Miracle Creek(64)

The day the principal announced Henry’s move from the autism class to one for “milder” issues such as articulation and ADHD—the oxymoronically named “general special education” class—Kitt hugged her and said, “It’s amazing news. I’m thrilled for you,” but she blinked a little too fast for a little too long, smiled a little too wide, and ten minutes later, passing by Kitt’s car in the lot, Elizabeth saw her slumped over the steering wheel, her whole body heaving in sobs.

Remembering this now, Elizabeth wished she could return to that moment and open the door and tell Kitt not to cry, that none of it mattered. For what difference did it make how much “higher functioning” Henry was, how many more words he could speak, when he was now in a coffin and TJ was not? When TJ would eat and run and laugh, while Henry could never do those things again? What would Kitt have said if she’d known that in a few years, Elizabeth would give anything to change places with her, to be the dead mother to the alive child rather than the alive mother to the dead child, to have died protecting her son, never to feel the torture of imagining her son’s pain and the guilt of knowing she’d caused it herself?

But neither of them knew what was to come, of course. Driving past Kitt that day in the parking lot, she thought of their first meeting, Kitt stopping and hugging her tight, and she wanted to stop the car, run over, and hug and cry with her. She wanted to say she was sorry for her judging and tacit criticisms disguised as “help,” that she’d quit and just listen and support her. But how would Kitt feel, having Elizabeth—the mom of the kid who’d caused her pain—comfort her and pretend to understand? Was she really thinking of Kitt, or was she being selfish, not wanting to feel like she was losing her only friend?

Elizabeth kept driving, all the way home. Later that day, Kitt e-mailed to say carpooling didn’t make sense anymore, since Henry’s new class was in a school five miles away, and oh, by the way, she couldn’t make coffee this Thursday, she had a field trip for one of the girls. Elizabeth said that was fine, she’d see her soon. There was no e-mail the next week, but Elizabeth went to their usual Starbucks on Thursday and waited. Kitt never came. Elizabeth didn’t call or e-mail. She just kept going to Starbucks every Thursday, sitting by the window, and waiting for her friend to walk in.



* * *



SITTING IN COURT, Elizabeth remembered back to the Thursday before the explosion, the day Detective Heights went to Henry’s camp and met Kitt. As usual, she’d been sitting at Starbucks, thinking about Kitt. She hadn’t seen her much after Henry moved schools, just monthly autism moms’ meetings, but she’d expected their closeness to return with HBOT. And, in a way, it did; they talked for hours every day in the sealed chamber and caught up on all they’d missed. But there was an awkwardness, a sense of them (or rather, her) trying too hard to revive an old intimacy gone stale. And then, of course, came the YoFun fight, after a particularly awkward dive when she tried telling Kitt about new therapies and camps, and Kitt kept nodding politely without engaging. Elizabeth’s frustration built and built, and at some point, it boiled over and she became—it hurt to admit it—an abrasive, overbearing, sanctimonious bitch. She knew it and wanted to stop, but it was as if all the balled-up hurt had erupted, spewing out in chunks she couldn’t contain.

She put down her coffee and decided: she needed to apologize to Kitt, properly, in person. Not at HBOT (they were never alone), and she couldn’t just show up at her house (too desperate, stalkerish), but she could call Kitt, say she was running late and ask her to get Henry from camp (one block from TJ’s camp). Then, when Elizabeth went to Kitt’s house for Henry, she could talk to her. She could say she was sorry, she missed her, and maybe with the bitterness poured out, a true closeness without rancor could emerge. So that’s what she did, which meant—God, the irony of this!—Elizabeth herself was responsible for Kitt meeting Detective Heights and verifying the child abuse complaint. And she’d never even gotten to apologize; when she went to get Henry, Kitt seemed upset and mentioned cat scratches, panicking Elizabeth into leaving and turning the soul-baring session she’d imagined into a one-minute doorway conversation.

And now, Kitt was dead and a psychologist-detective was on the stand, telling the world exactly what she’d thought and said about Elizabeth, her crazy ex-friend. Abe said, “When Kitt called the day of the explosion and said the defendant was, quote, ‘so mad, she’s ready to kill me,’ did she say anything else?”

Heights said, “Yes. She said she found out Henry was about to undergo IV chelation.” She looked to the jury. “Chelation is the intravenous administration of powerful drugs used to rid the body of toxic metals. It’s FDA-approved for heavy-metal poisoning.”

“Henry had poisoning?” Abe said, the familiar look of feigned surprise on his face.

“No, but some believe that metals and pesticides in our air and water cause autism, and that by cleansing the body, you can cure it.”

“That sounds unorthodox, certainly, but isn’t this a matter of medical judgment?”

“No. Children have died from it, which the defendant knew. She posted about it online, but didn’t tell Henry’s own pediatrician. She used an out-of-state naturopath, an alternative practice not recognized by Virginia, and ordered the drugs online. In my opinion, this is endangerment, subjecting your child to a potentially fatal and secret experimental treatment.”