The Jodi Picoult Collection #4 Read online

  “Our medical staff can administer prescription meds,” the officer says. “I can get you a form to fill out for that.”

  “There are dietary supplements, too. And he can’t eat glutens, or caseins—”

  “Have his doctor contact the warden’s office.”

  Jacob’s diet and supplements, however, weren’t mandated by a doctor—they were just tips, like a hundred others, that mothers of autistic kids had learned over the years and had passed down to others in the same boat, as something that might work. “When Jacob breaks the diet, his behavior gets much worse . . .”

  “Maybe we should put all our inmates on it, then,” the officer says. “Look, I’m sorry, but if we don’t get a doctor’s note, we don’t pass it along to the inmate.”

  Was it my fault that the medical community couldn’t endorse treatments that autistic parents swore by? That money for autism research was spread so thin that even though many physicians would agree these supplements helped Jacob to focus or to take the edge off his hypersensitivity, they couldn’t scientifically tell you why? If I’d waited for doctors and scientists to tell me conclusively how to help my son, he would still be locked in his own little world like he was when he was three, unresponsive and isolated.

  Not unlike, I realize, a jail cell.

  Tears fill my eyes. “I don’t know what to do.”

  I must look like I’m about to fall apart, because the officer’s voice gets softer. “Your son have a lawyer?” he asks.

  I nod.

  “Might be a good place to start,” he suggests.

  From Auntie Em’s column:

  What I Know Now That I Wish I’d Known Before I Had Kids

  1. If you stick a piece of bread in a VCR, it will not come out intact.

  2. Garbage bags don’t work as parachutes.

  3. Childproofing is a relative term.

  4. A tantrum is like a magnet: eyes cannot help but lock onto you and your child when it happens.

  5. Legos are not absorbed by the digestive tract.

  6. Snow is a food group.

  7. Kids know when you are not listening to them.

  8. A Brussels sprout covered in cheese is still a Brussels sprout.

  9. The best place to cry is in a mother’s arms.

  10. You’ll never be as good a mother as you want to be.

  From my car, I call Oliver Bond. “They won’t let me in to see Jacob,” I say.

  In the background I can hear a dog bark. “Okay.”

  “Okay? I can’t see my son, and you think that’s okay?”

  “I meant okay, as in tell me more. Not okay as in . . . Just tell me what they said.”

  “I’m not on some approved visitors list,” I shout. “Do you think Jacob has any idea that he needs to tell the jail who can and cannot visit him?”

  “Emma,” the lawyer says. “Take a deep breath.”

  “I can’t take a deep breath. Jacob does not belong in jail.”

  “I know. I’m sorry about that—”

  “Don’t be sorry,” I snap. “Be effective. Get me in to visit my son.”

  He is quiet for a moment. “All right,” Oliver says finally. “Let me see what I can do.”

  * * *

  I can’t say it’s a surprise to find Theo at home, but I am so mentally drained that I don’t have the fortitude to ask him why he is here, instead of at school. “They wouldn’t let me in to see Jacob,” I say.

  “How come?”

  Instead of answering, I just shake my head. In the buttery light of late morning, I can see the softest down on Theo’s cheek and jaw. It reminds me of the first time I noticed that Jacob was growing hair underneath his armpits, and I was unnerved. It was one thing to be needed so fiercely by a child; it was another thing to have to take care of a grown man.

  “Mom?” Theo says, hesitant. “Do you think he did it?”

  Without thinking, I slap him hard across the face.

  He falls back, reeling, his hand pressed to his cheek. Then he runs out the front door.

  “Theo!” I call after him. “Theo!” But he is already halfway down the block.

  I should follow him; I should apologize. I should confess that the reason I hit him wasn’t what he said but because he gave voice to all the unutterable thoughts I’ve been thinking.

  Do I believe Jacob is capable of murder?

  No.

  The easy answer, the knee-jerk reaction. This is my son we are talking about. The one who still asks me to tuck him in at night.

  But I also remember Jacob knocking over Theo’s high chair when I told him he could not have another glass of chocolate soy milk. I remember the time he hugged a hamster to death.

  Mothers are supposed to be their children’s biggest cheerleaders. Mothers are supposed to believe in their children, no matter what. Mothers will lie to themselves, if necessary, to do this.

  I step outside and walk down the driveway, in the direction Theo ran. “Theo,” I call. My voice does not sound like my own.

  * * *

  I have clocked 193 miles today on my car, driving to Springfield and then back home and returning again. At five-thirty I am again in the lobby of the jail visitors’ entrance, with Oliver Bond standing beside me. He left a message on my cell phone instructing me to meet him here, explaining that he’d arranged a special visit for me while he sorted out long-term visiting plans.

  I was so happy to hear this that I didn’t even dwell on the phrase long-term.

  At first, I hardly recognize Oliver. He isn’t wearing a suit, like he was yesterday; instead, he’s in jeans and a flannel shirt. This makes him seem even younger. I glance down at my own clothes—which look like something I’d wear to a staff meeting at the newspaper. What made me think I had to dress up for jail?

  Oliver leads me to the booth. “Name?” the officer asks.

  “Emma Hunt,” I say.

  He looks up. “No, the name of the person you’re here to visit.”

  “Jacob Hunt,” Oliver interjects. “We’ve arranged a special visit through the superintendent’s office.”

  The officer nods and hands me a clipboard to sign. He asks for my ID.

  “Give him your keys,” Oliver says. “He’ll hold them while you’re inside.”

  I pass them to the officer and then step toward the metal detector. “Aren’t you coming?”

  Oliver shakes his head. “I’ll be waiting out here.”

  A second officer arrives to lead me down the hall. Instead of turning in to a room where there are tables and chairs set up, though, he leads me around the corner to a small cubicle. At first, I think it is a closet, but then I realize it’s a visiting booth. A stool is pushed beneath a window that looks into a mirror image of this room. A handset is stuck to the wall. “I think there’s been a mistake,” I say.

  “No mistake,” the officer tells me. “Noncontact visits only for inmates in protective custody.”

  He leaves me in the tiny chamber. Had Oliver known I wouldn’t be able to see Jacob face-to-face? Had he not told me because he knew it would upset me, or had he not been given this information? And what is protective custody?

  The door on the other side of the glass opens, and suddenly Jacob is there. The officer who’s brought him points to the telephone on the wall, but Jacob has seen me through the glass. He presses his palms flat against it.

  He has blood on his shirt and in his hair. His forehead is covered with a line of purple bruises. His knuckles are scraped raw, and he is stimming like crazy—his hand twitching at his side like a small animal, his entire body bouncing on his toes. “Oh, baby,” I murmur. I point to the phone in my hand and then to the spot where he should have a receiver, too.

  He doesn’t pick it up. He smacks his palms against the Plexiglas that separates us.

  “Pick up the phone,” I cry, even though he cannot hear me. “Pick it up, Jacob!”

  Instead, he closes his eyes. He sways forward and rests his cheek against the window, spreads