Jodi Picoult - Perfect Match

These are the things he takes: his Yomega Brain yo-yo; the starfish arm he found on a beach. His Bravest Boy ribbon, a flashlight, a Batman trading ca rd. Seventy-six pennies, two dimes, and a Canadian quarter. A granola bar a nd a bag of jellybeans left over from Easter. They are treasures he brought with him when he moved to the motel with his father; he cannot leave them behind now. Everything fits in the white pillowcase and thumps lightly agai nst Nathaniel's stomach when he zips it up inside his coat.

You all set? his father asks, the words lobbed like a stick into a field an d forgotten. Nathaniel wonders why he's even bothered to try to keep this a s ecret, when his dad is too busy to notice him anyway. He climbs into the pass enger seat of the truck and fastens the seat belt-then on second thought, unl atches it.

If he's going to be really bad, he might as well start now.

Once, the man at the cleaner's offered to take Nathaniel to see where the bi g moving millipede of pressed clothes began. His dad had lifted him over the counter and he'd followed Mr. Sarni into the way back, where the clothes we re being cleaned. The air was so heavy and wet that Nathaniel wheezed as he pushed the big red button; started the conveyor of hangers chugging in its l oop again. The air in the courthouse, it reminds Nathaniel of that. Maybe it 's not as hot here, or as sticky, but it is hard to breathe all the same. When his dad brings him to the playroom downstairs with Monica, they speak in marshmallow bites of words that they think Nathaniel cannot hear. He doe s not know what a hostile witness is, or juror bias. But when his father ta lks the lines on his face appear on Monica's, like it is a mirror.

Nathaniel, she says, fake-bright, as soon as his dad goes upstairs. Let's tak e off that coat.

I'm cold, he lies, and he hugs his pack against his middle. She is careful to never touch Nathaniel, and he wonders if that's because Monica has the X-ray vision to see how dirty he is on the inside. She look s at him when she thinks he doesn't see, and her eyes are as deep as a pon d. His mom stares at him with the same expression. It is all because of Fa ther Gwynne; Nathaniel wishes just once someone would come up to him and t hink of him as some kid, instead of The One This Happened To. What Father Gwynne did was wrong-Nathaniel knew it then, from the way his s kin shivered; and he knows it now, from talking to Dr. Robichaud and Monica . They have said over and over that it isn't Nathaniel's fault. But that do esn't keep him from turning around sometimes, really fast, sure that he's f elt someone's breath on his neck. And it doesn't keep him from wondering if he cut himself open at the belly, like his father does when he catches a t rout, would he find that black knot that hurts all the time?

So, how are we doing this morning? Fisher asks, as soon as I sit down bes ide him.

Shouldn't you know that? I watch the clerk set a stack of files on the jud ge's bench. The jury box, without its members, looks cavernous. Fisher pats my shoulder. It's our turn, he assures me. I'm going to spen d the whole day making the jurors forget what Brown told them. I turn to him. The witnesses

-will do a good job. Trust me, Nina. By lunchtime, everyone in this court i s going to think you were crazy.

As the side door opens and the jury files in, I look away and wonder how to te ll Fisher that's not what I want, after all.

I have to pee, Nathaniel announces.

Okay. Monica puts down the book she has been reading to him and stands u p, waiting for Nathaniel to follow her to the door. They walk down the hal l together to the restrooms. Nathaniel's mother doesn't let him in the boy 's room by himself, but it's okay here, because there's only one potty and Monica can check before he goes inside. Wash your hands, she reminds hi m, and she pushes open the door so Nathaniel can go inside.

Nathaniel sits on the cold seat of the toilet to muddle it all out. He let Fa ther Gwynne do all those things-and it was bad. He was bad; but he didn't get punished. In fact, ever since he was so bad, everyone's been paying extra at tention to Nathaniel, and being extra nice.

His mother did something really bad, too-because, she said, it was the best way to fix what happened.

Nathaniel tries to make sense of all this, but the truths are too tangled in h is head. All he knows is that for whatever reason, the world is upside-down. P eople are breaking rules like crazy-and instead of getting into trouble, it's the only way to make things right again.

He pulls up his pants, cinches the bottom of his jacket, and flushes. Then he closes the lid and climbs from the tank to the toilet tissue holder to the lit tle ledge up high. The window there is tiny, only for fancy, because this is a basement floor. But Nathaniel can open it and he's small enough to slip throu gh.

He finds himself behind the courthouse, in one of the window wells. Nobody n otices a kid his size. Nathaniel skirts the trucks and vans in the parking l ot, crosses the frozen lawn. He starts walking aimlessly down the highway, n ot holding an adult's hand, intent on running away. Three bad things, he thi nks, all at once.

Dr. O'Brien, Fisher asks, "when did Mrs. Frost first come to your office?

On December twelfth." At ease on the stand-as he should be, for all the testimony he's given in his career-the psychiatrist relaxes in the witness chair. With the silver hair at his temples and his casual pose, he looks like he could be Fisher's brother.

What materials had you received before you met with her?

An introductory letter from you, a copy of the police report, the videotape taken by WCSH-TV, and the psychiatric report prepared by Dr. Sto rrow, the state's psychiatrist, who had examined her two weeks earlier.

How long did you meet with Mrs. Frost that first day?

An hour.

What was her state of mind when you met?

The focus of the conversation was on her son. She was very concerned about his safety, O'Brien says. Her child had been rendered mute; she was fran tic with worry; she was feeling guilt as a working mother who hadn't been a round enough to see what had been going on. Moreover, her specialized knowl edge of the court system made her aware of the effects of molestation on ch ildren... and more anxious about her son's ability to survive the legal process without significant trauma. After considering the circumstances tha t led Mrs. Frost to my office, as well as meeting with her in person, I con cluded that she was a classic example of someone suffering from post-trauma tic stress disorder.

How might that have affected her mental stability on the morning of Octobe r thirtieth?

O'Brien leans forward to address the jury. Mrs. Frost knew she was heading to court to face her son's abuser. She believed wholeheartedly that her so n was permanently scarred by the event. She believed that testifying-as a w itness, or even at a competency hearing-would be devastating to the child. Finally, she believed that the abuser would eventually be acquitted. All th is was going through her mind, and as she drove to the courthouse, she beca me more and more agitated-and less and less herself-until she finally snapp ed. By the moment she put the gun to Father Szyszynski's head, she could no t consciously stop herself from shooting him-it was an involuntary reflex. The jury was listening, at least; some of them were brave enough to sneak g lances at me. I tried for an expression that fell somewhere between Contrit e and Shattered.

Doctor, when was the last time you saw Mrs. Frost?

A week ago. O'Brien smiles kindly at me. She feels more capable of protec ting her son now, and she understands that her means of doing it was not rig ht. In fact, she is filled with remorse for her previous actions.