Shelter (47 page)

    "Nicholas wants another mouse," Kevin said casually. "He said so last night."

    The bubble burst. No more animals. No more animals, not until the monsters were gone: Nicholas knew that. But he'd gone behind her back and asked his father. How could she justify to Kevin not getting another mouse for Nicholas? And if they didn't get another one, what would Nicholas do next?

    "He said he wanted a black mouse," Kevin said. "Or a pure white one. Because he'd already had a brown and white one."

    "Fine," Meredith said, trying to keep the pain out of her voice. People killed mice every day: for research, to feed snakes. Face reality, she told herself if you don't get him another mouse, he'll do the same thing to something else, maybe something bigger, a bird, a cat, another kid. And if you tell anyone, he'll get the same thing done to him. Get him the mouse. Sacrifice the mouse until you can figure out what the hell this thing is and stop it. And yet she felt the tears coming again, and knew that Kevin saw them.

    "Merry?"

    "I'm fine," she said, and forced herself to smile, and felt her soul crack as she did. Nothing she'd done so far was working.

    * * *

    She and Nicholas had developed a secret bedtime ritual. Every night Kevin read Nicholas a story, and then it was Merry's turn. While Kevin took his evening shower, Meredith sat with Nicholas while he crayoned the monsters he was afraid he would see when he went to sleep. They were huge, inchoate scrawls of every color in the crayon box, so many colors that no one hue stood out, except for the crimson eyes. Every night, Meredith ceremonially drew a huge black X over the monsters, and then tore the drawing into tiny bits while she and Nicholas recited a blessing together:

    "I'm safe from everything scary

    The monsters have all gone away.

    The Goddess who made me protects me.

    I'm braver and stronger each day."

    The ritual was of dubious value. Nicholas's cries no longer woke Meredith and Kevin, but every morning when Meredith went into Nicholas's room to wake him up for breakfast, she discovered him already awake, huddled beneath his blankets with his eyes wide open and the sheets he lay on wet. Every morning, he looked up at her and said in a tiny voice, "I'm sorry, Mommy."

    "Honey, you don't have to be sorry. You didn't do anything wrong."

    "I wet the bed again."

    "That's just because you were scared," she said; every time she said it, she thought of Hortense, of Gwyn saying, I hope the Goddess never favors you with children. "Did the monsters come back, Nicky?"

    Every morning he nodded, miserably, sometimes adding, "But I didn't yell, because I didn't want to wake you up. I was brave, Mommy, right?"

    "Yes, Nicky. You were very brave. You're my brave boy. You're fighting those monsters, and you'll win."

    But he wasn't winning. More time, she told herself, he just needed more time. It had been only a few weeks since Patty died. She just had to buy Nicholas more time. If he was brainwiped, he'd lose for good, and so would she: she'd lose everything. She'd lose Nicholas and she'd lose Kevin, because he'd discover how much she hadn't been telling him. As much as she hated seeing Nicholas this tortured, that would be worse: to have him gone, to lose him and Kevin and her dream of a safe life, her dream of shelter.

    The Wednesday night Meredith agreed to visit KinderkAIr, there were no pictures or prayers in Nicholas's room, only fierce whispers from Mommy: "No, you are not getting another mouse. Don't ask Daddy for another mouse. It's not okay, Nicholas. You can't kill anything else!"

    He nodded, but wouldn't answer, and the next morning he woke up screaming again. She sat on his bed and hugged him, feeling her tears blend with his own. "Nicky, baby, I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have scolded you last night. We should have drawn the pictures, I'm so sorry, we'll draw them again tonight, okay? We'll never not draw them again. I promise. I promise. I love you, Nicholas."

    They went back to drawing pictures. The weekend was free of screams, although the bed-wetting continued. Merry woke up on Monday morning feeling as if she were going to a funeral. She could hear Kevin whistling in the kitchen, could smell bacon and coffee. "So, Nicky, Grandma's going to come over and play with you while Mommy and I visit a school you might go to, okay?"

    Merry felt her stomach clench. Nicholas was already up. Had he wet the bed? Did Kevin know about it? Would Nicholas behave in front of Constance? Kevin had made the baby-sitting arrangements; she couldn't possibly tell him that she didn't want Nicholas spending time with his grandmother, who'd inevitably compare him with Theo. Theo, the golden boy, the perfect child who proved that Constance was a better mother than Meredith. Theo had never hit his head against the wall. Theo had never murdered mice. Meredith loved Theo; she also hated him.

    She scrambled out of bed and threw on a robe, listening for the child's voice from the kitchen. ''I'm going to school, Daddy? Like Theo?"

    "That's right, just like Theo. Would you like that, Nicholas?"

    "Theo says school's fun. Will Mommy come with me?"

    "No, you won't need Mommy there, because you're a big boy now, and you'll make lots of friends. But the school's just down the stairs, Nicky, just at the bottom of the hill, so you can come home for lunch if you want to."

    Meredith padded quietly into Nicholas's room; the bed had been stripped. Kevin must have found the sheets. Why hadn't she woken up before he did? Because she was exhausted, that's why. From the kitchen, she heard Kevin say, "You know, Nicholas, I wet the bed sometimes when I was a little boy too. It's all right. Everyone does that sometimes," and her knees nearly buckled in relief. Thank you, Goddess. Maybe Kevin didn't suspect anything.

    * * *

    KinderkAIr was sunny and bright and cheerful, full of activity: a little girl reading in a corner with help from the teacher, a little boy using VR gear to learn to ride a tricycle, a second little girl playing with Legos while the fourth child, a boy, colored with crayons at a table. "See?" Kevin said. "Happy kids." He and the marketing director, a woman with flowing clothing and too much perfume, exchanged a smile. They've been talking behind my back, Meredith thought grimly. It's a conspiracy. But she was a fine one to accuse anyone else of conspiracies. "Nicholas will be happy here too."

    As if on cue, crying broke out from the child who was playing with Legos. The teacher, a stocky dark-skinned woman in a faded sweatshirt and jeans, detached herself from the girl who was reading and picked her way through wooden blocks and pieces of Lego to the source of the wailing. "Hey," she said, and knelt down next to the bawling girl. "Hey, Cindy, what's wrong?" Her voice was rich and pleasant, soothing; she could have been a singer. Meredith couldn't hear the child's answer, but she watched the teacher cuddle and comfort until the little girl was content again.

    "What does the AI do?" Meredith said. Kevin had told her over and over that the AI was just a pair of eyes, just a tool, but she wanted to hear what these people said for themselves.

    "We'll let Fred answer that himself," the marketing director said. "Fred?"

    "I help out here in many ways," said an androgynous, calm voice. Meredith jumped and looked around to see where it was coming from, and then realized that the woman who'd been comforting Cindy was watching her a tad too intently. She looked away, unnerved. The AI's voice seemed to come from the walls; there was no one point to focus on. "I read to the children. I play interactive games with them. I watch them carefully for signs of illness or unhappiness." Meredith's stomach tightened.

    The marketing director beamed. "Fred's been patterned after a twentieth-century child development expert. There's no finer day-care software available, but of course we rely mainly on Bobbie. Let me introduce you."

    The teacher had stood up, leaving Cindy to her Legos, and picked her way back through the toys. Now she held out her hand. "Roberta Danton," she said. Did her voice sound cold now? Why would it? Meredith must have been imagining things. ''I'm the human help."

    "Bobbie's very good with the children," the executive director said, simpering.

    "I go by Berta," Roberta said firmly .

    "Berta?" said a small voice next to them. "Cookies?"

    "Soon," Roberta said, and knelt down to pick up the little boy who'd been riding the tricycle. When she straightened up again, she said, "We look forward to meeting Nicholas. You should really bring him here for a few hours, you know, to see how he likes it. Stay with him for a while, then go and have lunch and come back and see how he's doing. Good trial run for everybody." She was watching Meredith appraisingly, and Merry fought a rush of panic.

    "Of course you need to see how he behaves away from us," Kevin said, and Meredith's stomach tightened still more.

    Roberta smiled politely. "Oh, most of the time the separation's harder on the parents than it is on the kids."

    From the other side of the room, Fred said calmly, "Steven, you can share those Lego pieces with Cindy. There are enough for both of you."

    "Mine! My Leges!"

    "No, Steven, they're my Legos. They belong to me and to Roberta and to the people who run the school, and we're all letting you play with them, but only if you let Cindy play too."

    "That's right," Roberta called back over her shoulder. "Steven, share. Okay?" Steven was the boy who'd been coloring at the table; from the look of him, he was about to go into a full-fledged temper tantrum.

    "Steven," Fred said, "remember how Zillinth gave you a piece of her cookie on Wednesday? The oatmeal cookie? That really was just hers, because she'd brought it from home, but she let you have some, anyway. That's what sharing is. And now I want you to share the Legos to show me what a smart boy you are. I want you to show me that you know what the word share means. Can you spell share for me? I know you're good at spelling."

    "C-H-A-R-E," Steven said, brightening.

    "It starts with an S," said Fred, "but everything else was right. Very good! Now act it out so I know you know what it means."

    "Share," Steven said, and handed a Lego piece to Cindy.

    Roberta, who'd been watching the interaction, said "Good boy. Steven," and turned back to Kevin and Meredith. "That's the advantage of having an AI here. Fred sees everything. I didn't see Zillinth sharing her cookie the other day, and even if I had, I might not have remembered, and even if I'd remembered, I might not have thought to use it as an example that way, or to appeal to Steven's vanity over his vocabulary and work in a spelling lesson to boot. Fred's great. He never gets tired, never loses his patience, never raises his voice. The kids love him."

    "Him?" Meredith asked harshly.

    Roberta raised an eyebrow. "Figure of speech. Although it's hard not to think of him—er, Fred—as a person."

    "Thank you," Fred said. "I like you too, Roberta."

    Roberta and the marketing director laughed; Kevin smiled. Meredith felt as if she were about to be ill. "Really. So why have an actual person here?"

    "Oh, for things Fred can't do. Hugs, wiping kids' faces, helping them tie their shoes. Putting on Band-Aids. You know." Roberta was still watching Meredith too closely; Merry felt claustrophobic. Relax, she told herself It's just because you're famous. She's curious about you. Plenty of people at the other schools stared too. But this felt different, somehow. Because of the AI.

    "Doesn't it bother you, being watched by a machine all day?" Meredith knew that her voice was too cold and too high; Kevin was frowning.

    Roberta shook her head. "No. I thought it might, at first, but really, I don't feel that way at all now. The extra eyes are incredibly useful, and Fred and I get along very well." She shrugged. "Although, of course, it's bound to be a comfort to many parents that whoever works here is being watched."

    From the wall just to their left, Fred said in its soothing voice, "Roberta is excellent with the children."

    "Thank you, Fred," said Roberta, and the marketing director showed another mouthful of teeth. Meredith shuddered. "So, tell me, is there anything special we should know about Nicholas?"

    Meredith felt her eyes filling with tears. You need to know that he loves peanut butter and hot dogs, that he's afraid of the dark, that when he goes to sleep he wakes up screaming from nightmares. You need to know that he hears voices and just dissected his pet mouse, and I can't tell you any of this because my husband's standing right here and I haven't told him any of it and if I tell you any of it, then he'll hate and distrust me and you'll be required by law to report it to people who will want to brainwipe Nicholas. You need to know that I really don't want you to know anything important about my son.

    "He likes peanut butter and hot dogs," she heard herself saying. "His favorite color is red." Please, please, take good care of my baby, but whatever you do, don't watch him too closely. Fat chance. Fred saw everything, Roberta had said, and that meant MacroCorp would see it too. Nicholas was doomed. What was she going to do?

    "We don't want him to receive special attention or treatment," Kevin said. "We want him to be treated just like any other child. No publicity. No intrusions into our privacy. You understand?"

    "Of course," said the marketing director, but Meredith thought she saw Roberta's eyes narrow slightly. She thinks he's just another spoiled kid, Meredith thought. Dear Goddess, let her keep thinking so.

    "You hated it," Kevin said, the minute they were out the door. "I've never seen you be so rude."

    ''I'm sorry, Kevin. The AI creeps me out. It's bad enough they have one, but then they have to name it? Fred, of all things? Why can't they just call it R2-D2, or something?"

    "So the kids won't be scared of it. So everyone will have a convenient way to talk to the AI. And Fred's the guy you saw on TV when you were sick. The guy who was singing. That's why your father picked that name."