Jodi Picoult - House Rules

“If I were Jess’s parents, I’d want to know the police were actively trying to find the person who killed my child instead of basing their entire case on the ridiculous notion that an autistic boy with no criminal history-a boy who loved Jess-killed her.” She signs the receipt I give her and then opens the front door. “Are you even listening?” she says, her voice rising. “You’ve got the wrong person.”

There have been times-albeit very rarely-that I wished this were the case. When I snapped handcuffs on an abused wife who’d gone after her husband with a knife, for example. Or when I arrested a guy who’d broken into a grocery store to steal formula for his baby because he couldn’t afford it. But just like then, I can’t contradict the evidence that’s in front of me now. I may feel bad for someone who’s committed a crime, but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t committed it.

I pick up the boxes and, at the last moment, turn back. “I’m sorry,” I say. “For what it’s worth… I’m really sorry.”

Her eyes flash. “You’re sorry ? For what, exactly? Lying to me? Lying to Jacob? Throwing him into jail without giving any thought to his special needs-”

“Technically, the judge did that-”

“How dare you,” Emma shouts. “How dare you come in here as if you’re on our side, and then turn around and do this to my son!”

“There are no sides,” I yell back at her. “There’s just a girl, who died alone and scared and who was found a week later frozen solid. Well, I’ve got a girl, too. What if it had been her?” By now my face is flushed. I am inches away from Emma. “I didn’t do this to your son,” I say, more softly. “I did this for my daughter.”

The last thing I see is Emma Hunt’s jaw drop. She doesn’t speak to me as I heft the boxes more firmly in my arms and walk down her driveway, but then, it’s never the differences between people that surprise us. It’s the things that, against all odds, we have in common.

My mother and I are riding in the car to the office of the state psychiatrist, who happens to work out of a hospital. I am nervous about this because I don’t like hospitals. I have been in them twice: once when I fell out of a tree and broke my arm, and once when Theo got hurt after I knocked over his high chair. What I remember about hospitals is that they smell white and stale, the lights are too bright, and every time I’ve been in one I’ve either been in pain or been ashamed or maybe both.

This makes my fingers start to flutter on my leg, and I stare at them as if they are disconnected from my body. For the past three days, I’ve been doing better. I’m taking all my supplements again and my shots, and it hasn’t felt quite as much as if I’m constantly swimming in a bubble of water that makes it harder to understand what people say or to focus on them.

Believe me, I know it’s not normal to flap my hands or walk in circles or repeat words over and over, but sometimes it’s the easiest way to make myself feel better. It’s like a steam engine, really: Fluttering my hands in front of my face or against my leg is my exhaust valve, and maybe it looks weird, but then again, just compare it to the folks who turn to alcohol or porn to alleviate pressures.

I haven’t been out of the house since I left the jail. Even school is off-limits now, so my mother has found textbooks and is home-schooling both Theo and me. It’s sort of nice, actually, not having to stress out about the next time I will be accosted by another student and will have to interact; or if a teacher will say something I don’t understand; or if I’ll need to use my COP pass and look like a total loser in front of my peers. I wonder why we never thought of this before: learning without socialization. It’s every Aspie’s dream.

Every now and then, my mother looks at me in the rearview mirror. “You remember what’s going to happen, right?” she asks. “Dr. Cohn is going to ask you questions. All you have to do is tell the truth.”

Here’s the other reason I’m nervous: the last time I went off to answer questions without my mother, I wound up in jail.

“Jacob,” my mother says, “you’re stimming.”

I slap my free hand over the one that’s fluttering.

When we get to the hospital, I walk with my head ducked down so that I do not have to see sick people. I have not vomited since I was six years old; the very thought of it makes me sweat. Once when Theo got the flu, I had to take my sleeping bag and quilt and stay in the garage because I was afraid I’d catch it. What if coming here for a stupid competency interview turns out to be much worse than anyone anticipates?

“I don’t understand why he couldn’t come to us,” I mutter.

“Because he’s not on our side,” my mother says.

The way competency works is this:

1. The State of Vermont hires a psychiatrist who will interview me and tell the judge everything the DA wants to hear.

2. My lawyer will counter this with Dr. Moon, my own psychiatrist, who will tell the judge everything Oliver Bond wants to hear.

Frankly, I don’t see the point, since we all know this is how it’s going to shake out, anyway.

Dr. Martin Cohn’s office is not as nice as Dr. Moon’s. Dr. Moon decorates in shades of blue, which have been proven to enhance relaxation. Dr. Martin Cohn decorates in industrial gray. His secretary’s desk looks like the one my math teacher uses. “Can I help you?” she asks.

My mother steps forward. “Jacob Hunt is here to see Dr. Cohn.”

“You can go right in.” She points to another doorway.

Dr. Moon has that, too. You go into her office through one door and exit through the other, so that no one who’s waiting will see you. I know it’s supposed to be about privacy, but if you ask me, it’s like the psychiatrists themselves are buying into that stupid belief that therapy is something to hide.

I put my hand on the doorknob and take a deep breath. This time you’re coming back, I promise myself.

A joke:

A guy is flying in a hot-air balloon and he’s lost. He lowers himself over a cornfield and calls out to a woman. “Can you tell me where I am and where I’m headed?”

“Sure,” this woman says. “You are at 41 degrees, 2 minutes, and 14 seconds north, 144 degrees, 4 minutes, 19 seconds east; you’re at an altitude of 762 meters above sea level, and right now you’re hovering, but you were on a vector of 234 degrees at 12 meters per second.”

“Amazing! Thanks! By the way, do you have Asperger’s syndrome?”

“I do!” the woman replies. “How did you know?”

“Because everything you said is true, it’s much more detail than I need, and you told me in a way that’s of no use to me at all.”

The woman frowns. “Huh. Are you a psychiatrist?”

“I am,” the man says. “But how the heck could you tell?”

“You don’t know where you are. You don’t know where you’re headed. You got where you are by blowing hot air. You put labels on people after asking a few questions, and you’re in exactly the same spot you were in five minutes ago, but now, somehow, it’s my fault!”

Dr. Martin Cohn is smaller than I am and has a beard. He wears glasses without rims, and as soon as I come into the room, he walks toward me. “Hello,” he says. “I’m Dr. Cohn. Take a seat.”

The chairs are metal frames with pleather cushions. One is orange, and that’s totally not happening. The other is gray and has a sunken circle in the middle, as if the cushion has simply given out.

When I was younger and I was asked to take a seat, I’d lift it up. Now I know that it means I am supposed to sit down. There are many statements that do not mean what they say: Mark my words. Hang around. Just a second. Get off my back.