“I really don’t think I need to talk to anybody.” Isaac frowned. He felt trapped. He was stuck in this bed, stuck in this room, stuck in this hospital, and people kept doing things to him he didn’t want them to do and even more people kept coming in when he didn’t want to see them. And he didn’t have a choice. And now they wanted him to talk to someone about what had happened with his mother. And he didn’t want to. And they couldn’t make him.
“Honey. . .” Nora took a deep breath. “Maybe it will make you feel better. Ms. Samson just wants to help you.”
“If she really wanted to help me she could just not come!” Isaac burst out. “And she could leave me alone!”
“Ike.” Nora sat down next to the bed and met his eyes, her gaze steady. “I know that it’s really hard for you to think about talking about what happened, and you don’t have to talk about it. You can talk about whatever you want. . . that’s all Ms. Samson is here for.”
“She can’t make me say anything,” Isaac muttered. “And you can’t, either.”
“A lot has happened in the past few weeks,” Nora said, “and there are probably things you might find yourself wanting to talk about. Mrs. Samson was set by the Child Welfare office. . . they’re the ones who think you need to talk with someone.”
“Well, I don’t.” Isaac folded his arms, careful of the IV. Today was not such a good day. Yesterday had been okay, but today he didn’t feel that great. Again. It had not taken him long to become fed up with this cycle.
“Taylor and Zac have to, too,” Nora informed him.
This information made Isaac pause. . . for a second or two. “So what?”
“Are you going to act like this all day?” Nora inquired, pleasantly.
Isaac narrowed his eyes. “Act like what?”
Nora raised her eyebrows. “You tell me.”
“Yes.” Isaac nodded. “Yes, I am going to act like this all day. And when that lady comes, she won’t be able to make me talk, either.”
“Ike.” Nora shrugged, shaking her head with a wry smile. “You can do whatever you want. But just remember that she’s here to help you.”
“No she isn’t,” Isaac contradicted.
Ms. Christine Samson was shorter than Nora, but her light brown curls were piled into a six inch stack on the top of her head. Her face was obscured behind layers of pancake makeup, but even Isaac could tell that she was very young. “I’m Ms. Christine Samson,” she intoned, in a southern-tinged, Barbie-doll like voice. “And you are. . .”
Isaac didn’t answer her. She couldn’t make him say anything.
“Your name, please?” Ms. Samson set her mouth in a prim, red-lipped smile.
“You have it on a sheet somewhere.” Isaac scowled. “Why should I tell you what it is?”
“Okay, Isaac,” Ms. Samson said. “If that’s the way you want it. Would you like to talk about what happened?”
Isaac shook his head. “No, I wouldn’t like to talk about that.”
“What would you like to talk about, in that case?” Ms. Samson had only a thin veneer of patience, and it was already wearing thin. Still, she hid her displeasure behind a wall of saccharine sweetness.
“Nothing,” Isaac told her. “You can go back to your job now.”
Ms. Samson forced herself to let out a jovial laugh. “This is my job. You‘re my job.”
Isaac set his jaw. “No I’m not.”
Ms. Samson straightened her back and regarded Isaac haughtily. “You are my job,” she insisted, “and I have to spend my alloted amount of time here, whether you care to speak to me or not.”
“No you don’t,” Isaac informed her, feeling argumentative.
“Young man, I do.”
“Bye,” Isaac said. “Have a good rest of your life.” Normally he wouldn’t have said that, but his nerves were shot and he didn’t care what he told anybody anymore.
“That is not a way to speak to your elders.” Ms. Samson was shocked.
“Why are you staying here if I’m not going to talk to you?” Isaac asked.
“Because you’re my job!” exclaimed Ms. Samson.
“No I’m not!” Isaac snapped. “I’m not your job!”
Ms. Samson took a deep breath, collecting herself. “Fine,” she said. “You aren’t my job. But my job is evaluating your adjustment and whether or not you will be allowed to stay with your brothers. . . or if all three of you will be split up. Now, cooperate.”
Isaac swallowed. “That’s not true.”
“It is true.” Ms. Samson nodded, even though she wouldn’t have the final say in the decision, she knew, and would only contribute a report. “Are you going to work with me?”
Subdued, Isaac nodded, slowly. “All right.”
“Good. I’m glad we’re in agreement.” Ms. Samson took out a clipboard and uncapped a pen. “Why do you think your mother was abusive?”
“I’m not going to answer any more of your stupid questions.” Isaac’s voice was shaking, and he tried to keep it steady. Twenty minutes with Ms. Samson and he was ready to explode. He hated her. He really, really hated her.
“Let me ask you again,” Ms. Samson said, ready to explode herself. “What did you do to make your mother stab you?”
“Get away from me.” Isaac couldn’t look at her. “Just. . . just please. Just go. Please?”
“Answer the question, Isaac!” Ms. Samson demanded. She stood up, her hands planted on her hips. “Answer the question.”
“I AM NOT GOING TO ANSWER ANY MORE OF YOUR STUPID QUESTIONS!” Isaac yelled, at the top of his lungs. “FOR CRYING OUT LOUD!”
“Answer the question!” Ms. Samson hissed.
Later, Isaac wouldn’t be able to remember what, exactly, had possessed him. He would, however, remember that that was the point when he picked up an unopened orange juice carton off the breakfast tray he hadn’t touched and hurled it across the room at her.
Ms. Samson jumped backward, bumping into a nurse who had come into the room to see what all the commotion was about. The orange juice carton hit the wall and exploded. Ms. Samson slipped in a puddle of juice on the floor and landed on her ample rear end with a satisfying smack.
The nurse, who had regained his balance, looked from Isaac to Mrs. Samson and back to Isaac, puzzled.
Isaac bit his lip, halfway between tears and laughter. “I. . . I guess I did it on purpose,” he whispered.
“Ike.” Nora took a deep breath and swallowed hard. “You realize that, if you weren’t stuck in bed, I would have made you clean that up.”
Isaac nodded, solemnly. He had disappointed her. She probably hated him now.
“I don’t know what possessed you to throw it in the first place. I wish you’d talk to me.”
Isaac looked up at her, his eyes glittering with unshed tears. He blinked hard. “I wouldn’t have thrown anything at her, but. . .”
“But what?” Nora asked, sensing that there was more to the story than what she’d heard from the irate Ms. Samson.
“Nothing,” he whispered. “It’s not important.”
Nora reached out a hand and smoothed his hair back from his forehead. “It was important to you,” she said. “You wouldn’t have thrown it at her for no reason. I hope.”
Isaac sighed. “She was. . . she was asking these questions.”
“Honey, she’s supposed to ask questions,” Nora pointed out. “It’s her job.”
Isaac shook his head. “Not those kinds of questions. I don’t think.”
“What was she asking you?” Nora asked.
“Like. . .” Isaac’s lower lip quivered. “I don’t want to talk about it, okay?”
Nora nodded. “I won’t make you.”
He took a deep, shuddering breath. “It was probably because I messed her whole life up. I ruined every chance she ever had.” Isaac spoke with absolute conviction, fighting back the tears that sprang to his eyes. “She hated me. I don’t blame her for doing it. It was definitely my fault.”
The realization that was slowly dawning on her made Nora feel as if something inside her was being torn apart. “You’re talking about your mother, aren’t you,” she breathed, knowing the answer.
“Why did I do it?” Isaac’s voice was small. “Why did I make her do it?”
Nora put her arms around him and felt him dissolve, crying as quietly and desolately as if nothing on earth could comfort him. Isaac was still too sure of his own guilt to be angry at anyone except himself, Nora realized. He still thought it was something he’d done, and she didn’t know how to convince him otherwise.
“Ike, your mother had a disease,” Nora murmured. “Not even she could contol what she did. You didn’t have anything to do with it.”
She held him long after he’d stopped crying, after his breathing had finally gotten back to normal and he rested against her languidly, all his energy spent. When she was sure he had fallen asleep she eased him back under the blankets and rose to her feet, stretching.
He opened his eyes, blinking up at her exhaustedly and managing a small, guilty smile. “I think I popped the IV out,” he sighed. “When I threw the orange juice.”
Nora sat down next to the bed, leaning forward with her chin resting on her hands. “Too bad you didn’t hit her.”
Isaac set his teeth together, trying to hold back a smile, but he couldn’t keep from grinning.
Nora smiled back at him, surmisingly. “What?” she asked.
He snickered. “Nothing.”
“What?” Nora persisted.
Isaac pulled the blankets over his head. She thought she heard him giggle.
Nora folded the sheet back so she could see his eyes. “Ike, what’s so funny?”
“You should have seen her hit the floor!” Isaac howled, unable to control his laughter. “It was the funniest thing that ever happened in my life!”
Nora knew she shouldn’t be agreeing with him, but she couldn’t pretend she didn’t. “I wish I’d been there to see it!”
Isaac regained control of himself quickly, subdued by the memory of why he’d thrown the orange juice in the first place. “I don’t haev to talk to her again, do I?”
Nora shook her head. “No, I’m going to call and make a complaint.” Her eyes grew solemn. “Ike, you do have to talk to someone, though. Someone better. I know you don’t want to.”
For an instant, it looked as if Isaac might cry again. “It’s not going to help.”
“If you talk to someone who knows what they’re doing, it might.”
“Does she really get to decide whether we stay together or not?” Isaac asked, quietly.
Nora shook her head. “No. That was a lie.”
He took a deep breath, nodding. “Okay.” Lying back for a moment, he rubbed his eyes, yawning.
“You tired?” Nora asked.
Isaac nodded. “Yeah.”
He spent most of the afternoon asleep, waking up when the sky outside had faded to a bright gray and the room was in semi-darkness. A crack of brilliant yellow light shone through the door, which was partway open, and he could hear people moving around in the hallway. He was alone.
There was a folded sheet of paper on the bedside table, his name printed on it in Nora’s careful handwriting. “I had to go to work for a little while,” she wrote. “Dan will be here at seven, but I’ll get up to see you before I leave.”
There was a post script. “Don’t throw any orange juice at people while I’m gone.”
Isaac smiled at that, and burrowed deeper beneath the covers. They must have fixed the IV, he realized. It was taped into the back of his hand, and it hurt, a little, when he moved his fingers. He was still tired, but it wasn’t the kind of exhaustion that made you want to go to sleep. Instead, he just didn’t feel like dealing with anything. He decided not to come out for awhile.