Free Perfect Match by Jodi Picoult Page B

leaves parachuting our way-crimson and ocher and gold . They catch in Nathaniel's hair, bookmark themselves in the pages of the sign language manual.
    Slowly, Nathaniel's hands creep out from beneath his thighs. He points to hi mself, then extends his arms, palms upright. Curling his fingers in, he draws his hands close. I want. He pats his lap, tries to snap his fingers .
    “You want the dog?” I say. “You want Mason?” Nathaniel's face goes several shades sunnier. He nods, his mouth gaping wide in a grin. This is his first whole sentence in nearly a week. At the sound of his name, the dog lifts his shaggy head and pokes his nose into Nathaniel's belly. “Well, you asked for it!” I laugh. By the time Nath aniel has managed to push Mason away, his cheeks are flushed with pride. We have not learned much-the signs for want, and more, and drink, and dog. Bu t we have made a start.
    I reach for Nathaniel's tiny hand, one I have fashioned into all the letters o f the American Sign Language alphabet this afternoon . . . although soft, smal l fingers don't stay tangled that well in knots. Folding down his middle and f ourth fingers so that all the others are still extended, I help him make the c ombined I, L, Y that signifies I love you.
    Suddenly Mason leaps up, nearly crashing over the table, and bounds to the g ate to greet Caleb. “What's going on?” he asks, one glance taking in the thi ck manual, the rigid set of Nathaniel's hand.
    “We,” I say, pointedly moving my index finger from shoulder to shoulder, “a re working.” I make two fists-S handshapes-and tap one on the other, to sim ulate hard labor.
    “We,” Caleb announces, grabbing the book from the table to tuck it under his arm, “are not deaf.”
    Caleb is not in favor of Nathaniel learning American Sign Language. He think s if we give Nathaniel such a tool, he might never have the incentive to spe ak again. I think that Caleb hasn't spent enough time trying to divine what his son wants to eat for breakfast. “Watch this,” I urge, and nod at Nathani el, trying to get him to do his sentence again. “He's so smart, Caleb.”
    “I know he is. It's not him I'm worried about.” He grabs my elbow. “Can I ta lk to you alone for a minute?”
    We move inside and close the slider, so that Nathaniel cannot hear. “How m any words do you think you have to teach him before you can start using th is language to ask him who did it?” Caleb says.
    Bright spots of color rise to my cheeks. Have I been that transparent? "All I want, all Dr. Robichaud wants, is to give Nathaniel a chance to 57 communicate. Because being like this is frustrating him. Today I taught him to say 'I want the dog.' Maybe you'd like to explain to me how that's goin g to lead to a conviction. Maybe you'd like to-explain to your son why you'
    re so dead set on taking away the only method he has to express himself.“ Caleb spreads his splayed hands like an umpire. It is the sign for don't, al though I am sure he does not know this. ”I can't fight with you, Nina. You'r e too good at it." He opens the door and kneels down in front of Nathaniel.
    “You know, it's an awfully nice day to be sitting here, studying. You could play on the swings, if you want-”
    Play: two Y handshapes, caught at the pinkies to shake. “-or build a road in your sandbox ...”
    Build: U handshapes, stacking one on top of the other over and over.
    “. . . and you don't have to say anything, Nathaniel, if you're not ready. Not even with words that you make with your hands.” Caleb smiles at Nathani el. “Okay?” When Nathaniel nods, Caleb picks him up, swinging him high over his head to sit on his shoulders. “What do you say we go pick the crab app les in the woods?” he asks. “I'll be your ladder.” Just before he breaks the edge of our property, Nathaniel twists on his father 's shoulders. It's hard to see from this distance, but it seems that he's hold ing up a hand. To wave? I start to wave back,