Shelter (49 page)

    "So we've got ourselves a five-year-old control freak," Kevin said on the way home. The good mood in which he'd begun the evening had been soured by Roberta's carefully phrased, conscientiously tactful expressions of concern. "That's what comes of staying home with him for so long and doing housework, Meredith. Listen, remember what the doctor said about that brain damage? Maybe we should take him to a doctor again, try some new meds."

    Meredith rubbed her eyes to blot out a flash of red, blood and fur and bone. To her infinite relief, Roberta hadn't mentioned Bluebell in Kevin's hearing. "Maybe you're right," she said. "But let's give him a chance to work through it. He's in school now and he likes it there. He'll adjust. He has people to help him. I hate the idea of meds, Kevin! That was a disaster last time."

    Kevin sighed. "I know. But look, if it were just a mild relaxant, something to get him to lighten up. Just for a while. It's a biofeedback thing. Anxious kids get tense and their bodies tense up and then they get tenser because their muscles are in fight-or-flight mode—you know. So you give them a mild relaxant and their bodies relax and then they learn relaxed ways of behaving too, and soon you've got another kind of loop established and you don't need the meds anymore. Works wonders. I've read about it."

    Meredith had read about it too, at the library. She'd read more than enough to know that the relaxants sometimes enabled psychotic behavior in children with serious underlying psychiatric problems, children in whom—how had that clinical report put it?—"inflexible behavior constitutes a kind of psychological self-discipline, a desperate attempt not to engage in unacceptable acting out." Kevin would be amazed if he knew what she'd been reading. It alarmed her to realize that he'd noticed enough of Nicholas's anxiety to do any such reading himself

    "No tranqs," she said, her voice brittle. "If you want him to learn to relax we'll send him to a kiddie yoga class. No more meds, thank you. The poor kid's had enough doctors to last him the rest of his life."

    "Well, maybe he should talk to somebody who's trained in this stuff."

    "He's talking lots to Roberta and Fred, and we're paying enough for that. "

    "Roberta and Fred aren't psychologists. And since when has money been an issue, anyway?"

    She swallowed. He'd surely suspect something if she pursued that line of logic. "Look, Kevin, Berta and Fred are child-care experts, and they spend more hours a day watching him than we do, and they didn't say he needed to be shrunk, okay? Give him some time."

    "You keep saying that! You tell me to give you time to stop crying, give him time to start acting like a normal kid. Well, I've been giving both of you time, and I don't see anything getting better. You still jump whenever anybody looks at you funny, and according to Roberta, Nicholas freaks out if his jelly beans aren't precisely sorted by color or if the other kids don't have their bangs combed perfectly straight. I don't like any of it, Merry. What about me? When are you going to give me some time when I don't have to worry about the two of you?"

    "Now," she said, her throat painfully dry. She reached out to touch his shoulder. "I'm giving you now not to worry. Don't worry, Kevin, okay? You have my permission."

    "Under the circumstances, that's not much comfort."

    She closed her eyes. Should she tell him? Could she trust him? He cared about both of them, he did: he'd just said so. He loved her and he loved Nicholas. And she loved him, even though she hadn't yet when they got married, not exactly. She'd grown to love him. It wasn't the same way she loved Nicholas, but it was real. Surely, for both their sakes, Kevin wouldn't sacrifice Nicholas to brainwiping if he knew the truth. He'd help her help Nicholas. And she needed help: she was so alone, had been fighting with this for so long, and she didn't know what to do. She had to have someone to talk to. She'd go mad if she had to keep it to herself any longer.

    Kevin was saying something. She opened her eyes and shook her head. ''I'm sorry; what did you say?"

    "Pay attention, Merry! I said that there's a guy at work—Johnson, you remember my talking about him—whose wife's a school psychologist with the city. Maybe she should look at Nicholas."

    "No," Meredith said, and then, her blood freezing, "you've been talking to someone at work about this?" Instantly her tentative trust fled.

    He shot her a quick glance. "No. Not yet. I was thinking about it. Would that be so terrible? He's having some adjustment problems: Why is that such a deep dark secret? It's what we expected, isn't it?"

    "I just don't think: it's anyone else's business," Meredith said stiffly. A school psychologist. For the city. Goddess. They might as well just hand Nicholas straight to the brainwipe butchers. No, she couldn't tell Kevin. He'd probably already talked to his colleague, and the colleague had already talked to the wife, and the wife—

    You're paranoid, said some small, detached part of her brain, but the panic remained. "Meredith?" Kevin said. "Are you all right?"

    ''I'm fine. I'm just tired."

    "Old, tired excuse number 532," Kevin said coldly, and Meredith turned away from him. Neither of them spoke again for the rest of the evening.

    Nineteen

    THE next afternoon after school, Meredith sat Nicholas down in the kitchen with a drink of juice and said as matter-of-factly as she could, "Nicholas, who's Bluebell?"

    He took a long slurp of juice. "She's the Hobbit's mouse, Mommy."

    "The Hobbit who lives in a hole in the ground?"

    "Yup."

    A hole in the ground. A grave? Had Bluebell gone to join Patty? Meredith swallowed and said, "Nicholas, Hobbits aren't real."

    "I know that. You told me already."

    "Yes, but, honey, Bluebell's a real mouse. Roberta said you took home a real mouse named Bluebell. So how can an imaginary Hobbit have a real mouse?"

    "That's why," Nicholas said.

    "What's why? Nicholas, I don't understand."

    He sighed. "You said I couldn't have a mouse. And you said I couldn't talk about why not to anybody. So I couldn't tell Berta I couldn't have Bluebell, and I couldn't bring Bluebell here, but I could tell the Hobbit about it and he could have her, because he isn't real."

    Meredith rubbed her eyes. She was totally lost. "Sweetheart, where's Bluebell now?"

    "In the ground. With the Hobbit. I told you that."

    "You mean she's dead? She's in the ground with Patty?"

    "No, Mommy! She's alive! The Hobbit feeds her and gives her water and made her a little house with a nest in it out of an old plastic bottle and—"

    His voice was becoming dangerously high and thin. "Okay, Nicholas. It's okay. I'm trying to understand, that's all. Would you take me to visit Bluebell? Can I meet her and the Hobbit?"

    He chewed his lip. "I don't know. I don't think you can see the Hobbit, Mommy."

    "Why not?"

    "Because he's not real. You said not-real people are the ones real people can't see. And you told me you never saw the Hobbit. And the Hobbit said he's not real."

    "He said that? He used those words? He said, 'I'm not real'? Try to remember exactly what words he used, Nicky. I know you have a good memory." She remembered Fred telling Steven, who hadn't wanted to share the Lego, I know you're good at spelling. So now she was imitating an AI. Terrific.

    Nicholas's face clouded with effort. "He said—he said, 'You're the only person who knows I'm here. Nobody else has seen me.' And that's what not being real means, right, Mommy? That's what you told me. Like the monsters. I'm the only person who knows that they're there and no one else can see them. Except the Hobbit's nice. He takes care of Bluebell. He keeps her safe."

    "Safe?"

    "From the monsters, Mommy. So I won't have to turn her inside out like—like—"

    "Like you did to Patty?"

    He looked down, frowning. "Yes."

    "Why not, Nicky?" Head swimming, she leaned forward, desperate for clues. Maybe she was about to learn something she could use to help him. "Why's Bluebell safe when Patty wasn't?"

    "Because she lives with him. If she lived with me, she'd live with the monsters too."

    "She'd be safe if she'd stayed at school, Nicky, wouldn't she?"

    He shuddered. "No. Because I could see her at school, and–and the monsters saw her and they said–they wanted me to–to–"

    "Turn her inside out," Meredith said gently, although her hands were shaking. He wouldn't answer her. He took another drink of juice instead. "Nick, honey, but there are other mice at school now, right? Are they still safe?"

    He nodded, his chin moving just a fraction of an inch. "Bluebell's the one–the one the monsters said–the one they want–" He was about to cry.

    "Okay. It's okay. Nicky, when you bring a pet home from school, you have to have a note from home saying it's okay, right?"

    "Yeah." She could barely hear him.

    "Yeah. So, uh, Roberta seemed to think I'd signed a note like that." He was only five. Surely he couldn't forge her signature yet. "Where—who signed the note? The Hobbit?"

    "No! Daddy!"

    "Daddy? Does Daddy know about Bluebell?"

    "He signed the note," Nicholas said, more cheerful now, "but then I told him someone else wanted her more, so I'd given her away."

    Kevin must have forgotten. Thank Gaia he hadn't brought it up with Roberta. Wait. At parents' night, standing behind her looking at the mice, he'd said, Ah, the famous mice. So that was what he'd meant. But why hadn't he mentioned it to Meredith? Back before Nicholas had started at the school, he'd told her Nicky wanted another mouse. She'd said fine then, because she didn't know what else to say, but why hadn't he mentioned it again? He should have discussed it with her.

    She had so many secrets from Kevin. Did he have secrets from her too? She swallowed a surge of terror, forcing herself to bear down. One thing at a time. She couldn't worry about Kevin right now. She had to worry about Nicholas. "Okay, Nicky. Now, about the Hobbit. Did he say you weren't supposed to tell anyone about him?"

    Nicholas frowned. "No. But I said, 'Oh, you're not real, you're just my imagination,' and he laughed and said, 'That's right.' He told me I was smart."

    "All right," Meredith said, standing up. "All right. Now let's see how good my imagination is, Nicky. I want to meet Bluebell and the Hobbit now, okay?"

    "Now?"

    "Now," she said. "Can I meet them now?"

    "I don't know if they'll be home now," he said, frowning. "Bluebell will be home, but sometimes the Hobbit goes to get food for the cats. I can't go into his house. He always comes out."

    "The cats? How can he keep Bluebell safe if he has cats, Nicky?"

    "The cats don't live at his house. They live where the water is. He brings them food."

    The Hobbit fed feral cats on the piers. Meredith blinked. "Nicky, where does the Hobbit live?"

    "In a hole."

    "Yes, yes, I know. But where's the hole?"

    "At the bottom of the stairs, Mommy. Near school."

    "In the hill?" Meredith asked sharply. "The Hobbit lives in a cave in the hillside, Nicholas, and he feeds feral cats?" A baggie. Goddess help her, Nicholas was confiding in a baggie. "Nicholas, does the Hobbit know why—Nicholas, did you tell the Hobbit about the monsters?"

    "A little," Nicholas said, subdued. "I told him he had to keep Bluebell safe."

    "All right," Meredith said. "I want to meet him. I want to see where he lives. "

    "Now, Mommy?"

    "Now."

    "But maybe he's not there. And maybe you can't see him."

    "Let's see," she said. "Let's see if I can see him. Take me there, Nicky, okay?"

    "Okay." He looked like he was about to cry again, but he led her down the Filbert steps. At the bottom, where he would ordinarily have gone straight across the brick expanse of Levi Plaza to get to school, he veered right, into the verdant undergrowth on the side of Telegraph Hill. Meredith followed, crouching low to avoid branches and swatting aside leaves, until Nicholas stopped and called out, "Henry?"

    Henry? Henry who fed feral cats on the piers? Meredith's blood froze. She smelled something other than trees here, something foul. "Nicky, why are you calling the Hobbit Henry?"

    "Because that's his name, Mommy!"

    It couldn't be the same one. It couldn't. The other Henry—that had all been years ago. As long ago as Hortense. Ancient history. Heart pounding, Meredith peered into the mass ofleaves and branches in the side of the hill, but she couldn't see anything that looked like a cave. Well, of course not. Of course it would be well hidden. And the smell—the smell brought back memories of Hortense, of Henry sleeping on the couch at the Maddie Center, of all the baggies she helped feed in shelters for CALM. Nearly retching, she said, "Nicholas, how can you come here and talk to Henry without anyone knowing about it? When do you do that?"

    "When all the kids are playing outside I come here sometimes when nobody's looking. And sometimes Daddy sits over on that bench and reads while I come here."

    "Does Daddy know about Henry?" Kevin had picked up Nicholas after school only a handful of times. She was going to kill him, him and Roberta both. How could they be so careless? Any of the kids could wander over here. How could Kevin just let Nicholas disappear into the bushes?

    "No, Daddy can't see him. Daddy thinks I'm just collecting leaves. Henry, are you here?" Nicholas walked a bit more deeply into the undergrowth, peering ahead. "I don't think he's here, Mommy. Or he's not coming out because he can see you. I only saw him by accident, the first time. When he told me not to tell."

    "Okay," Meredith said, her heart pounding. "Okay, Nicky, we'll go back home now, all right?"

    "Okay. Maybe you can meet him later. But maybe I should ask him first. I don't know if he wants me to tell you about him."