6
After dinner, I fed Buddy, and Patrick quietly washed his hands and went to his room to look at his pictur
books.
What was so “not right” about this kid? He was perfectly normal.
I happily settled in for a quiet evening, opening my laptop to write.
At nine o’clock, Patrick was still engrossed in a Sudoku puzzle, with no intention of going to bed.
I took the book away and told him it was time for a bath.
He clung to the doorframe with all his might, shouting, “I can wash myself! I can do it!”
I pried his stubborn little fingers away. “Can you really get yourself clean? You’re starting to smell a little ripe
He let go, completely stunned. His cheeks puffed out in indignation, making him look like an angry little pufi erfish. “That’s a lie! I take a bath every single day!”
I ended up having to physically drag him into the bathroom.
Patrick’s bathroom had a large tub with a low-set faucet, which made it easy for him to draw his own bath.
stripped him down, tossed him in, and started scrubbing him down like a potato.
When I got to his arm, he cried out in pain. At first, I thought he was just being dramatic, but when I looked up, his eyes were brimming with tears.
That’s when I saw it-a large, ugly bruise on his right forearm. My expression hardened. “How did you get
this?”
He refused to answer.
I gave his bottom a light swat. “Patrick, I’m talking to you!”
He burst into tears, wailing like a teakettle. “When I don’t listen, the nanny pinches me,” he sobbed. “She says I’m the kid nobody wanted.”
I froze. Suddenly, his question from the restaurant-“Like the nanny?”-slammed into me. It wasn’t a challen- ge. It was a test.
He was terrified that I would hurt him, too.
Coming back to my senses, I softened my voice. I wrapped him in a towel and lifted him out of the tub. “How long has she been hurting you? Why didn’t you tell your dad?”
Frustration simmered inside me as I pulled a set of pajamas over his head. “You have a mouth, don’t you’ Why are you suddenly silent when your dad’s around?”
“I don’t get to see Daddy very often,” he mumbled. “By the time I see him, it doesn’t hurt anymore.”
I pulled the hood of his pajamas up over his head. “Doesn’t hurt? Then who was that screaming in the batht ub just now?”
“From now on, if anyone ever lays a hand on you, you hit them back. Hard. You understand? I’ve got you
back. I won’t tell your dad.”
I
I tucked him into bed and turned to his closet.
What was this? All his clothes were a size too small.
“I don’t have any new clothes.”
Patrick’s voice was muffled from under the covers, only his eyes visible. “The nanny took all the new clothe
Daddy bought for me.”
Damn it.
The more I thought about it, the angrier I got. I lay awake until midnight, tossing and turning, vowing to make
that woman pay.
