Perfect Match by Jodi Picoult Page A

until Caleb's voice climbs the stairs, searching for us. Over the penance of Nathaniel's head I watch the car on its track, spinning in circle s, driven by its own momentum.
    Shortly after seven o'clock, I lose Nathaniel. He isn't in any of his favor ite haunts: his bedroom, the playroom, on the jungle gym outside. I had tho ught Caleb was with him; Caleb thought he was with me. “Nathaniel!” I yell, panicked, but he can't answer me-he couldn't answer me even if he felt lik e giving away his hiding place. A thousand scenes of horror sprint through my mind: Nathaniel being kidnapped from the backyard, unable to scream for help; Nathaniel falling down our well and sobbing in silence; Nathaniel lyi ng hurt and unconscious on the ground. “Nathaniel!” I cry again, louder thi s time.
    “You take the upstairs,” Caleb says, and I hear the worry in his voice, too. Before I can answer he heads for the laundry room; there is a sound of the dryer door opening and then closing again.
    Nathaniel is not hiding under our bed, or in his closet. He isn't curled unde rneath cobwebs in the stairwell that leads to the attic. He isn't in his toy chest or behind the big wing chair in the sewing room. He isn't beneath the c omputer table or behind the bathroom door.
    You'd think I've run a mile, I'm panting that hard. I lean against the wall outside the bathroom and listen to Caleb slam cabinets and drawers in t he kitchen. Think like Nathaniel, I tell myself. Where would I be if I were five?
    I would be climbing rainbows. I would be lifting rocks to find crickets sleep ing underneath; I would be sorting the gravel in the driveway by weight and c olor. But these are all the things Nathaniel used to do, things that fill the mind of a child before he has to grow up. Overnight.
    There is a thin drip coming from the bathroom. The sink; Nathaniel routinely leaves it on when he brushes his teeth. I suddenly want to see that trickle o f water, because it will be the most normal thing I've witnessed all day. But inside, the sink is dry as a bone. I turn to the source of the noise, pull b ack the brightly patterned shower curtain.
    And scream.
    The only thing he can hear underwater is his heart. Is it like this for dolph ins, too? Nathaniel wonders, or can they hear sounds the rest of us can't-cor al blooming, fish breathing, sharks thinking. His eyes are wide open, and thr ough the wet the ceiling is runny. Bubbles tickle his nostrils, and the fish drawn onto the shower curtain make it real.
    But suddenly his mother is there, here in the ocean where she shouldn't be, a nd her face is as wide as the sky coming closer. Nathaniel forgets to hold hi s breath as she yanks him out of the water by his shirt. He coughs, he sneeze s sea. He hears her crying, and that reminds him that he has to come back to this world, after all.
    Oh, my God, he isn't breathing-he isn't breathing-and then Nathaniel takes a great gulp of air. He is twice his weight in his soaked clothes, but I wrestl e him out of the tub so that he lies dripping on the bathmat. Caleb's feet po und up the stairs. “Did you find him?”
    “Nathaniel,” I say as close to his face as I can, “what were you doing?” His golden hair is matted to his scalp, his eyes are huge. His lips twist, rea ching for a word that doesn't come.
    Can five-year-olds be suicidal? What other reason can there be for finding m y son, fully dressed, submerged in a tub full of water?
    Caleb crowds into the bathroom. He takes one look at Nathaniel, dripping, a nd the draining tub. “What the hell?”
    “Let's get you out of these clothes,” I say, as if I find Nathaniel in this situ ation on a daily basis. My hands go to the buttons of his flannel shift, but he twists away from me, curls into a ball.
    Caleb looks at me. “Buddy,” he tries, “you're gonna get sick if you stay like t his.”
    When Caleb gathers him onto his lap, Nathaniel goes completely boneless. He'
    s wide-awake, he's looking right at me, yet