Stephanie protested. “Ickle tiny bean!”
“I know it was just a little bean,” Nora told her, “but little beans can get stuck. And then they won’t come out. . . uh oh!”
“Uh oh!” Stephanie crowed, happily.
With tweezers, Nora prodded the bean out of the baby’s nose and threw it away in the garbage can. “All done!”
“All done,” Stephanie repeated, and Nora turned to answer the page. When she saw the number, she bit her lip and sucked in her breath.
“Hello?” One of the ICU nurses picked up the telephone when it rang.
“Hi, this is Nora Conway?” Nora had dodged into the doctor’s lounge and sat on the arm of a chair in the semi-darkness, twining the phone cord around her finger. “You paged me.”
“I did,” the nurse told her. “This is Joanne.”
“Oh, hi!” Nora had gotten to know Joanne well the first time Isaac had been in the ICU. “I’m really not supposed to-”
“I know,” Joanne told her. “But you need to know this. . .”
Eric Jordan let the telephone ring eight times before he answered it, trying to swallow the lump of peanut butter and jelly that stuck in his throat. “Hello?”
“What can I do to overturn Kathleen Chandler’s custody agreement?” Nora demanded him, not even introducing herself. “Now. As soon as possible.”
Mr. Jordan took a deep breath. “Dr. Conway. . .” By now, he recognized her voice. “I really don’t think that. . .
“We don’t have time for passivity anymore,” Nora told him. “Anything that can be done needs to be, as soon as possible.”
“Is this about Isaac?” Mr. Jordan asked. “Because I know he’s back in the ICU, but I’d been told. . .”
“He’s back in the ICU,” Nora said, “and a nurse just called and told me she didn’t think he was going to make it out. She said she thought I’d want to know.”
Mr. Jordan let out a long breath. He didn’t know what to say, or how to react.
“I just don’t want him to be alone,” Nora said, “and I don’t think he should have to be, and I won’t let him be. I am trying to accomplish this legally, Mr. Jordan, but if I can’t. . .”
“Look, I will see what I can do. . .” Mr. Jordan promised. “And I will do it fast. You should hear from me in a few hours.”
“Thank you.” Nora nodded, clenching her jaw tightly. She had a plan of her own.
“Once upon a time,” Taylor told himself, because there was nobody else to talk to, “there was a bad witch. And a good fairy. With a magic wand.” He thought for a moment. “And there was seven dwarfs with beards.” He sighed, coughing. “What happens next?” he asked, but nobody answered him. “What happens next?” Taylor repeated. “After that?” Again, nobody answered, so he rolled his eyes and went on by himself. “The old witch kissed the frog and he turned into a prince. And she turned into a princess. And then the frog said ‘someone’s been sitting in my porridge. . .’”
Taylor squinted. Somehow, that didn’t seem right. “ ‘It was little Red Riding Hood,’ said the good fairy. ‘She got blown in by a tornado because she’s looking for her brain.’” Taylor pondered this for a moment, then nodded. That was the way it went. “ But first she has to meet her grandmother, who lives in the gingerbread house. The big bad wolf was going to eat her up, but Gretel pushed him into the oven.” He took a deep breath. “Then the prince kissed Sleeping Beauty and she woke up. And then they lived happily ever after.” He sighed. “The end.”
He thought for awhile, wondering what else he could do. He didn’t know. Maybe just sit here.
Nora didn’t know how she’d wangled her way into the visiting room in the county prison, but she was pretty impressed that she’d managed to do it. She’d been sure they wouldn’t let her, or that Kathleen wouldn’t agree to see her. Nora had worried she’d need special permission from social services, which she knew she’d never get.
Here was Kathleen, though, moving tentatively across the room in an orange jumpsuit that billowed around her small frame and made her look surprisingly fragile. Nora tried not to be taken in. She should hate Kathleen.
And she could, in the hospital, when Kathleen had been stoned to the point of being animal-like, instead of human. It was easy to hate someone when it was impossible to see them as a person. Nora steeled her nerves, determined not to think about Kathleen or what she’d done.
I’ll take care of business, she decided. I won’t allow myself to be taken in by her. I’ll just sit here, say what I have to say, and get it over with.
Nora even tried, as hard as she could, not to detect any resemblance Kathleen might have to her children, anything that might make her seem more human. She couldn’t lie to herself for very long, though. There were a lot of resemblances.
Kathleen took her seat cautiously, with a quick, apprehensive glance at Nora. She sat on the other side of the shatterproof glass with her hands folded in front of her, her knuckles white with tension. Nora noticed the ragged cuticles, the fingernails bitten down until they bled, and tried not to think of Isaac.
He was why she was here, though. She had to think about him.
“Kathleen,” Nora said, picking up the telephone receiver that sat on her side of the partition, “I really need to talk to you.”
“They didn’t tell me you were coming,” Kathleen replied, her voice raspy. “It’s about those forms I signed, right?”
Nora nodded. “It is.”
“It wasn’t any of your business why I signed them, and I’m not changing my mind,” Kathleen said. “I don’t want you to have anything to do with my children.”
Nora steeled herself, but the words ripped straight to her heart anyway. She swallowed. “I understand that,” she said, “and I appreciate your right to... I mean, I know you can decide who you want the boys to live with. But I had to come today. I had a phone call from the ICU.”
Kathleen looked down. Nora thought she saw the woman’s eyes fill, but she wasn’t quite sure. “How is he?”
Nora swallowed. “They don’t... I mean... he might be...” she took a deep breath. “Things don’t look good.”
“What do you mean?” Kathleen asked, a definite quaver in her voice. “I mean, I thought they said he was doing better. . .”
Nora nodded. “For awhile, he was,” she said.
Kathleen buried her head in her hands, the telephone receiver dangling between two of her fingers. “Shit,” she said. “Shit.” She took a deep breath, her eyes filling. “I mean, I deserve whatever they decide to do to me. . . but he shouldn’t. . . Why. . . oh, shit.”
Nora swallowed. “I wanted to ask you,” she said, “I mean. . . he’s by himself. There isn’t anyone with him. And I thought that maybe. . . someone should be.”
Kathleen nodded. “She’s not really my aunt,” she said.
The remark seemed so incongruous that, for a moment Nora couldn’t place it. “What?” she asked.
“Miranda. She’s. . . someone somebody told me about. Who takes kids.” Kathleen looked up at the ceiling. “I just. . . I was just jealous. I didn’t want you to have them, because I couldn’t. . .” she swallowed. “I’m changing what the papers say.”
Nora blinked. “What?”
Kathleen set her chin. “I’m going to change what I said before. You should have them. You can do. . . everything I would have wanted, I guess. That I could never do.” she swallowed. “Do they think he has. . . any chance at all? Any chance?”
Nora bit her lip. “I haven’t seen him yet.”
“I wish it had been me!” Kathleen burst out. “I would have done so much better to have killed myself. . .”
“He has a chance,” Nora said. “But I don’t think either of us want him to be alone if. . . if anything should happen, in. . . either direction.”
“Promise me you’ll call the minute you know for sure,” Kathleen implored. “Please?”
“I will,” Nora promised. “I’ll call you.”
Taylor leaned against the doorframe, feeling exhausted. “Aunt Miranda,” he attempted, hoarsely, “wake up. Please?”
Aunt Miranda, still snoring loudly, didn’t stir.
With the back of his arm, Taylor wiped the tears from his eyes. He was really, really hungry.
He went into the kitchen again, holding his breath against the smell of fetid cat litter. In the cupboard next to the stove, there were a few unopened cans, their labels cracked and peeling. Taylor didn’t know how to get them open. He’d looked and looked for a can opener, but he hadn’t been able to find one. Even if he had, he wouldn’t have been able to work it.
In Taylor picked up a can of tomato soup and pounded it against the floor. He didn’t even make a dent in it. He was crying openly now, angrily. With a small yell of frustration, he picked up the can and threw it across the room. It hit the opposite wall with a resounding thunk, and one side was caved in when Taylor made his way over to retrieve it. It still wasn’t open, though. Taylor thought hard. Maybe if he had something to stick in it. . .
There was a rusted knife in one of the drawers, and Taylor ran it under the faucet until it had gained some semblance of cleanliness. He set the can on the counter and jabbed at it with the knife. The can slid off of the counter and skittered away across the gritty kitchen floor.
Taylor picked up the knife in his right hand and held the can against the floor with his left. He plunged the tip of the knife against the side of the can, but it didn’t go through. Taylor bit his lip and pushed the knife against the thin metal with all his might.
The can gave out suddenly, soundlessly, the aluminum peeling apart in a neat, sharp seam around the blade of the knife. Taylor lifted the can and drank straight from it, the liquid flooding down his face in ticklish little streams. When he was done he felt better, calmer. He was still hungry, but he’d finally gotten something to eat.
Absently, Taylor licked a trail of soup off of his arm, then paused, his eyes growing wider. The twisted metal of the can. . . or the blade of the knife. . . must have cut into his hand when the can opened. There was a deep gash across the middle of his hand, bleeding steadily. His heart beating faster, Taylor stuck his hand under the faucet in the sink, washing off the soup and the blood. He couldn’t find anything to wrap around the cut. It kept bleeding.
“Why is he restrained?” Nora demanded. Five seconds after she’d charged up to the ICU to see Isaac, hardly able to keep herself from running, she stormed back out of his room, hands on hips. “Why in the world?”
“We couldn’t keep him from moving around,” the nurse explained. “He was pulling out tubes and stuff, trying to climb out of bed. . . it was an insurance risk.” He took a deep breath. “For that reason, we can’t take him out of the restraints, Dr. Conway.”
Nora’s eyes flashed. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but I’m going to have to.”
The nurse sighed. “Okay,” he agreed. “I didn’t want to tie him down either, but we couldn’t watch him every second to make sure he didn’t. . . and anyway, he needed to be. Even now, he keeps trying to break loose.”
And what would you do if someone tied you down, Nora wondered, but she didn’t say it aloud. Instead, she nodded. “I’ll accept responsibility if he hurts himself.”
She closed her eyes in silent prayer as she went back into Isaac’s room, wincing as she undid the velcro of the straps that held his arms to the bedrails. It was true that he was struggling; his fists were clenched and he’d been pulling so tightly against the straps that there were bands of angry red bruising across the middle of both of his forearms. As soon as the restraints were undone, however, Isaac relaxed a little, without moving.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t here,” Nora murmured. “They shouldn’t have done that.”
She wasn’t expecting Isaac to open his eyes, and he didn’t. The heat that radiated from his skin was intense; tests had revealed, Nora learned as she studied his chart, that he had developed a massive infection, one that had spread to his bloodstream. Nothing that had been tried so far had helped very much; things didn’t look very good.
For the second time that day, Nora steeled her nerves and took a deep breath. Already, she was preparing herself for what would probably happen.
Zac sat on the edge of the orange plastic chair, swinging his legs back and forth. He liked his sneakers. They were red all over, except for the laces, which were white. He could see them if he stretched his legs out. One of the laces was untied.
Zac bit his lip. He didn’t know how to tie, and he didn’t want to ask Mr. Jordan to tie it for him. Mr. Jordan was on the phone, talking to somebody. Zac didn’t know who. Anyway, Zac didn’t like Mr. Jordan. Mr. Jordan probably didn’t know how to tie.
Ike knew how to tie. Taylor didn’t really know, but he had velcro on his sneakers, so he didn’t need to tie. Velcro was what you had in the first grade, Zac thought. You could play with the fasteners during class and make ‘rip, rip’ noises, but Taylor never did that. The teacher didn’t like it. Some kids did it anyway. They were bad. Taylor said they were.
Sometimes, Isaac tried to teach Taylor how to tie, but Taylor didn’t understand it. Zac thought about this. Ike’s explanation was kind of hard to understand.
“Make one bunny ear,” Zac whispered to himself, “and then another bunny ear, and wrap the second bunny ear around the first one so that it goes through the hole and pull.” It didn’t make sense, except maybe to Isaac.
“Zac,” Mr. Jordan said, “we’re going to take you back to Trevorford for the night.” He expected tears, and braced himself.
Zac bit his lip. “Will Charlene be there?”
Mr. Jordan nodded. “She might.”
“Will Lorna?”
“She might.”
Zac thought a moment. “No more Galath?”
Mr. Jordan nodded. “I guess not.”
Zac’s eyes lit up as a smile stretched across his face. “Yay!”