by Jodi Picoult
She smiles so I can see all her teeth-neat and white and even, like the small rows on Silver Queen corn. �He�s delightful,� Jane says, poking a finger at the tail. As soon as she touches the fish it thrashes in her direction.
�Delightful,� I repeat. �I�ve heard them called �huge,� or even �feisty,� but I can�t say as I�ve ever heard a fisherman talk about a �delightful� catch.� As I talk I run my free hand down the slippery body of the fish. I can�t touch it too much because then it�ll smell like human when I release it back into the water. I edge the hook back out of its hatched jaw.
�Watch this,� I say, and holding the fish over the water, I release it. It floats for a second near the surface of the lake, and then with a mighty whip of its tail it dives so deep we lost track of its movements.
�I like the way you set it free,� Jane says. �How come you do that?�
I shrug. �I�d rather catch it again for sport than fry up such a tiny fillet. I only keep the fish if I know I�m going to eat it.�
I hold the rod out to her again, but she shakes her head. �You try,� Jane says.
So I do, pulling up in rapid succession a sunfish, two small-mouth bass and another large-mouth. I hold each one up into the sun, glorifying the catch, and pointing out to Jane the differences between each. It�s only when I cut the last bass free that I realize Jane�s not really listening. She�s holding her right hand with her left, cradling it in her palm, and squeezing her forefinger. �I�m sorry,� she says when she sees I�m looking at her. �I�ve just got a splinter, that�s all.�
I take her hand and after holding the cool fish I�m surprised at the heat of her skin. It�s a deep splinter, fairly far below the surface of her skin. �I can try to get it out now,� I say. �You don�t want it to get infected.�
She looks up at me, grateful. �You�ve got a needle in there?� she asks, nodding towards the tackle box.
�I�ve got clean hooks. That�ll do.�
I take a brand new hook out of its flimsy plastic wrapper and bend it so that it is straight, like a little arrow. I don�t want to hurt her too much, but the point of a hook is constructed to grab onto whatever flesh it catches, so that a fish can�t free itself. Jane closes her eyes and turns away, offering her hand. I scrape at the surface of her skin with this needle. When blood comes, I dip her hand into the water to clean it.
�Is it over yet?�
�Almost,� I lie. I haven�t even come close to the splinter. I dig and dig through the layers of her skin, looking up from time to time to see her wince. Finally I nudge the silver of wood up, and then using the hook, I push it to an upright position. �Easy now,� I whisper, and then I bring my teeth to her forefinger, pulling out the splinter. Holding her hand under the water, I tell her she can look now.
�Do I want to?� Jane says.
Her upper lip is quivering, which makes me feel awful. �I�m sorry it hurt, but at least it�s out.� She nods bravely, looking just like a little kid. �I guess you never wanted to be a doctor.�
Jane shakes her head. She pulls her hand out of the water and looks critically at her finger, assessing the damage. When the pit of skin begins to fill with blood, she closes her eyes. I watch her take her finger and stick it in her mouth, sucking the wound dry. I should have done that, I think. I would have liked to have done that.
53 OLIVER
It takes several seconds to hone in on my faculties of perception. I have never in my life blacked out; I have never in my life awakened in strange environs and not been able to account for my whereabouts. And then, blinking at the fringed curtain of that waitress Mica�s apartment, the whole grisly situation starts to come back to me.
Mica herself is sitting cross-legged on the floor, several feet away. At least I remember her name. �Hello,� she says shyly, holding out the chain she is making from gum wrappers. �You�ve given me some scare.�
I sit up and to my surprise discover I am wearing nothing but my boxers. I gasp, and pull a woolly brown afghan over myself. �Did anything . . . ?�
�Happen?� Mica says, smiling. �No. You�ve been entirely faithful to the long-suffering Jane. At least for the time you�ve been here.�
�You know about Jane.� I wonder what I�ve told her.
�She�s all you talked about before you passed out for three whole days. I took off your clothes because it�s a hundred degrees outside, and I didn�t want you to get sunstroke while you were catching up on your beauty sleep.� She pushes the gum wrapper chain at me, and, since I know of nothing else to do with it, I hang it around my neck.
�I�ve got to get to her,� I say, trying to stand. But unfortunately I change positions too quickly, and the room starts to spiral. Mica is quickly at my side, pulling my arm around her neck for support.
�Easy,� she says. �We�ve got to get some food into you.�
However, Mica is not one for cooking. She picks up a photo album and hands it to me. Inside are take-out menus for everything: pizza, Thai, Chinese, barbequed chicken, health food. �I don�t know,� I say. �You pick.�
Mica studies these. �I think Thai is definitely out, since you�ve been off solid food for three days. My guess is some hummus and a tofu dip from �Lettuce Eat.� �
�Sounds wonderful.� I prop myself onto my elbows when I feel my body can take the strain. �Mica,� I ask, �where have you been sleeping?� If memory does not serve me wrong, this is a onebedroom apartment with very little extra space.
�Next to you on the futon,� she says noncommittally. �Don�t worry, Oliver. You�re not my type.�
�I�m not?�
�You�re too-I don�t know- preppy for me. I like guys a little more BoHo.�
�Of course. How stupid of me.�
Mica calls the vegetarian restaurant. �Fifteen minutes.�
It strikes me that I am indeed starving. I hold my hand to my stomach. �I wonder,� I say, �you don�t know of any apple orchards around here?�
Mica rolls her eyes. �Oliver, you�re in the heart of Boston. The closest I come to an orchard is Quincy Market.�
�This place is in Stow. Or Maynard. Somewhere like that.�
�Out west. With every other apple orchard in Massachusetts. You�re welcome to call information.�
So I roll onto my stomach and reach for the phone. �Yes,� I say when a rhythmic voice answers, �in Stow. I�m looking for Joley Lipton.� The woman informs me she has no one there by that name. Nor in Maynard, nor in Bolton.
�Didn�t you say he�s working for someone?� Mica says, and I nod. She�s paring her toenails with a brass clipper. �What makes you think he would he have his own phone listing?�
�It was a stab in the dark, all right?�
She holds her foot out in front of her. �Oh. This is rude, isn�t it? I�m sorry. I suppose for all practical purposes you�re a stranger. It�s just that with you passed out, I�ve been doing all kinds of things with you in the room. Changing, calisthenics, what have you.�
Changing?
�If it were me,� she says, �although it�s not-I�d drive out to Stow and ask if anyone�s heard of him. I mean, Stow isn�t Boston. He�s liable to have run into a mom-and-pop grocery store or a neighborhood barber, or whatever things they have out in the boonies.�
�Oh, Mica.� She�s hit on it. I have no choice but to canvass that section of Massachusetts and hope for the best. I grab her hand, which is nearby, and kiss it.
�Who says chivalry�s dead?� she says. Then the doorbell rings, and she�s up to collect the tofu.
It all starts coming back to me: how I hadn�t slept since Iowa; how I believed Jane was near me all the time; how much I wanted to tell her. With renewed energy I jump from the futon and collect my clothes, strewn orgiastically around the tiny bedroom. I turn on the television with the remote, automatically set for the midday news. I pull on my trousers and zap through the stations until I find an anchor-person with a soothing voice. �Well, Chet,� she says, as Mica reapproaches with a vegetable cornucopia, �efforts continue to free the humpback whale tangled in fishing nets off the coast of Gloucester.�
�What?� I whisper, sinking to my knees. Mica rus
hes over to me, afraid no doubt that I will pitch forward into the television set.
�Scientists from the Provincetown Center for Coastal Studies have been working for the past four hours to free Marble, a humpback whale, from a gill net left behind by a fishing boat.� The anchor smiles into the camera, behind her a stock photo of a humpback surfacing. �We�ll have more on this heroic story on the six o�clock news, when, we hope, Marble will be swimming free.�
I grab the remote and flip to a second station, which is reporting-with coverage live from Gloucester. According to the commentator, the whale was only recently found, and scientists are now trying to determine the best and safest method to free her. In the background I can see a man I knew when I worked at Woods Hole. �That�s Windy McGill.�
�Isn�t it sad,� Mica says, pursing her lips. �I hate to see these whale stories.�
�How do you get to Gloucester from here?�
�You drive. �
�Then you�ve got to tell me where my car is.�
�I thought your priority was getting to Stow.�
Jane. I sigh. �Okay. This is the problem. I�m a marine biologist. I know humpback whales probably better than any person in the United States. If I get to Gloucester, I�ll be able to rescue that whale. On the other hand, if I get to Stow, I have an outside chance of rescuing my marriage.�
�Oliver,� Mica says, �you don�t need me to tell you what�s more important.�
I pick up the phone and call the center in Provincetown-a number which, after so many years, I can still remember. �This is Oliver Jones. I need directions to the stranded whale, and I need you to wire ahead to Windy and tell him I�m on my way and I�ll need two Zodiacs with outboard motors and my own diving suit.� The secretary jumps at my command. It is gratifying to know that, over such distance, I can garner respect.
Mica is staring at me. �Isn�t this what got you in trouble in the first place?�
�Mica,� I say, lacing my shoes, �I don�t make the same mistake twice.� I lean down and kiss her on the forehead. �I appreciate your generosity and your caretaking. Now I�ve got to give a little of that kindness back.�
�Oliver, don�t take this wrong. I mean, I hardly know you. But make sure you don�t get all wrapped up in this. Promise me you�ll be in Stow, looking for your wife, within twenty-four hours.�
I button my shirt and tuck it in, then I rush a brush of Mica�s over my hair. �I promise,� I tell her. I mean it, too. I�m not losing sight of the bigger picture here, meaning my family. I don�t know where they are, and rather than searching for a needle in a haystack, I can use the media coverage to call Jane and Rebecca to come forward. Besides, maybe it will make Jane proud of me. Doing research for my own advancement may not win points with her, but helping a dying animal will get her cheering.
Mica takes me to my car, which is in such a seedy area I am shocked to find it intact with all its hubcaps and accessories. She bequeaths me a map of the north shore of Massachusetts, and a postcard of the Blue Diner with her name and phone number. �Let me know how it works out,� she says. �I love happy endings.�
54 JANE
I�ve been with Sam all morning, and I can�t ever remember feeling so strange. He teaches me things I�ve never imagined knowing. If he said the thrill of my life would be doing handsprings across an open field, I�d probably follow his lead.
Which is all very well and good for me, but more than once today I have seen Rebecca staring at me as if she isn�t certain I am the same person I was three days ago. In all likelihood I may not be-I have to admit it�s been a radical transformation-I�m in much better spirits. I owe her an explanation. Every time I�ve looked at her today I�ve seen a reflection of Oliver in her eyes, which makes me feel guilty. Don�t get me wrong: we�re just friends, Sam and I. We have fun together; surely that�s not a crime. After all I am a married woman. I have a daughter to think about.
�Penny for your thoughts,� Sam says, looking across the truck at me.
�My thoughts? A penny?� I grin at him. �Ten bucks and you�re on.�
�Ten bucks? That�s robbery.�
�That�s inflation.�
Sam leans his elbow out the open window. �How about I pay for your ice cream?� He is driving us-me, Joley, Rebecca and Hadley-to yet another ice cream stand, en route to the pond where we can go swimming. Joley, Rebecca and Hadley are in the back of the truck, sitting on T-shirts to keep the hot metal from burning their legs, singing at the tops of their lungs.
�I�ve been thinking of how to explain to Rebecca why all of a sudden we stopped arguing,� I say.
�I don�t see why it�s any of her business.�
�That�s because you don�t have children. I owe her an explanation. If I don�t give her one, she loses trust in me. If she loses trust in me, she won�t listen, and she�ll wind up as another fifteen-year-old pregnant teenager smoking crack.�
�That�s an optimistic way to look at it. Why don�t you just tell her you finally succumbed to my charm?� He flashes a smile at me.
�Right. Very funny.�
�Tell her the truth. Tell her we had it out last night and called it a truce.�
�Is that what we did?�
�In a manner of speaking,� Sam says. �Didn�t we?�
I stick my head out the window, turning halfway around in the seat. Rebecca spots me and waves vigorously. Then all of a sudden I can see Hadley�s face and Joley�s, as they slide over from the other side of the flatbed. I turn around and lower myself back inside the cab. �But it�s more than that,� I say, and I�m not sure I should go on. What if it�s all in my head?
We come to a stop sign, and Sam pauses a second longer than he has to. �Jane,� he says, �you know why we were fighting so hard, don�t you?�
I do, but I don�t want to. I look up, and find Sam�s eyes on me. �If we didn�t like each other,� he says, �then there was nothing to be afraid of.�
I can feel the temperature in the truck. My forehead starts to perspire. �You know,� I say quickly, licking my lips, �I read somewhere that if it�s ninety-seven degrees out, but it�s seventy percent humidity, it feels like it�s a hundred and fifty-five degrees. It was in the Times . They had this fancy chart.�
Sam looks in my direction and smiles. He relaxes his shoulders and he shifts in his seat so he is that much farther away from me. �Okay,� he says, softly. �Okay.�
At the ice cream stand, I watch Sam from a distance. He is leaning against a telephone pole, beside Hadley and Joley, pointing to features on an all-terrain bike. Since we have been left alone, Rebecca will not look me in the eye.
I decide to lay it on the line. �Rebecca,� I say. �About Sam. What do you think? Really.� Rebecca�s eyes open wide, as if this is the last topic she expected me to bring up today. �Well, it�s pretty obvious that we�ve patched up our differences, and I imagine you�ve been wondering about it.�
�I don�t know him really well. He seems nice enough.�
�Nice enough for what?�
I move in front of her so that she is forced to look at me when she speaks. �If you mean, �Should I screw him?�� she says, �then, if you want to, yes!�
�Rebecca!� I grab her arm. �I don�t know what�s gotten into you here. Sometimes I think you aren�t the same kid I brought out East.� I shake my head, and when she turns her face up to me I can see it again: Oliver.
I take a deep breath. �I know you think I�m betraying your father.�
The truth is: when I�m with Sam, I don�t think about Oliver. And I like that. It�s the first time since we�ve left California that I�ve felt really free. On the other hand, I�ve never really considered what constitutes faithfulness in a marriage. I�ve never had to. Is it being unfaithful to Oliver if I spend time with a man who makes me forget about him?
�I know that I�m still married to him,� I say. �Don�t you think that every time I see you in the morning I think about what I�ve left behind in California? A whole life, Rebecca, I�ve left my whole life. I�ve left a man, who, at least in some ways, depends on me. And that�s why sometimes I wonder what I�m doing out here, in this godfo
rsaken farm zone with this . . . this . . .� I stop, catching sight of Sam in the distance. He winks at me.
�This what?� Rebecca says, her voice quiet.
�This absolutely incredible man.� It just slips out and after it does I know that I am in trouble.
Rebecca takes a few steps away from me, rubbing her chin as if she has been struck. Her back is facing me, and I try to imagine the expression she will have in her eyes when she turns. �So what�s going on between you and Sam, anyway?�
I can feel myself blush from the tip of my neck up to my eyebrows. I hold my hands up to my cheeks, trying to stop it from happening. �Nothing,� I whisper, upset that she would think such a thing. My own daughter. �Absolutely nothing.� But I�ve been having some crazy thoughts.
�I didn�t think you two got along.�
�Neither did I. I guess compatibility isn�t the issue.� So, I think. Then what is? Joley is at the front of the line, juggling several ice cream cones. �We should head back,� I suggest, but I don�t make a move to go anywhere.
�You�ve got the hots for Sam,� Rebecca says, matter-of-fact.
�Oh please. I�m a married lady,� I say, �remember?� The words come to my lips automatically. Married.
� Do you remember?�
�Of course I remember. I�ve been married to your father for fifteen years. Aren�t you supposed to love the person you marry?�
�I don�t know,� she says. �You tell me.�
I narrow my eyes. �Yes, you�re supposed to.� It remains to be seen, though, whether you can continue to love the person you marry. But that isn�t what is at stake, here. �Sam is just a friend,� I say emphatically. �My friend .� If I say it over and over I will start to believe it.
The ponds opens out of nowhere in the middle of a thicket. It is square and sparkling, surrounded on three sides by short sunburned grass and on one side by a makeshift beach. Sam tells me it�s a sandy bottom. �It doesn�t matter to me,� I say cheerfully. �I�m not planning on going in.�
�I bet you change your mind,� he says.
�I bet she doesn�t,� Joley says. �I�ve been trying to get her into the water for twenty years.� He lays the ukulele he�s been playing on his towel, and strips off his T-shirt. He is wearing faded madras bathing trunks. �I�m coming,� he calls to Hadley and Rebecca, who are already waiting at the brink of the water.
I start to arrange the towels neatly on the beach. I do it the way I like best: all towels touching, so that no sand gets through.
�At least come down to the edge of the water with me,� Sam says.
I look up just in time to see Hadley doing a nicely executed swan dive from one of the two docks that run into the middle of the pond. �All right.� I leave the towels half-arranged. �But just to the edge.�
