I would swear that he isn't here at all.
Caleb's hands begin to unbutton Nathaniel's shirt. But instead, I grab a tow el and wrap it around him. I hold it close at Nathaniel's neck and lean forw ard, so that my words fall onto his upturned face. “Who did this to you?” I demand. “Tell me, honey. Tell me so that I can make it better.”
“Nina.”
“Tell me. If you don't tell me, I can't do anything about it.” My voice hitches at the middle like a rusting train. My face is as wet as Nathaniel's. He's trying; oh, he's trying. His cheeks are red with the effort. He opens his mouth, pours forth a strangled knot of air.
I nod at him, encouraging. “You can do this, Nathaniel. Come on.” The muscles in his throat tighten. He sounds like he is drowning again.
“Did someone touch you, Nathaniel?”
“Jesus!” Caleb wrenches Nathaniel away from me. "Leave him alone, Nina!
"
“But he was going to say something.” I get to my feet, jockeying to face Na thaniel again. “Weren't you, baby?”
Caleb hefts Nathaniel higher in his arms. He walks out of the bathroom witho ut saying another word, cradling our son close to his chest. He leaves me st anding in a puddle, to clean up the mess that's been left behind. Ironically, in Maine's Bureau of Children, Youth and Family Services, an inv estigation into child abuse is not an investigation at all. By the time a ca seworker can officially open a case, he or she will already have psychiatric or physical evidence of abuse in the child, as well as the name of a suspec ted perpetrator. There will be no guesswork involved-all the research will h ave been completed by that point. It is the role of the BCYF caseworker to s imply go along for the ride, so that if by some miracle it reaches the trial stage, everything has been done the way the government l ikes.
Monica LaFlamme has worked in the Child Abuse Action Network of the BCYF fo r three years now, and she is tired of coming in during the second act. She looks out the window of her office, a squat gray cube like every other gov ernment office in the complex, to a deserted playground. It is a metal swin g set resting on a concrete slab. Leave it to the BCYF to have the one play structure left in the region that doesn't meet updated safety standards. She yawns, pinches her finger and thumb to the bridge of her nose. Monica is exhausted. Not just from staying up for Letterman last night, but in genera l, as if the gray walls and commercial carpet in her office have somehow see ped into her through osmosis. She is tired of filling out reports on cases t hat go nowhere. She is tired of seeing forty-year-old eyes in the faces of t en-year-old children. What she needs is a vacation to the Caribbean, where t here is so much color exploding-blue surf, white sand, scarlet flowers-that it renders her blind to her daily work.
When the phone rings, Monica jumps in her chair. “This is Monica LaFlamme,” she says, crisply opening the manila folder on her desk, as if the person on the other end of the line has seen her daydreaming.
“Yes, hello. This is Dr. Christine Robichaud. I'm a psychiatrist up at Maine Medical Center.” A hesitation, and that is all Monica needed to know what i s coming next. “I need to report a possible case of sexual abuse against a f ive-year-old male.”
She takes notes as Dr. Robichaud describes behaviors she's seen over and ove r. She scrawls the name of the patient, the names of his parents. Something nicks the corner of her mind, but she pushes it aside to concentrate on what the psychiatrist is saying.
“Are there any police reports you can fax me?” Monica asks. “The police hav en't been involved. The boy hasn't identified the abuser yet.” At that, Monica puts down her pen. “Doctor, you know I can't open an investi gation until there's someone to investigate.”
“It's only a matter of time. Nathaniel is experiencing a somatoform disorde r, which basically renders him mute without
Caleb's hands begin to unbutton Nathaniel's shirt. But instead, I grab a tow el and wrap it around him. I hold it close at Nathaniel's neck and lean forw ard, so that my words fall onto his upturned face. “Who did this to you?” I demand. “Tell me, honey. Tell me so that I can make it better.”
“Nina.”
“Tell me. If you don't tell me, I can't do anything about it.” My voice hitches at the middle like a rusting train. My face is as wet as Nathaniel's. He's trying; oh, he's trying. His cheeks are red with the effort. He opens his mouth, pours forth a strangled knot of air.
I nod at him, encouraging. “You can do this, Nathaniel. Come on.” The muscles in his throat tighten. He sounds like he is drowning again.
“Did someone touch you, Nathaniel?”
“Jesus!” Caleb wrenches Nathaniel away from me. "Leave him alone, Nina!
"
“But he was going to say something.” I get to my feet, jockeying to face Na thaniel again. “Weren't you, baby?”
Caleb hefts Nathaniel higher in his arms. He walks out of the bathroom witho ut saying another word, cradling our son close to his chest. He leaves me st anding in a puddle, to clean up the mess that's been left behind. Ironically, in Maine's Bureau of Children, Youth and Family Services, an inv estigation into child abuse is not an investigation at all. By the time a ca seworker can officially open a case, he or she will already have psychiatric or physical evidence of abuse in the child, as well as the name of a suspec ted perpetrator. There will be no guesswork involved-all the research will h ave been completed by that point. It is the role of the BCYF caseworker to s imply go along for the ride, so that if by some miracle it reaches the trial stage, everything has been done the way the government l ikes.
Monica LaFlamme has worked in the Child Abuse Action Network of the BCYF fo r three years now, and she is tired of coming in during the second act. She looks out the window of her office, a squat gray cube like every other gov ernment office in the complex, to a deserted playground. It is a metal swin g set resting on a concrete slab. Leave it to the BCYF to have the one play structure left in the region that doesn't meet updated safety standards. She yawns, pinches her finger and thumb to the bridge of her nose. Monica is exhausted. Not just from staying up for Letterman last night, but in genera l, as if the gray walls and commercial carpet in her office have somehow see ped into her through osmosis. She is tired of filling out reports on cases t hat go nowhere. She is tired of seeing forty-year-old eyes in the faces of t en-year-old children. What she needs is a vacation to the Caribbean, where t here is so much color exploding-blue surf, white sand, scarlet flowers-that it renders her blind to her daily work.
When the phone rings, Monica jumps in her chair. “This is Monica LaFlamme,” she says, crisply opening the manila folder on her desk, as if the person on the other end of the line has seen her daydreaming.
“Yes, hello. This is Dr. Christine Robichaud. I'm a psychiatrist up at Maine Medical Center.” A hesitation, and that is all Monica needed to know what i s coming next. “I need to report a possible case of sexual abuse against a f ive-year-old male.”
She takes notes as Dr. Robichaud describes behaviors she's seen over and ove r. She scrawls the name of the patient, the names of his parents. Something nicks the corner of her mind, but she pushes it aside to concentrate on what the psychiatrist is saying.
“Are there any police reports you can fax me?” Monica asks. “The police hav en't been involved. The boy hasn't identified the abuser yet.” At that, Monica puts down her pen. “Doctor, you know I can't open an investi gation until there's someone to investigate.”
“It's only a matter of time. Nathaniel is experiencing a somatoform disorde r, which basically renders him mute without
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