The Jodi Picoult Collection #4 Read online

  The food is only part of the buffet.

  I take out the tiny silicone bowls we use for Jacob’s supplements. Every day he takes a multivitamin, a taurine capsule, and an omega-3 tablet. The taurine prevents meltdowns; the fatty acids help with mental flexibility. He lifts the newspaper up in front of his face as I set down the two treatments he hates the most: the oxytocin nasal spray and the B12 shot he injects himself, both of which help with anxiety.

  “You can hide but you can’t run,” I say, tugging down the edge of the newspaper.

  You would think that the shot is the worst for him, but he actually lifts up his shirt and pinches his stomach to inject himself without much fanfare. However, for a kid who’s got sensory issues, using a nasal spray is like waterboarding. Every day I watch Jacob stare down that bottle and finally convince himself he will be able to handle the feeling of the liquid dripping down his throat. And every day, it breaks my heart.

  It goes without saying that none of these supplements—which cost hundreds of dollars each month—are covered by medical insurance.

  I put a plate of muffins in front of him as he turns another page in the paper. “Did you brush your teeth?”

  “Yes,” Jacob mutters.

  I put my hand down on the paper so that it blocks his view. “Really?”

  The few times Jacob lies, it’s so obvious to me that all I have to do is raise an eyebrow and he caves. The only times I’ve ever even seen him attempt dishonesty are when he’s asked to do something he doesn’t want to do—like take his supplements or brush his teeth—or to avoid conflict. In those cases, he’ll say what he thinks I want to hear. “I’ll do it after I eat,” he promises, and I know he will. “Yes!” he crows suddenly. “It’s in here!”

  “What?”

  Jacob leans over, reading aloud. “Police in Townsend recovered the body of fifty-three-year-old Wade Deakins in a wooded area off Route 140. Deakins succumbed to hypothermia. No foul play was indicated.” He scoffs, shaking his head. “Can you believe that got buried on page A fourteen?”

  “Yes,” I say. “It’s gruesome. Why would anyone want to read about a man who froze to death?” I suddenly pause in the act of stirring half-and-half into my coffee. “How did you know that article was going to be in the paper this morning?”

  He hesitates, aware he’s been caught in the act. “It was a lucky guess.”

  I fold my arms and stare at him. Even if he won’t look me in the eye, he can feel the heat of my gaze.

  “Okay!” he confesses. “I heard about it on the scanner last night.”

  I consider the way he’s rocking in his seat and the blush that has continued to work its way up his face. “And?”

  “I went there.”

  “You what?”

  “It was last night. I took my bike—”

  “You rode your bike in the freezing cold to Route 140—”

  “Do you want to hear the story or not?” Jacob says, and I stop interrupting. “The police found a body in the woods and the detective was leaning toward sexual assault and homicide—”

  “Oh my God.”

  “—but the evidence didn’t support that.” He beams. “I solved their case for them.”

  My jaw drops. “And they were okay with that?”

  “Well . . . no. But they needed help. They were totally going in the wrong direction given the wounds to the body—”

  “Jacob, you can’t just crash a crime scene! You’re a civilian!”

  “I’m a civilian with a better understanding of forensic science than the local police,” he argues. “I even let the detective take the credit.”

  I have visions of the Townsend Police showing up at my house today to berate me (at best) and arrest Jacob (at worst). Isn’t it a misdemeanor to tamper with a police investigation? I imagine the fallout if it becomes public knowledge that Auntie Em, the advice expert, doesn’t even know where her own son is at night.

  “Listen to me,” I say. “You are absolutely not to do that again. Ever. What if it was a homicide, Jacob? What if the killer had come after you?”

  I watch him consider this. “Well,” he says, entirely literal, “I guess I would have run really fast.”

  “Consider it a new house rule. You are not to sneak out of here unless you tell me first.”

  “Technically, that wouldn’t be sneaking,” he points out.

  “Jacob, so help me—”

  He bobs his head. “Don’t sneak out to go to a crime scene. Got it.” Then he looks directly at me, something that happens so infrequently I find myself catching my breath. “But, Mom, seriously, I wish you could have seen it. The crosshatch marks on the guy’s shins and—”

  “Jacob, that guy died a horrible, lonely death and deserves a little respect.” But even as I say it, I know he can’t understand. Two years ago, at my father’s funeral, Jacob asked if the casket could be opened before the burial. I thought it was to say good-bye to a relative he’d loved, but instead, Jacob had put his hand against my father’s cold, rice-paper cheek. I just want to know what dead feels like, he had said.

  I take the newspaper and fold it up. “You’ll write a note to the detective today apologizing for getting in his way—”

  “I don’t know his name!”

  “Google it,” I say. “Oh, and you can consider yourself grounded until otherwise notified.”

  “Grounded? You mean, like I can’t leave the house?”

  “Not unless you’re going to school.”

  To my surprise, Jacob shrugs. “I guess you’ll have to call Jess, then.”

  Dammit. I’ve forgotten about his social skills tutor. Twice a week, Jacob meets with her to practice social interaction skills. A graduate student at UVM who plans to teach autistic kids, Jess Ogilvy is terrific with Jacob. He adores her, just as much as he dreads what she makes him do: look cashiers in the eye, initiate conversation with strangers on the bus, ask bystanders for directions. Today they have planned to visit a local pizza parlor so that Jacob can practice small talk.

  But in order to do that, he’ll have to be allowed out of the house.

  “Muffin?” he asks innocently, handing me the platter.

  I hate it when he knows he’s right.

  * * *

  Ask the mom of one autistic kid if vaccines had anything to do with her child’s condition, and she will vehemently tell you yes.

  Ask another, and she’ll just as vehemently tell you no.

  The jury’s still out, literally. Even though a handful of parents have sued the government—alleging that vaccinations caused their children’s autism—I haven’t gotten my class action suit check in the mail, and I’m not banking on it.

  Here are the facts:

  1. In 1988, the Centers for Disease Control recommended a change to infant immunizations schedules in America, adding three hepatitis B shots (including one at birth) and three haemophilis B shots, all given before the baby is six months old.

  2. Drug companies stepped up to the challenge by providing multiple-dose containers of vaccines preserved with thimerosal, an antibacterial made up of 49 percent ethyl mercury.

  3. Although the effects of mercury poisoning had been identified in the 1940s, the Food and Drug Administration and the CDC didn’t consider the effects of the dosage that newborns would receive because of these shots. The drug companies didn’t raise a red flag, either, even though the new regimen meant an average two-month-old at a well-baby checkup got a single-day dose of mercury one hundred times greater than the government’s long-term safe exposure level.

  4. The symptomology of autism looks an awful lot like the symptomology of mercury poisoning. To give you an example: when scientists studied the migration of mercury into primate brains, they noticed that the primates began to avoid eye contact.

  5. Between 1999 and 2002, thimerosal was quietly removed from the majority of childhood vaccines.

  There’s the opposing argument, too. That ethyl mercury—the kind in the vaccines—lea