Chapter 68 - The Questions We Didn’t Practice
Leo woke screaming on a Wednesday.
Not every night.
Not because his entire life had become fear.
That almost made it worse.
We had eaten tacos. He had finished his homework. Claire had chased him around the living room carrying a wooden spoon.
Then, at two in the morning, he was standing in the hallway crying that he had lost the paper.
I knelt in front of him.
“What paper, sweetheart?”
He shook his head.
I stopped asking.
“You’re home. I’m here.”
He clutched the rabbit against his chest.
“I couldn’t find it.”
“You don’t have to find anything tonight.”
I led him back to bed and sat beside him until his breathing slowed.
The next morning, I told his counselor exactly what happened.
Not what I thought the dream proved.
Not how it might affect the hearing.
Just what he said and what I did.
She asked about the conversations we had been having at home.
I described them.
Then I asked the question I hated.
“Am I making this worse?”
“Your fear is understandable,” she said. “What matters is whether Leo feels responsible for managing it.”
I looked down.
“I’m trying.”
“I can see that. Let’s give you more support around the uncertainty.”
We discussed practical things.
Who would tell him if any court appearance became necessary.
How much information he needed at each stage.
How to respond when he asked whether he remembered correctly.
No rehearsal of events.
No repeated requests for the story.
No treating a spontaneous comment as an opportunity to gather evidence.
I left with a plan for my behavior.
That helped more than another promise about his future.
At home, Clara offered to take him for ice cream.
I almost told her not to mention court.
Then I realized how often our instructions made the subject larger.
Instead, I said, “Let him choose the conversation.”
She understood.
They returned arguing about whether mint ice cream tasted like toothpaste.
Leo looked ordinary.
A little tired.
Sticky.
I wanted to preserve that version of the afternoon in glass.
The hearing on the requested material took place two days later.
Leo did not attend.
Mrs. Albright provided information through the appropriate channels. His interests were addressed separately from the adults’ desire to win.
The defense sought broad access to communications and materials connected with his statements.
The prosecutor disputed the scope.
Sarah addressed the issues affecting Leo and my family.
There were distinctions I had never wanted to learn.
A classroom record was not the same thing as every private conversation a child had while getting help.
A request was not automatically an entitlement.
A concern about influence did not make his entire childhood available for inspection.
The judge asked specific questions.
What evidence already established the document scheme?
What did the defense contend Leo knew about the defendants now facing trial?
What could be addressed through adult witnesses?
I sat so still my back began to hurt.
One defense attorney referred to Audrey Collins’s powerful financial interest.
My name sounded unfamiliar in his mouth.
He suggested that I had benefited from a story in which Julian was the villain.
The prosecutor stood.
Then the discussion moved to evidence.
Bank submissions.
Messages.
Adult admissions.
The unauthorized pages themselves.
For the first time, I saw how small the defense wanted to make the case.
A jealous wife.
An anxious child.
A regrettable divorce.
The records would not fit.
The judge did not resolve every issue immediately.
He narrowed what would be considered, required further specificity, and set limits on the immediate production sought.
Leo was not ordered to appear.
The question of any later testimony remained subject to necessity and further consideration.
I heard only the first part at first.
Not ordered to appear.
Sarah touched my elbow.
“Listen to all of it.”
I did.
There were no absolute promises.
There were boundaries.
I could live inside boundaries better than fog.
Outside, I called Clara.
“How is he?”
“Building something terrible out of cardboard.”
“Excellent.”
“He wants to know whether you’ll be home for dinner.”
“Yes.”
When I arrived, the terrible construction blocked half the kitchen.
A submarine.
Or possibly a spaceship.
Leo had not decided.
He looked up.
“Did they ask you questions?”
“Yes.”
“Did you know all the answers?”
“No.”
His expression changed.
“What did you do?”
“I said when I didn’t know.”
He thought about that.
Then he handed me a roll of tape.
“The roof keeps falling.”
I took it.
For the next twenty minutes, the only question I had to answer was whether cardboard could survive the weight of a plastic octopus.
May you like
It could not.
We laughed anyway.
