The Kindness of Strangers (15 page)

But all those headlines were about
someone’s
neighbor,
someone’s
friend.

And it
wasn’t
her friend. It was her friend’s
husband.

Sarah looked at every child, imagining what horrible secrets might be under each one’s clothes, wondering what visible clue she might discern that she’d missed with Jordan. How could she have been in that home so much and never picked up a single vibe?

Sarah headed for the florist shop at the back of the store. Purple irises, dark and perfect as van Gogh’s, stood in water buckets, but flowers didn’t seem right for an eleven-year-old boy. There were balloons, but they seemed celebratory, and the one that said “Get Well” seemed a flippant sentiment for repeated sexual abuse.

She did select one plain red balloon, and in the small office-supply section she picked up a sketch pad, some colored pencils, and stickers of soccer balls and African animals. The cards all seemed inappropriate, but she found one with no message—just a photo of a black-and-white cat looking out a window. That would do.

She selected a card for Nate’s seventeenth birthday tomorrow as well. The week’s events had made her almost forget. She hoped she could think of a way to convey to him how much their time cooking together had meant to her.

On her way out of the store, the combined aromas of rich coffee, cinnamon, and fresh bread stopped her at the bakery counter. She admired the lattice-topped cherry pies, the fluffy pastries, and the chocolate-dipped cherries atop the Black Forest cakes. The display reminded her of the year she’d studied at La Varenne Cooking School in Paris, where several weeks had been devoted solely to pastries, cakes, and meringues. She’d just paid for a caramel latte when she heard her name called.

Janet Porter and Carlotta Imparato approached her with somber faces but bright, almost gleeful eyes. “Did you hear?” Janet asked.

Sarah nodded. Janet held the morning paper, which Sarah had already snatched up the second the delivery boy flung it onto her porch. The paper ran the same photo as the news last night. And offered no new details.

“I’m sick. Utterly sick. We just came from the baseball breakfast, and it’s all anyone is talking about.”

Sarah nodded again, grateful that Danny didn’t play baseball.

“Whoever would’ve thought?” Carlotta said. “They always seemed so nice. They were so normal-looking.” Carlotta seemed almost delighted to have been wrong. She giggled and commented, “Isn’t that what they always say about people who turn out to be serial killers and child molesters?”

Sarah smiled a tight smile and took her caramel latte.

“You and Courtney were so close,” Carlotta said. “Did you ever in your wildest dreams suspect?”

The question stabbed Sarah. She had already battered herself with,
Are you a moron? It was happening right under your nose.
Sarah stared at Carlotta a moment before asking, “Do you think I suspected and didn’t tell anyone?”

“Of course not. How did the police find out, do you know? How did they get caught?”

“
They
didn’t get caught.
Mark
got caught.”

Carlotta waved her hand dismissively, as if this were a minor detail. “Do you know how
Mark
got caught?” Her question was edged in a patronizing tone.

Sarah shook her head. Carlotta had a smear of bright red lipstick on her teeth, the effect of which seemed ghoulish.

“I’m floored about Jordan,” Janet said, pressing a chubby hand to her bosom, each one of her sausage fingers decorated with a ring and scarlet fingernail polish. “He’s been in our house a hundred times. He had every opportunity to talk to us, to ask for our help. Surely he knew we were approachable.”

“I always thought he was a little odd,” Carlotta said. Sarah couldn’t take her eyes from those lipsticked teeth. They looked blood-smeared. Carlotta shuddered, exaggerated, fake. “God only knows what they did to him.”

No, Sarah thought, taking the first sip of her drink,
she
knew what they did to him, too. She’d seen it.

“Do you know any details?” Janet asked, the red fingernails dancing around her neckline. She leaned in close to Sarah and whispered, “The papers say sexual abuse and pornography, but they don’t really tell you anything specific.”

“For God’s sake, Janet,” Sarah said. “These are
kids
.” Their strange hunger for scraps of Jordan’s suffering made her queasy.

Janet blushed but said, “I just want to know exactly what happened.”

“Why on earth didn’t he tell someone?” Carlotta asked, staring at the cakes.

“You make it sound like it was all his fault.” Sarah’s words rolled out harsher than she expected, but she wasn’t really sorry.

“I’m just trying to understand him,” Carlotta said.

“I’m trying to understand how this child could have walked among us and not one of us sensed what was happening,” Sarah said. “I’m not blaming him. I blame myself.”

Carlotta’s jaw set, and she pursed her lips. She leaned in closer to the glass, pretending to examine the price on a raspberry torte. She wouldn’t meet Sarah’s eyes.

Janet looked up at Sarah’s red balloon. “What’s the occasion?”

“Oh . . . tomorrow’s Nate’s birthday. Just something festive to put with his gifts.” She had no idea why she lied, but she didn’t want to reveal she was going to see Jordan. “I should get going. I’ll see you.” She left, knowing they would talk about her the second she was out of earshot.

Sarah drove down the main boulevard, the medians landscaped—spring pansies scattered bright as confetti, the tulips almost mockingly cheerful. She drove through downtown Dayton and crossed the river. When Sarah reached The Children’s Medical Center, she sat in the car a moment. She’d been here many times for her own boys—Danny’s broken wrist when he fell from the garage roof pretending to be Spider-Man, Nate’s numerous hockey injuries. Both boys had had their tonsils removed. She couldn’t fathom leaving one of her sons here alone. Jordan had to be lonely and scared. She got out of the car and went inside, carrying her balloon and bag of gifts.

She had almost fifteen minutes before her meeting with Ali, but she headed up to the third floor anyway. When Sarah stepped off the elevator, however, she walked into a group of solemn, cross-armed people standing in a huddle, blocking her way. A tall, redheaded woman stepped aside, making room for Sarah, but as the woman turned, she did a double take. “Sarah! You’re early!”

Ali stretched out her arms to Sarah, and the two women embraced. The sensation of being held brought tears to Sarah’s eyes.

“We were just talking about you,” Ali said, pulling Sarah into the circle and introducing her to what looked like mostly doctors, nurses, and hospital staff. Sarah recognized Detective Kramble, who nodded at her. “We just had a meeting about”—and Ali gestured, as if words failed her—“about Jordan,” she said.

“I brought him some things,” Sarah said. She tugged the balloon ribbon.

Ali made a face. “He’s not seeing visitors.”

Sarah turned to Kramble. “Is something wrong? You said—”

“I’m sorry,” Kramble said. “That decision was just made.”

The rest of the circle began to disperse, with promised reports to one another.

Ali sighed. “We want him to see visitors, but Jordan doesn’t want to. Dr. McConnel, his therapist, was talking to us, just now, at the meeting. It’s really vital, in order for her to build some rapport with him, for us to respect his wishes. So many things have been done to him without his permission. We want him to feel some control here. We
do
want him to have visitors, eventually. The last thing we want is for him to isolate himself, but right now that goal is overridden by our wanting to get him to trust us.”

“Oh. Of course.”

“But I’ll give these to him,” Ali said. “Let’s give them to the nurses now, and then come walk with me.” Ali took the balloon and bag from Sarah and began to walk down the hall.

Sarah hesitated. Kramble still stood there, and it seemed rude to just walk away. Ali stopped and looked back.

“Thank you for your time this morning,” Kramble said to Ali.

“Of course.”

“Mrs. Laden.” He touched the side of his head, as if he were tipping a hat. It struck Sarah that he’d look at home in a hat, that he seemed somehow not of this era. He stepped onto the elevator, and the doors closed on him.

“Sarah?” Ali asked.

Sarah shook herself and followed Ali. Ali dropped off Sarah’s gifts at the nurses’ station, then led her downstairs to the courtyard. They sat on benches in a green-and-purple gazebo shaped like a house. The April sun shone down through the “chimney” of this playhouse. Two children laughed and giggled on the nearby swing set. Their mother sat reading a book under a tree.

Ali rubbed her hands over her face. “Courtney,” she said, shaking her head and staring up through the chimney. Her face was tortured as she turned to Sarah and said, “You know Roy and I worked with her at the Valley. I
liked
her.”

Sarah nodded. “Me, too. I feel so . . .”

“So fucking betrayed?” Ali asked. “That bitch wore a button with that kid’s face on it. She had these lovely pictures of him all over her locker. She talked about him all the goddamn time. I thought she was a good mom. And I know she was a good doctor.”

Sarah closed her eyes. She listened to the birdsong and the laughter of the children.

“Kramble had us look at some photos and movies this morning,” Ali said. “I ID’d Mark. But I didn’t see Courtney.”

Sarah whispered, “So there’s a chance she wasn’t involved.”

Ali slumped her shoulders. “Sarah, come on. The camera
moves,
sometimes when all five of the other adults are on the screen.”

The hair stood on Sarah’s arms.
All five of the adults?
The images and configurations that crowded Sarah’s mind sickened her.

“She had to know,” Ali said. “She let it happen, which is just as bad, if not worse. Where was she during these parties? She pays for you to cater, and then she leaves? She just disappears with a houseful of company?”

“What if she got a page?” Sarah asked, recognizing that her voice rose with too much hope. “She had to go deliver babies at all kinds of bizarre hours.”

Ali looked sad instead of skeptical, which made the tears press harder behind Sarah’s eyes. “Every single time? That’s a big coincidence, don’t you think?”

The tears let loose. Sarah wiped them away. “I know, I know, I know. I sound like an idiot, Ali. . . . I . . . She
can’t
be involved in this, do you understand? I can’t . . . I don’t . . . I don’t know what I’ll do if . . .”

Ali put an arm around Sarah. “I’m sorry. I know this has to be hard.” She let Sarah cry for a moment.

When Sarah dug in her purse for a Kleenex and blew her nose, Ali said, “Sarah, even
if
she wasn’t there, even
if
she didn’t witness it a single time, she knew. How can you not know that your husband is raping your son? And what about the drugs? Jordan had Dilaudid. The Valley had been missing some. They’d had meetings about it. Apparently Courtney was already under suspicion for stealing drugs. The police found a small stash of it at their house, but there’s no evidence that Courtney was using it herself. We think she stole it for Jordan as pain medication. Dilaudid would keep him out of physical pain and way out of touch with his psychic pain. We also found azithromycin in his parka pocket, and I think she was trying to treat him herself, you know, so he didn’t have to go to a doctor, who might suspect.”

“Treat him?”

Ali’s huge green eyes welled with tears. “He has gonorrhea, Sarah.” Ali stared across the courtyard at the children swinging high on the swing set. She fidgeted with her earrings. “He’s had gonorrhea long enough to spread through his bloodstream. He’ll have to stay here at least a week on IV antibiotics. It’s spread to some of his joints, which is treatable, too, but, God, this kid must have been in pain. We have to test him for endocarditis—the interior of his heart may be infected. So . . . Courtney is giving him painkillers and antibiotics but
not
taking him to a pediatrician? What does that tell you?”

Sarah sensed something give way inside her. She felt woozy, her head too heavy to hold up, just as she had when she’d first seen the pictures. “How . . . why . . . what made you test him for gonorrhea?”

“The ER did that. And for every other STD we have tests for.”

“But why? How did they know?”

Ali paused. “I’m telling
you
this, okay? I trust you, Sarah. I wouldn’t give this information to anyone who came in and asked. Nancy—Nancy Rhee, remember her? She was the attending when you brought Jordan in. She told us that at first she thought he was your run-of-the-mill OD, which, by the way, has left him with an irregular heartbeat and unstable blood pressure.” She coughed and looked across the courtyard. “But when they cleared his chest, he had this bruise that circled his right nipple. It was . . . just too bizarre, something she’d never seen before. And once they got him stabilized, they saw he had scratches behind both ears, odd bruises, and a bite mark. They checked him, and sure enough, he’d been raped.”