"Please," Keely said. "Please. I understand it's not your policy. And there's no reason why you should do this for me. But I'm pleading with you. If you could just print it out and send it to me . . . put the postage on my phone bill. Please. I wouldn't ask you if it wasn't urgent."

"I'll see what I can do," the woman said in a grumpy voice.

"Thank you," said Keely. "Bless you." The call was disconnected before Keely could say anything more.

20.

The next day a huge bouquet of flowers greeted Keely as she arrived at Dylan's room. "Oh, they're beautiful," she cried. She picked up the card that was propped against the vase. "Lucas and Betsy. Betsy keeps calling to see how you are."

"Lucas stopped by," Dylan croaked.

Keely looked up at Dylan in surprise. "Your tube's out," she exclaimed, rushing up to her son's bedside.

Dylan nodded.

"That's great," Keely said. "You look better."

Dylan shrugged, then leaned back against the pillow. His complexion was still waxy, but there was a tinge of color in his cheeks. "Feels better."

"Now don't try to talk too much. This will take a little getting used to. Oh, honey, I'm so relieved. Maybe now you can come home soon," she said. "They're sending a social worker over to our house this morning to look us over, but I'm sure we'll pa.s.s muster. In fact, I just came by for a minute to see how you were doing. I've got the nurse at the desk holding Abby. I just couldn't wait until the afternoon to see you, but I need to get back before the social worker shows up. I've got to make a good impression, you know."

Dylan nodded but didn't smile.

"Mrs. Weaver."

Keely turned around and saw Detective Stratton standing in Dylan's doorway, tapping on the door frame. Her spirits sank.

"I hear Dylan's able to speak now. I hope you don't mind," Phil said, coming into the room. "h.e.l.lo, Dylan."

Dylan's eyes widened at the sight of the detective. "h.e.l.lo," he whispered.

"In fact," said Keely, "I do mind. I spoke to my lawyer about this. He does not want you talking to Dylan unless he is present."

"That's your right," said Phil. "But I do have to ask, for the record, if Dylan was the victim of an a.s.sault or if the wound was . . ."

"I did it myself," Dylan mumbled.

Keely took a deep breath. "And that is all he's going to say to you," she said firmly. "May I speak to you in the hallway, Detective?"

Phil Stratton shrugged and nodded at Dylan. "I hope you feel better soon." He followed Keely outside.

Keely glanced at her watch. She couldn't afford to be late for the social worker. "Detective Stratton, I'm sure you don't believe this, but I now know for a certainty that my son was not responsible for Mark's accident. For Dylan's peace of mind, for mine, I am determined to find out who was responsible. Because it may have been a visitor, I called the phone company to try to find out who might have called Mark to say they were coming over. The phone company refused to give me any information about incoming calls to my number. They claimed that there is no such record, but my attorney tells me that the police can obtain that information."

The detective's expression was impa.s.sive.

"Is that true?" she said.

"I can't help you," he said.

"Won'thelp me, you mean."

Stratton shook his head and gazed at her with pity in his eyes. "You know, I appreciate what you're trying to do. I understand that you love the boy and you want to believe him. But Mrs. Weaver, I really think you'd be better off spending your time trying to get your son to tell you the truth about what he's done. You're not doing him any favors by refusing to see how guilty he feels. And I'll tell you something-if he doesn't get it off his chest, this could happen all over again," he said, gesturing toward their hospital surroundings. "Only the next attempt might be successful."

Keely felt as if he had slapped her. Before she could reply, he turned and walked down the hall. As she watched him go, wishing she could have found the words to revile him to his face, she spotted the clock over the nurses' desk. "Oh, Lord," she said.

ASKEELY'SSUVcareened into her driveway, she saw a little hatchback parked in front of the house.d.a.m.n,Keely thought. She had wanted to be here, waiting calmly, when the social worker arrived. A thin woman wearing a plaid skirt and a worn suede jacket stood on the front step obviously surveying the house and the lawn. As Keely lifted Abby out of her car seat, she saw that the woman seemed to be taking note of theFOR SALEsign and of the unraked leaves that were scattered in the yard.

Keely rushed up to her. "Mrs. Erlich?" she said.

The woman gazed at her coolly. "You're Mrs. Weaver."

"I'm sorry to be late," said Keely as she unlocked the front door and led the way into the house. "I was at the hospital. Come in." The woman waited in the foyer while Keely set Abby down in her playpen and handed her a favorite talking book. Abby's attention was instantly diverted by the pictures and the animal sounds. "That's my good girl," Keely whispered.

She turned back to her visitor. "It's nice to meet you," said Keely. "Can I take your jacket?"

"No thanks," said Mrs. Erlich. "I'll keep it."

"Can I get you something? Some tea?"

"Tea?" the woman asked, looking slightly incredulous. "I'm not here for refreshments." She glanced around at the rooms that were visible from the foyer. "I'd like to see Dylan's room first."

"Oh. Well, all right," said Keely. "It's upstairs."

She gestured for Mrs. Erlich to go first, but the social worker shook her head and waited for Keely to lead the way. Keely started up the steps, chattering aimlessly.Too much,she thought, but she felt helpless to stop herself. "I'm afraid things aren't looking their best around here. I've been at the hospital most of the time. Dylan's room is a little bit of a maze. Organization is not his strong suit. And you know how kids are. You can't get them to throw anything away. I think he has every book he ever read, including every comic-"

"Why are you selling the house?" Mrs. Erlich asked, from behindher.

Keely kept her face composed and did not look back. "Well, as I'm sure you know, my husband . . . drowned in our swimming pool not long ago. I just don't want to live here anymore. I think it's grim for the kids. And for me as well."

"Don't you think your son has had enough upheaval in his life without moving again?"

Keely bristled at the question and wanted to say that it was none of the woman's business. But she reminded herself that this was the kind of question social workers were supposed to ask. She remembered it from when she taught school. They were only trying to make sure that things were done in the child's best interest. "In my judgment, it would be the best thing for everyone," said Keely evenly. "Here," she said stepping forward and pushing open the door to Dylan's room. "This is my son's room."

She had picked it up as best she could late last night, but now, seeing it through a stranger's eyes, she still wasn't too pleased with the way the room looked. "It may seem a little bit messy," she apologized. "I straightened it up, but Dylan's at that age where he's very proprietary about his things. I don't like to intrude on that. I mean, I think a kid has a right to a certain amount of privacy."

"Secretive," said Mrs. Erlich.

Keely didn't like that characterization, but she stifled a protest. "You may not believe this," Keely said, trying to maintain her humor, "but it actually looks pretty good today. At least I was able to collect the dirty laundry."

The woman nodded. "I see. So you don't require that he be responsible for anything-not even his laundry."

Keely's face flamed. "I didn't say that," she cried, then forced herself-to calm down. "He has ch.o.r.es, of course, responsibilities. But I can't honestly say that he fulfills them without any prodding. I think he's like most kids in that way."

Mrs. Erlich walked over to the bed. She lifted the mattress and peered under it. Then she went into the closet. She lifted the lids on several s...o...b..xes and riffled through Dylan's mementos. She shut the closet door and frowned at the rock posters of pale, leather-clad guitariststhumbtacked to the walls. She looked at unfinished projects jammed together on shelves with a black bike helmet and some plastic guns, a haphazard tower of CD cases, and wrestling action figures tangled up in headset cords. "He seems to be attracted to darkness and violence," the social worker observed aloud.

"I'm afraid the boys are into that sort of thing these days. Unfortunately, it's a constant presence in the culture."

Mrs. Erlich nodded as she studied his collection of CDs. "Does he use drugs?"

Keely stared at her for a long minute. "No. Of course not. Drugs are absolutely forbidden in this house."

"It's my experience that your son's interests are common to drug users."

"He's a teenager," Keely said. "Teenagers are rebellious. They embrace rebellious images. It's normal."

"It seems to me you have an . . . unusual idea about what is normal behavior, Mrs. Weaver."

"I was a junior high school teacher for a number of years, Mrs. Erlich. I've had a lot of contact with kids Dylan's age. It's always seemed to me that these images were just that-images. They don't necessarily signify drug use or an inclination to violence. Kids that age are trying out things; they're seeking their ident.i.ty. They want to shock their parents. It's a way of expressing their individuality."

"What could be more violent than cutting your own throat?" asked the social worker.

Keely gripped the doork.n.o.b with white knuckles and tried to absorb the verbal slap without flinching. "I . . . don't deny it was a . . . shocking thing for him to do. But . . . I'm just saying I think it was situational. It wasn't part of some . . . pattern. I mean . . . if you want to talk about cultural norms, I don't like these violent images any more than you do. It's just . . . I've never noticed Dylan to be . . . fixated on any of them."

"You've never noticed," the woman murmured, nodding her head. "You know, a child isn't going to just come up to you and blurt out that he's feeling depressed. A parent has to be alert to the signs."

How dare you?Keely thought.How dare you make judgments about our relationship? You don't even know us.But she didn't say it. She stopped herself. "I knew he was depressed. Somewhat. I would have been more worried if my sonweren'tdepressed these days. His father . . . died. Now his stepfather. He's known more sorrow in his young life than a lot of adults have."

"Yes, well," said Mrs. Erlich, returning to the hall, "most adults would have been more sensitive to such a child, for just that reason."

Keely pulled the door shut behind her, using all her will not to slam it.

The social worker walked down the hall, poking her head into the other bedrooms, seeming to note the expensive fabrics on the slipper chairs, the needlepoint rugs on shining hardwood floors. She walked into the master bedroom and actually rubbed the soft Egyptian cotton of the pillowcases between her fingers. Then she turned to the bureau where Keely displayed silver-framed photos of Mark and the children. She glanced into Keely's jewelry box and lifted out a turquoise necklace with her index finger. She gazed at it with narrowed eyes before letting it drop back into the tangle of beads in the box. She poked her head into the master bathroom and shook her head at the sight of the matching sinks and the gleaming chrome of the shower fixtures. "You certainly enjoy every luxury," she said.

Keely stared at the woman in disbelief. Since when has it been a crime to have a nice home, she wondered. "My husband made a very good living," she said stiffly.

Mrs. Erlich clicked her tongue behind her teeth. "So I gather." The woman stepped into the bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet. She peered at the labels of the pill bottles and extracted one small amber plastic vial that held a supply of tranquilizers that the doctor prescribed for her after Mark's death. She examined it with pursed lips, then glanced out the door at Keely.

Keely folded her arms across her chest and silently defied the woman to criticize her for taking a prescribed medication. Mrs. Erlich hesitated, then replaced the vial behind the silver mirror. Then she closed the cabinet door.

"And what exactly is it that you do all the time, Mrs. Weaver? You said you used to teach. But you don't have to do that anymore, I see. What do you do to fill the time? Golf, tennis? Lunches at the club?"

"I take care of my house and my children," Keely replied angrily. "And I plan to go back to teaching when Abby's a little older. But I chose to stay home and take care of her myself. A baby needs a great deal of attention. As a matter of fact, I'd like to go downstairs and check on her."

"By all means," said the social worker, indicating that Keely should precede her down the steps.

Don't let her get to you,Keely thought, digging her fingernails into her palms.She's only doing her job.Keely went into the living room and lifted Abby, who was bouncing impatiently there, out of the playpen. Keely nuzzled her, then turned to the woman who was just entering the room. "This is Dylan's sister Abby," she said.

Mrs. Erlich gazed directly at the bandage on Abby's chin. "What is this?"

Keely felt her face redden. "It's . . . nothing. She's just learning to walk without holding on to things. She fell and banged her chin." Keely jiggled Abby nervously in her arms. "I mean, you can't learn to walk without falling down a time or two. Although it's true what they say-these days you feel guilty even when your child has a normal little childhood b.u.mp or bruise."

"Especially someone in your situation," said the social worker.

"My situation?" Keely asked sharply. "What do you mean?"

Mrs. Erlich nodded at Abby. "May I see it?" she asked.

"See what?" Keely asked.

"The injury. I would like you to remove that bandage so I can examine her injury."

"It's not aninjury. . ." Keely protested.

"Mrs. Weaver," the woman snapped, "did you take her to a doctor to be examined?"

"No. It wasn't necessary."

"It wasn't necessary, or you were worried that the doctor might conclude there was evidence of abuse?"

Keely's eyes widened. "Abuse? That's outrageous," she said. "It never even occurred to me."

"I would like to examine this child," Mrs. Erlich said.

"No, absolutely not. You may not touch my child," said Keely.

"Well, I can obtain an order directing you to have her examined by a physician," she replied. "But I suggest you be more cooperative if you hope to get your son back."

Keely was stunned at her words. "What are you talking about?" she whispered. "Get him back?"

Mrs. Erlich gazed at Keely with contempt. "If Dylan's home life is deemed to be hazardous to his welfare, we may have to arrange for him to go elsewhere when he leaves the hospital."

"Hazardous? In what possible way could this home be hazardous to him? And where would you have him go?" Keely cried.

"Foster care, Mrs. Weaver. I realize that people of your cla.s.s aren't used to being scrutinized this way. And in truth, the homes I usually find myself in are much more . . . humble than yours," she said with a grimace. "But just because you live in luxury here doesn't mean that your child is any better off than some child raised in a hovel."

"Look," Keely cried indignantly. "This is our house. I don't intend to apologize because it's comfortable. We haven't done anything wrong."

"I suggest you control your temper, Mrs. Weaver," said the social worker. "Outbursts like this do not help your cause. My recommendation has a lot of weight in this matter."

Keely recognized the truth of what the woman said. She tried to control the quavering of her own voice. "You cannot think . . . There is no way on earth that Dylan should be taken away from us. There's nothing in this house or in my life to justify that. Nothing. You can look all you want. From the moment he was born, Dylan has had all the love and care in the world. He's just had some terrible tragedies in his life."

"That's how you see it? Just a boy weighed down by circ.u.mstances?"

"These were no ordinary circ.u.mstances."

"Shall I tell you what I see, Mrs. Weaver? I see a woman with a sort of 'anything goes' att.i.tude toward her son's behavior. You seem ready to justify every deviant choice he makes as being 'normal' for teenagers.And I am beginning to wonder if your daughter might be suffering from that same kind of maternal disregard. That is the definition ofhazardous.Children have been removed from their homes for much less."

Keely stared at her. "Is that a threat?" she asked.