Perfect Match by Jodi Picoult

floods and plagues and prophecies.
    “I know what you're thinking,” Father Szyszynski says.
    “Do you.”
    He nods. “That in the year 2001 it's archaic to assume the Church is such a la rge part of your life it could offer you comfort at a time like this. But it c an, Nina. God wants you to turn to Him.”
    I stare right at the priest. “These days I'm not too high on God,” I say bluntly .
    “I know. It doesn't make much sense, sometimes, God's will.” Father Szysz ynski shrugs. “There have been times I've doubted Him myself.”
    “You've obviously gotten over it.” I wipe the corner of my eyes; why am I cr ying? “I'm not even really a Catholic.”
    “Sure you are. You keep coming back, don't you?”
    But that's guilt, not faith.
    “Things happen for a reason, Nina.”
    “Oh, yeah? Then do me a favor and ask God what reason there could possibly b e for letting a child get hurt like this. ”
    “You ask Him,” the priest says. “And when you're talking, you might want to remember you have something in common-He watched His son suffer, too .”
    He hands me a picture book-David and Goliath, watered down for a five-year-o ld. “If Nathaniel ever comes out,” he pitches his voice extra loud, “you tel l him that Father Glen left a present.” That's what they call him, all the k ids at St. Anne's, since they can't pronounce his last name. Heck, the pries t has said, after a few tall ones, I can't pronounce it myself. “Nathaniel p articularly enjoyed this story when I read it last year. He wanted to know i f we could all make slingshots.” Father Szyszynski stands up, leads the way to the door. “If you want to talk, Nina, you know where to find me. You take care.”
    He starts down the path, the stone steps that Caleb placed with his own hand s. As I watch him go I clutch the book to my chest. I think of the weak defe ating giants.
    Nathaniel is playing with a boat, sinking it, then watching it bob to the sur face again. I suppose I should be grateful that he's in this tub at all. But he has been better, today. He has been talking with his hands. And he agreed to this bath, on the condition that he take off his own clothes. Of course I let him, struggling not to run to his aid when he couldn't work a button thro ugh a hole. I try to remember what Dr. Robichaud told us about power: Nathani el was made helpless; he needs to feel like he's gaining control of himself a gain.
    I sit on the lip of the tub, watching his back rise and fall with his breathin g. The soap shimmers like a fish near the drain. “Need help?” I ask, lifting o ne hand up with the other, a sign. Nathaniel shakes his head vigorously. He pi cks up the bar of Ivory and runs it over his shoulder, his chest, his belly. H e hesitates, then plunges it between his legs.
    A thin white film covers him, making him otherworldly, an angel. Nathaniel l ifts his face to mine, hands me the soap to put back. For a moment, our fing ers touch-in our new language, these are our lips . . . does that make this a kiss?
    I let the soap drop with a splash, then circle my pursed mouth with a finger. I move my index fingers back and forth, touching and retreating. I point to Nathaniel.
    Who hurt you?
    But my son doesn't know these signs. Instead, he flings his hands out to the sides, proud to show off his new word. Done. He rises like a sea nymph, wat er sluicing down the sides of his beautiful body. As I towel off each limb a nd pull pajamas over Nathaniel, I silently ask myself if I am the only perso n who has touched him at this place, at that one, until every inch of him is covered again.
    In the middle of the night Caleb hears a hitch in his wife's breathing.
    “Nina?” he whispers, but she doesn't answer. He rolls onto his side, curls her closer. She's awake, he can feel it coming from her pores. “Are you all right?” he asks.
    She turns to him, her eyes flat in the dark. “Art you?” He pulls her into his arms and buries his face in the side of