by Jodi Picoult
Then I remember that stupid list of accomplishments I made the day I ran away from home. What had I said? Back then I could change a diaper, I could measure formula, I could sing my son to sleep. And now what can I do? I rummage in the drawers beneath the sink and find my old makeup bag, tucked into a corner behind Nicholas's unused electric razor. I pull out a blue eyeliner and throw the cap into the toilet. 1., I write on the mirror, I can canter and jump and gallop a horse. I tap the pencil to my chin. 2. I can tell myself I am not my mother. I run out of space on the mirror, so I continue on the white Corian counters. I can draw away my pain. I can seduce my own husband. I can-- I stop here and think that this is not the list I should be making. I pick up a green eye pencil and start writing where I left off, angrily listing the things I cannot do: I cannot forget. I cannot make the same mistake twice. I cannot live this way. I cannot take the blame for everything. I cannot give up.
With my words covering the stark bathroom in flowered curlicues of green and blue, I become inspired. I take the pale-lime shampoo from the bathtub and smear it over the tiled walls; I draw pink lipstick hearts and orange Caladryl scrolls on the tank of the toilet. Nicholas comes in sometime after I am finishing a line of blue toothpaste waves and diving aloe vera dolphins. I flinch, expecting him to start yelling, but he just smiles. "I guess you're done with the shampoo," he says.
Nicholas doesn't take the time to eat breakfast, which is fine with me, even though it is only eight o'clock. We may not be able to see Mux right away, but I will feel better knowing I am closer to my child. We get into the car, and I notice Max's car seat pushed to the side; I wonder how it got that way. I wait for Nicholas to back out of the driveway, but he sits perfectly still, with his foot on the brake and his hand on the clutch. He looks down at the steering wheel as if it is something fascinating he has never seen before. "Paige," he says, "I'm sorry about last night."
I shiver involuntarily. What did I expect him to say?
"I didn't mean to--to do that," Nicholas continues. "It's just that you were in such bad shape, and I thought--hell, I don't know what I was thinking." He looks up at me, resolved. "It won't happen again," he says.
"No," I say quietly. "I suppose it won't."
I look up and down the thin stretch of street that I once imagined I'd be living on for most of my life. I don't see actual objects, like trees and cars and fox terriers. Instead I see eddies of color, an impressionist painting. Green and lemon and mauve and peach: the edges of the world as I know it run muddy together. "I was wrong about you," Nicholas is saying. "Whatever happens, Max belongs with you."
Whatever happens. I turn my face up to him. "And what about you?" I say.
Nicholas looks at me. "I don't know," he says. "I honestly don't know."
I nod, as though this is an answer I can accept, and turn away to look out my window as Nicholas backs out of the driveway. It is going to be a cold, crisp fall day, but memories of the night before are everywhere: eggshells scattered through the streets, shaving cream on residential windows, toilet paper festooned through the trees. I wonder how long it will take to come clean.
At the hospital, Nicholas asks about Max and is told that he's been moved to pediatrics. "That's a good start," he murmurs, although he is not really speaking to me. He walks to a yellow elevator bank, and I follow close behind. The doors open, smelling of antiseptic and fresh linen, and we step inside.
An image comes to me quickly: I am in that Cambridge graveyard with Max, who is about three. He runs between the headstones and peeks from behind the monuments. It is my day off from classes; finally, I'm getting my bachelor's degree. Simmons College, not Harvard--and that doesn't matter. I am sitting while Max runs his fingers over the old grave markers, fascinated by the chips and gulleys of aging stone. "Max," I call, and he comes over, sliding to his knees and getting grass stains on his overalls. I motion to the pad I've been drawing on, and we lay it across the flat marker of a revolutionary soldier. "You pick," I say. I offer him an array of crayons. He takes the melon and the forest green and the violet; I choose the orange-yellow and the mulberry. He puts the green crayon in his hand and starts to color in the image of a pony I've done for him, a Shetland he'll ride that summer at my mother's. I cover his chubby hand with mine and guide his fingers gently over lines I have drawn for him. I feel my own blood running beneath his flushed skin.
The doors of the elevator hiss open, but Nicholas stands frozen. I wait for him to take charge, but nothing happens. I turn my head to look at him--he's never like this. Nicholas, coolheaded and unflappable, is scared to face what's coming. Two nurses pass. They peer into the elevator and whisper to each other. I can imagine what they are saying about me and about Nicholas, and it doesn't affect me at all. Another mark for my accomplishment list: I can stand on my own in a world that is falling apart. I can stand so well, I realize, that I can support someone else. "Nicholas?" I whisper, and I can tell by the flicker of his eyes that he has forgotten I am there but he's relieved to see me just the same. "It's going to be fine," I tell him, and I smile for what seems like the first time in months.
The jaws of the elevator start to close again, but I brace them with my strength. "It's only going to get easier," I say with confidence, and I reach across the distance to squeeze Nicholas's hand. He
squeezes mine right back. We step off the elevator together and take those first steps down the hall. At Max's door, we stop and see him pink and quiet and breathing. Nicholas and I stand calmly at the threshold. We have all the time in the world to wait for our son to come around.
FOR THE BEST IN PAPERBACKS, LOOK FOR THE
In every corner of the world, on every subject under the sun, Penguin represents quality and variety--the very best in publishing today.
For complete information about books available from Penguin--including Penguin Classics, Penguin Compass, and Puffins--and how to order them, write to us at the appropriate address below. Please note that for copyright reasons the selection of books varies from country to country.
In the United States: Please write to Penguin Group (USA), P.O. Box 12289 Dept. B, Newark, New Jersey 07101-5289 or call 1-800-788-6262.
In the United Kingdom: Please write to Dept. EP, Penguin Books Ltd, Bath Road, Harmondsworth, West Drayton, Middlesex UB7 ODA.
In Canada: Please write to Penguin Books Canada Ltd, 10 Alcorn Avenue, Suite 300, Toronto, Ontario M4V3B2.
In Australia: Please write to Penguin Books Australia Ltd, P.O. Box 257, Ringwood, Victoria 3134.
In New Zealand: Please write to Penguin Books (NZ) Ltd, Private Bag 102902, North Shore Mail Centre, Auckland 10.
In India: Please write to Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Panchsheel Shopping Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi 110 017.
In the Netherlands: Please write to Penguin Books Netherlands bv, Posthus 3507, NL-1001 AH Amsterdam.
In Germany: Please write to Penguin Books Deutschland GmbH, Metzlerstrasse 26, 60594 Frankfurt am Main.
In Spain: Please write to Penguin Books S.A., Bravo Murillo 19, 1deg B, 28015 Madrid.
In Italy: Please write to Penguin Italia s.r.L, Via Benedetto Croce 2, 20094 Corsico, Milano.
In France: Please write to Penguin France, Le Carre Wilson, 62 rue Benjamin Baillaud, 31500 Toulouse.
In Japan: Please write to Penguin Books Japan Ltd, Kaneko Building, 2-3-25 Koraku, Bunkyo-Ku, Tokyo 112.
In South Africa: Please write to Penguin Books South Africa (Pty) Ltd, Private Bag X14, Parkview, 2122 Johannesburg.
(100%); filter: grayscale(100%); " class="sharethis-inline-share-buttons">share
