Shelter (43 page)

    Meredith sat up a little straighter and raised her eyebrows. Hoo-boy. That would be tied up in court challenges until Nicholas got out of college. The procedure was controversial enough even on a voluntary basis, especially now that the more unfortunate victims of brainwiping, the Lukes of the world, had begun to constitute a growing percentage of the homeless. The procedure still worked beautifully in over 95 percent of cases, according to its supporters, but of course the successful cases were, by definition, invisible, at least once the resocialization process was complete. The public only saw the failures, too many of whom lived on the streets. And now the government wanted to add convicted rapists and murderers to the mix? No matter how docile brainwiping appeared to make its victims, the new law would never stand against public opinion. It wouldn't last five minutes.

    * * *

    A year later, it was still in effect, with new categories of criminals being added all the time. Resocialization, like prisons before it, kept a lot of people employed. Nicholas's nightmares, meanwhile, were worse than ever. They occurred at least twice a night, and now he had begun to sleepwalk too. Kevin suggested tying him down, but Meredith wouldn't hear of it. Their pediatrician had told them that young children who sleepwalked were usually suffering from confusional arousals, neural storms precipitating an intense sensation of fight or flight. Restraint only prolonged the episodes. Of course, the doctor also said that confusional arousals were distinct from nightmares, and Nicholas's came together; still, Meredith wouldn't have been able to stomach bondage even had it been medically wise.

    The pediatrician referred them to a pediatric psychologist, who suggested that Nicholas was suffering from post-isolation syndrome—"For this we're paying her five hundred dollars?" Kevin said—and enrolled him in play therapy. He enjoyed the play therapy, but it didn't stop the nightmares. The pediatrician suggested medication; Meredith reluctantly agreed, but stopped the meds when they made Nicholas dopey, unable to enjoy the things he usually loved. What was the point of destroying both his fears and his pleasures?

    The week Nicholas turned four, he began to bang his head deliberately against walls and furniture during his sleepwalking episodes, struggling against Meredith's embrace as she held him back, trying to shield him, seeking, if nothing else, to insert something soft—a blanket, a pillow—between his head and whatever hard surface he had chosen. Now, at last, Meredith becarne terrified. Head-banging belonged to autism; it bespoke serious disturbance, and at least some doctors had begun to use brainwiping as their predecessors had used lobotomies, Valium, and Prozac. Just two days before Nicholas's first head-banging incident, Meredith had heard an interview with a woman who claimed that her teenage son had been threatened with brainwiping because he wouldn't stop biting his nails; another mother had called in to say that her doctor had recommended it for a bed-wetting daughter. Those cases were admittedly so extreme as to be nearly unbelievable—how could any parent willingly destroy a child's personality?—but still.

    Kevin wasn't happy with taking Nicholas off the medication, and he knew neither about the bed-wetting nor about the head-banging. Meredith always responded to the boy's screams, and the house system did the laundry. Because Constance had expressed concern about the nightmares, Merry had stopped asking her to babysit; because Theo, the perfect child, had said something to her once about Nicholas being "strange," Meredith found herself limiting his playtime with Nicholas. She no longer took Nicky to Temple, because he seemed afraid of the other people there and because she had seen Matt watching him a little too closely. Nicholas would outgrow all of this, surely, and then things could get back to normal again. In the meantime, she didn't want to expose him, or herself, to criticism from people who thought she never should have taken Nicholas home in the first place.

    She knew what Matt would have said: she was afraid of getting into trouble. She knew what both Constance and Honoli would have said: she was being obsessive. She didn't care. Nicholas would be fine, and his temporary difficulties weren't anyone else's business. "No," she told Kevin whenever he brought up the subject, "Nicky doesn't need another kiddie shrink. Come on, Kevin, all kids have nightmares. I had them myself I'm sure you did too. Anyway, I'm the one who gets up. You don't have to. Sleep with earplugs, if you want to."

    Nicholas didn't remember trying to hit his head against the wall. When Meredith asked him what he'd been dreaming about, the morning after that first struggle, he said only, "Scary monsters. I have to run away from them."

    "Were they chasing you, Nicky? Getting closer?"

    "They're close now. I have to keep them away."

    She closed her eyes. He sounded so normal when he was awake: bright and alert and articulate, interested in books and drawing and building things. The meds destroyed all that, all the good things. Her heart ached for him. She didn't know what to do; she knew only that she had a pathological fear of submitting him to further scrutiny, more examinations. That was what she'd vowed to save him from.

    But it seemed to be what everyone else thought he needed. "He should go to school," Constance said later that week. Nicholas sat in the middle of the sun-drenched living room floor, absorbed in a block tower he was building. Constance and Meredith sat drinking iced tea in the kitchen, watching him in the next room. "The homeschooling you're doing is great, honey, and I know you take him to the playground twice a day, but he needs more socialization."

    "Of course," Meredith said dully. She'd known this subject would come up eventually. She'd been trying not to think about it. If he went to school, someone else would see what was going on, and the pressure to consult more specialists would become greater. No more doctors, please. She and Nicholas had both had enough of them.

    "Is he still having those nightmares?" Constance said. "I'm worried, Merry. I know Kevin is too."

    "Well, stop worrying. All kids have nightmares." It didn't sound convincing even to Meredith.

    "Not every time they go to sleep," Constance said, and Meredith wondered just how much Kevin had been talking to her mother. "Most kids don't wake up screaming every night for over a year, Merry! Are you still talking to the pediatrician about it?"

    "Of course," Meredith said, trying to keep her voice light. "She says it's nothing to worry about. It's a phase. It will pass." The pediatrician had in fact said nothing lately, because Meredith had told her nothing. The pediatrician had, on more than one occasion, spoken a bit too highly of the benefits of brain wiping on adults, and Meredith didn't trust her not to apply the same principles to children. They needed to find a new doctor.

    Constance shook her head. "Well, if it's a phase, it's not one you or Theo ever went through."

    "I wasn't scared of the dark when I was little? Come on, Mom, I was too! I remember. Monsters under the bed, monsters in the closet, monsters growing out of shadows on the wall. Everybody goes through that. It's perfectly normal."

    "For so long?" Constance asked bluntly, and then sighed and softened. "Well, all right, honey. You should try giving him a flashlight to sleep with. I read an article about that. His very own light saber, so he can kill the monsters when they come out."

    "That's a good idea," Merry said, trying to sound cheerfuL ''I'll try that. Thanks."

    She had, in fact, tried it already, had read the same article and promptly gone out and gotten Nicholas his very own flashlight. She wasn't about to tell her mother the results of that experiment.

    "Here, Nicholas," she'd said. "If you shine this on the monsters who wake you up, they won't be there anymore, see?"

    He'd looked at the flashlight and then at her, and said, "Yes, they will, Mommy. "

    "Why, Nicholas? Your room isn't scary when it's light out. If you turn this on, it will be light at night too."

    "Not if I close my eyes. The monsters come out when I close my eyes, Mommy."

    "Where do they come from, Nicholas? Where are they? Under the bed? In the closet? Do they come from your toy chest? Where are they? Mommy will kill them. Mommy won't let them hurt you."

    He'd looked at her and said sadly, "But, Mommy, they're not outside. They're in my head."

    "That's right," she'd said, both confused and relieved. "They're dreams. They aren't real. They can't really hurt you."

    "Then make them be quiet!" he'd cried, and started to sob. "Then make them go away! You can't make them go away, Mommy!"

    She had felt as though she were sinking in quicksand, or trapped in one of those dreams in which you travel forever in circles. Other children had imaginary friends; Nicholas had imaginary enemies. "What do they do, Nicholas? How do they hurt you?"

    "They tell me to be bad."

    She almost laughed aloud. He was too good, that was all. "Well, Nicholas, everyone is bad sometimes. I was bad sometimes when I was a little girl."

    Nicholas cocked his head. "Really?"

    "Yes, Nicholas, really. I stole candy and drew on the walls with crayon and, um, once I poured water over a bot because it was dirty and I thought it needed a bath and it shorted out, and I used to stay up past my bedtime reading under the covers, and—"

    "You killed a bot?" he said. He was fascinated with bots, despite—or perhaps because—there was none at home.

    "I didn't mean to, but I broke it, yes."

    "You killed it?"

    "Well, not exactly, I mean, it's not alive, but I broke it. You know bots aren't alive, Nicholas. They're just machines." Kevin kept telling her this was far too complicated for such a young child, but she didn't care. She'd be damned if she was going to raise a soulfreak.

    He'd shuddered, and then said, very sadly, "Mommy, I wish they were alive."

    "Why, Nicholas?"

    "Because then I could kill them."

    Green-growing Gaia. I am not in this video, she'd thought firmly. I am not living in a horror movie or serial-murder porn or a toddler-spawn-of-the-devil soap opera. I'm living a ridiculously privileged life in the middle of the twenty-first century, and my child will be just fine. Change the channel. "Nicholas, please don't say kill. That's not a nice word. Nice little boys don't say that word."

    "You said you'd kill my monsters," he said accusingly. His lip was trembling. "You did! You did, Mommy!"

    It was a figure of speech. Right. He was four. She swallowed. "I meant—I just meant I'd make them go away, Nicholas. Make them go away forever, so they couldn't scare you anymore." It sounded lame even to her. "Hey, Nicholas, it's time for lunch. I'll make you hot dogs. Would you like that? Hot dogs and ice cream?"

    He relaxed, smiled, looked for a moment like a normal child. "I like hot dogs."

    "I know you do," she said, filled with relief "I'll make you hot dogs."

    She made him hot dogs, and he ate them, and afterward, looking down at his empty plate, he said serenely, "See? All gone. I made them go away forever."

    No, she wasn't going to tell her mother that Nicholas's preferred method of vanquishing monsters was to eat them for lunch, or that he had a preternaturally advanced grasp of the distinction between his own visions and the outside world. She wanted him to be normal: normal, please, Goddess, happy, not someone who would attract any undue attention, not someone permanently scarred, not someone stuck into a pigeonhole of fame or infamy. And not someone medicated—or worse—into zombieland.

    Constance sighed. "Maybe a pet would help. I know he was scared of the dog and cat, but that was a while ago. Maybe something smaller. Something he can take care of, to feel competent." Constance leaned forward and called into the living room, "Hey, Nicky?"

    Nicholas looked up from his block tower. "What?"

    "Did you hear what we were just talking about?"

    He scowled. "I was building something, Gramma."

    "I know. It's a beautiful tower. That takes a lot of concentration, doesn't it?"

    He nodded. He was proud of his precision, and indeed he was remarkably neat and careful for so young a boy. "It's a prison. For scary things."

    Meredith's stomach knotted; her mother looked at her, eyebrows raised. "Well, good," Constance said. "That's a good idea. Nicky, would you like a pet? Maybe a bunny, or a hamster?"

    Nicholas considered this. "Could I do anything I wanted with it?"

    "No," Meredith said, hoping her mother hadn't heard the unintended force in her voice. "Not anything. You'd have to take care of it, Nicholas; you'd have to love it and help it keep clean and give it food and water. You'd have to take care of it, just like Daddy and I take care of you."

    Nicholas was frowning. Constance said, "You'd have to keep it safe from anything that might hurt it, honey. You'd keep it safe from scary things," and suddenly the boy's expression cleared.

    "All right, Mommy. When? Can we do it now?"

    * * *

    In the pet store, Meredith and Constance examined an array of rabbits, to no avail; Nicholas remained glued to a cage of male mice, each sporting swollen red testicles larger than the animal's head. "Mommy, are they sick?"

    Meredith winced. "No, honey. They're healthy. They're supposed to look like that."

    "But those mice look different," Nicholas said, and pointed to a neighboring cage of svelte female mice.

    "Those are girl mice," a cheerful clerk said behind them. "We keep 'em apart, for obvious reasons. But we need breeding stock; most people who buy mice and rats buy 'em to feed their snakes and such."

    "Thank you," Meredith said, annoyed. She wasn't sure that Nicholas needed that much information.

    "Snakes eat them?" Nicholas said.

    "Yup."

    "Which ones? The girls or the boys?"

    "Both."