The Jodi Picoult Collection #4

by Jodi Picoult

  I followed her lead, gently laying myself across your lower body. You whimpered when I touched your left leg, which had the break. Charlotte and I both waited, counting the seconds until your body tensed, your muscles twitched. I had once watched a blast at a building site that was covered with netting made of old tires and rubber so that the explosion stayed contained, manageable: this time, when your body leapt beneath ours, you didn’t cry.

  How had Charlotte known to do this? Was it because she’d been with you more times than I could count when a break happened? Was it because she’d learned to be proactive, instead of reactive, in a hospital? Or was it because she knew you better than I ever would?

  “Amelia,” I said, remembering that we’d left her behind, that it had been hours.

  “We have to call her.”

  “Maybe I should go get her—”

  Charlotte turned her head so that her cheek was pillowed on your belly. “Tell her to call Mrs. Monroe next door if there’s an emergency. You have to stay. It’ll take both of us to keep Willow quiet all night.”

  “Both of us,” I repeated, and before I could censor myself, I touched Charlotte’s hair.

  She froze. “I’m sorry,” I murmured, pulling away.

  Beneath me, you moved, a tiny earthquake, and I tried to be a blanket, a carpet, a comfort. Charlotte and I rode out the tremors, absorbing your pain. She wove her fingers through mine, so that our hands rested like a beating heart between us. “I’m not,” she said.

  Amelia

  Once upon a time there was a girl who wanted to put her fist through a mirror. She would tell everyone it was so that she could see what was on the other side, but really, it was so that she wouldn’t have to look at herself. That, and because she thought she might be able to steal a piece of glass when no one was looking, and use it to carve her heart out of her chest.

  So when no one was watching, she went to the mirror and forced herself to be brave enough to open her eyes just this one last time. But to her surprise, she didn’t see her reflection. She didn’t see anything at all. Confused, she stretched her hand up to touch the mirror and realized that the glass was missing, that she could fall through to the other side.

  That’s exactly what happened.

  Things got even stranger, though, when she walked through this other world and found people staring at her—not because she was so disgusting but because they all wanted to look like her. At school, kids at different lunch tables fought to have her sit with them. She always got the answers right when she was picked by a teacher in class. Her email inbox was overflowing with love letters from boys who could not live without her.

  At first, it felt incredible, like a rocket was taking off under her skin every time she was out in public. But then, it got a little old. She didn’t want to give out her autograph when she bought a pack of gum at the gas station. She would wear a pink shirt, and by lunchtime, the rest of the school was wearing pink shirts, too. She got tired of smiling all the time in public.

  She realized that things weren’t all that different on this side of the mirror. Nobody really cared about her here. The reason people copied her and fawned over her had very little to do with who she was, and far more to do with who they needed her to be, to make up for some gaping hole in their own lives.

  She decided she wanted to go back to the other side. But she had to do it when no one was watching, or they’d follow her there. The only problem was, there was never no one watching. She had nightmares about the people who trailed after her, who would cut themselves to pieces on the broken glass as they crawled through the mirror after her; how they’d lie bleeding on the floor and how the look in their eyes would change when they saw her on this side, unpopular and ordinary.

  When she couldn’t stand another minute, she started to run. She knew there were people following, but she couldn’t stop to think about them. She was going to fly through the space in the mirror, no matter what it took. But when she got there, she smacked her head against the glass—it had been repaired. It was whole and thick and impossible to break through. She flattened her palms against it. Where are you going? everyone asked. Can we come, too? She didn’t answer. She just stood there, looking at her old life, without her in it.

  • • •

  I was really careful when I sat down on your bed. “Hey,” I whispered, because you were still pretty much out of it and might have been asleep.

  Your eyes slitted open. “Hey.”

  You looked really tiny, even with the big splint on your leg. Apparently, with the new rod in your femur, a future break wouldn’t be as bad as this one had been. On a TV show once I’d seen an orthopedic surgeon with drills, saws, metal plates, you name it—it was like she was a construction worker, not a doctor, and the thought of all that hammering and banging going on inside you made me feel like I was going to pass out.

  I couldn’t tell you why, too, this break had scared me the most. I guess maybe I was getting it confused with the other things that brushed up against it that were equally as terrifying: the letter about divorce, the phone call from Dad at the hospital telling me I’d have to stay home alone overnight. I hadn’t told anyone, because obviously Mom and Dad were completely wrapped up in what was happening to you, but I never actually slept. I stayed awake at the kitchen table holding the biggest knife we had, just in case someone broke into the house. I’d kept myself awake on pure adrenaline, wondering what would happen if the rest of my family never actually made it home.

  But instead, the opposite happened. Not only were you back but so were Mom and Dad—and they weren’t just putting on a good show for you, they were really together. They took turns watching over you; they finished each other’s sentences. It was as if I’d smashed through that fairy-tale mirror and wound up in the alternate universe of my past. There was a part of me that believed your latest break had linked them again, and if that was true, it was worth whatever pain you’d gone through. But there was another part of me that thought I was only hallucinating, that this happy family unit was just a mirage.

  I didn’t really believe in God, but I wasn’t above hedging my bets, so I had prayed a silent bargain: if we can be a family again, I won’t complain. I won’t be mean to my sister. I won’t throw up anymore. I won’t cut.

  I won’t I won’t I won’t.

  You, apparently, weren’t feeling quite as optimistic. Mom said that since you’d come through the surgery, you kept crying and you didn’t want to eat anything. It was supposed to be the anesthesia in your system that was making you weepy, but I decided to make it my personal mission to cheer you up. “Hey, Wiki,” I said, “you want some M&M’s? They’re from my Easter candy stash.”

  You shook your head.

  “Want to use my iPod?”

  “I don’t want to listen to music,” you murmured. “You don’t have to be nice to me just because I won’t be around here much longer.”

  That sent a chill down my spine. Had someone not told me something about your surgery? Were you, like, dying? “What are you talking about?”

  “Mom wants to get rid of me because things like this keep happening.” You swiped the tears from your eyes with your hands. “I’m not the kind of kid anyone wants.”

  “What are you talking about? It’s not like you’re a serial killer. You don’t torture chipmunks or do anything revolting, except try to burp ‘God Bless America’ at the dinner table—”

  “I only did that once,” you said. “But think about it, Amelia. Nobody keeps things that get broken. Sooner or later, they get thrown away.”

  “Willow, you are not being sent off, believe me. And if you are, I’ll run away with you first.”

  You hiccuped. “Pinkie promise?”

  I hooked your pinkie with mine and tugged. “Promise.”

  “I can’t go on a plane,” you said seriously, as if we needed to plot our itinerary now. “The doctor said I’ll set off metal detectors at the airport. He gave Mom a note.”

 
; One that I would probably forget, like I forgot the other doctor’s note on our last vacation.

  “Amelia,” you asked, “where would we go?”

  Back, I thought immediately. But I couldn’t begin to tell you how to get there.

  Maybe Budapest. I didn’t really know where Budapest was, but I liked the way the word exploded on my tongue. Or Shanghai. Or the Galápagos, or the isle of Skye. You and I could travel the globe together, our own little sisterly freak show: the girl who breaks, and the girl who can’t hold herself together.

  “Willow,” my mother said. “I think we need to have a talk.” She’d been standing at the threshold of the bedroom, watching us, I wondered for how long. “Amelia, can you give us a minute?”

  “Okay,” I said, and I slunk outside. But instead of going downstairs, which was what she meant, I hovered in the hallway, where I could hear everything.

  “Wills,” I heard my mother say, “no one’s throwing you away.”

  “I’m sorry about my leg,” you said, teary. “I thought if I didn’t break anything for a long time, you’d think I was just like any other kid—”

  “Accidents happen, Willow.” I heard the bed creak as my mother sat down on it. “Nobody is blaming you.”

  “You do. You wish you’d never had me. I heard you say it.”

  What happened after that—well, it felt like a tornado in my head. I was thinking about this lawsuit, and how it had ruined our lives. I was thinking of my father, who was downstairs for maybe only seconds or minutes longer. I was thinking of a year ago, when my arms were scar-free, when I still had a best friend and wasn’t fat and could eat food without it feeling like lead in my stomach. I was thinking of the words my mother said in response to you, and how I must have heard them wrong.

  Charlotte

  “Charlotte?”

  I had come to the laundry room to hide, figuring that the load of clothes spinning in the dryer would mask any sound I made while I was crying, but Sean was standing behind me. Quickly I wiped my eyes on my sleeves. “Sorry,” I said. “The girls?”

  “They’re both fast asleep.” He took a step forward. “What’s wrong?”

  What wasn’t wrong? I’d just had to persuade you that I loved you, breaks and all—something you’d never questioned until I undertook this lawsuit.

  Didn’t everyone lie? And wasn’t there a difference between, for example, killing a person and telling the police you hadn’t and smiling down at a particularly ugly baby and telling her mother how cute she was? There were lies we told to save ourselves, and then there were lies we told to rescue others. What counted more, the mistruth, or the greater good?

  “Nothing’s wrong,” I said. There I went, fibbing again. I couldn’t tell Sean what you’d said to me; I couldn’t bear to hear his I told you so. But, my God, was everything that came out of my mouth a lie? “It’s just been a really hard few days.” I folded my arms tightly across my waist. “Did you, um, did you need me for something?”

  He pointed to the top of the dryer. “I just came to get my bedding.”

  I knew I should be practicing, but I didn’t understand formerly married couples who remained congenial. Yes, it was in the best interests of the children. Yes, it was less stressful. But how could you forget that this particular “friend” had seen you naked? Had carried your dreams when you were too tired to? You could paint your history over any way you liked, but you’d always see those first few brushstrokes. “Sean? I’m glad you were here,” I said, honest at last. “It made everything . . . easier.”

  “Well,” he said simply, “she’s my daughter, too.” He took a step toward me to reach the bedding, and I instinctively backed away. “Good night,” Sean said.

  “Good night.”

  He started to take the pillows and quilt into his arms and then turned. “If I were like Willow, and I needed someone to fight hard for me when I couldn’t? I’d pick you.”

  “I’m not sure Willow would agree,” I whispered, blinking back tears.

  “Hey,” he said, and I felt his arms come around me. His breath was warm on the crown of my hair. “What’s this?”

  I tilted my face up to his. I wanted to tell him everything—what you had said to me, how tired I was, how much I was wavering—but instead we stared at each other, telegraphing messages that neither one of us was brave enough to speak out loud. And then, slowly, so that we both knew the mistake we were making, we kissed.

  I could not tell you the last time I had kissed Sean, not like this, not beyond a see-you-later-honey peck over the kitchen sink. This was deep and rough and consuming, as if we both meant to be left in ashes when we were through. His beard stubble scraped my chin raw, his teeth bit down, his breath filled my lungs. The room glittered at the edge of my vision, and I broke away for air. “What are we doing?” I gasped.

  Sean buried his face against my throat. “Who gives a damn, as long as we keep doing it.”

  Then his hands were slipping underneath my shirt, branding me; my back was touching the humming metal-and-glass fishbowl of the dryer as Sean pushed me against it. I heard the clink of his belt buckle striking the floor and only then realized I had been the one to throw it aside. Wrapping myself around him, I became a vine, thriving, tangled. I threw back my head and burst into bloom.

  It was over as quickly as it had started, and suddenly we were what we had been going into this: two middle-aged people who were lonely enough to be desperate. Sean’s jeans were puddled at his ankles; his hands were supporting my thighs. The handle of the dryer was cutting into my back. I let one leg fall to the floor and wrapped a sheet from his pile of bedding around my waist.

  He was blushing, a deep, rootless red. “I’m sorry.”

  “Are you?” I heard myself say.

  “Maybe not,” he admitted.

  I tried to finger-comb my hair back from the tangle on my face. “So what do we do now?”

  “Well,” Sean said. “There’s no rewind button.”

  “No.”

  “And you’re wearing my top sheet around your . . . you know.”

  I glanced down.

  “And the couch is wicked uncomfortable,” he added.

  “Sean,” I said, smiling. “Come to bed.”

  • • •

  I thought that, on the day of the trial, I’d wake up with butterflies in my stomach or a raging headache, but as my eyes slowly adjusted to the sunlight, all I could think was It’s going to be okay. It did not hurt that there were muscles in my body that were deliciously sore, that left me rolling over and stretching to hear the music of the shower running, and Sean in it.

  “Mom?”

  I slipped on a robe and ran into your bedroom. “Wills, how do you feel?”

  “Itchy,” you said. “And I have to pee.”

  I positioned myself to carry you. You were heavy, but this was a blessing compared with a spica cast, which was the alternative. I helped you lift up your nightgown and settled you on the toilet seat, then waited for you to call me back in so that I could help you wash your hands. I decided that I would buy you a big bottle of Purell on the way home from court today. Which reminded me—you weren’t going to be happy about the arrangements I’d made for you. After much debate with Marin about leaving you home while I was in the courtroom, she had let me interview and choose a private pediatric nurse to be with you for the duration of the trial. The astronomical cost, she said, would be deducted from whatever damages we won. It was not ideal, but at least I wouldn’t have to worry about your safety. “Remember Paulette?” I said. “The nurse?”

  “I don’t want her to come . . .”

  “I know, baby, but we don’t have a choice. I have to go somewhere important today, and you can’t be by yourself.”

  “What about Daddy?”

  “What about me?” Sean said, and he plucked you out of my arms and carried you downstairs as if you didn’t weigh anything.

  He was dressed in a coat and tie instead of his uniform. He’s co
ming to court with me, I thought, beginning to smile from the inside out.

  “Amelia’s in the shower,” Sean said over his shoulder as he settled you on the couch. “I told her she has to take the bus in today. Willow—”

  “A nurse is coming to stay with her.”

  He looked down at you. “Well, that’ll be fun.”

  You grimaced. “Yeah, right.”

  “How about pancakes for breakfast, then, to make it up to you?”

  “Is that all you can cook?” you asked. “Even I know how to make ramen noodles.”

  “Do you want ramen noodles for breakfast?”

  “No—”

  “Then stop complaining about the pancakes,” Sean said, and then he looked up at me soberly. “Big day.”

  I nodded and pulled the tie of my robe tighter. “I can be ready to go in fifteen minutes.”

  Sean stilled in the process of covering you with a blanket. “I figured we’d take separate cars.” He hesitated. “I have to meet with Guy Booker beforehand.”

  If he was meeting with Guy Booker, it meant that he was still planning to testify for Piper’s defense.

  If he was meeting with Guy Booker, it meant nothing had changed.

  I had been lying to myself, because it was easier than facing the truth: sex wasn’t love, and one single, stopgap Band-Aid of a night couldn’t fix a broken marriage.

  “Charlotte?” Sean said, and I realized he’d asked me a question. “Do you want some pancakes?”

  I was sure he did not know that pancakes were among the oldest types of baked goods in America; that in the 1700s, when there had been no baking powder or baking soda, they’d been leavened by beating air into the eggs. I was sure he did not know that pancakes went as far back as the Middle Ages, when they were served on Fat Tuesday, before Lent. That if the griddle was too hot, pancakes would get tough and chewy; if it was too cool, they’d turn out dry and tough.

  I was also sure he did not remember that pancakes were the very first breakfast I ever cooked for him as his wife, when we returned from our honeymoon. I had made the batter and spooned it into a Baggie, cut off a bottom corner, and used it to shape the pancakes. I’d served Sean a stack of hearts.