The Jodi Picoult Collection #4

by Jodi Picoult

  The food is only part of the buffet.

  I take out the tiny silicone bowls we use for Jacob’s supplements. Every day he takes a multivitamin, a taurine capsule, and an omega-3 tablet. The taurine prevents meltdowns; the fatty acids help with mental flexibility. He lifts the newspaper up in front of his face as I set down the two treatments he hates the most: the oxytocin nasal spray and the B12 shot he injects himself, both of which help with anxiety.

  “You can hide but you can’t run,” I say, tugging down the edge of the newspaper.

  You would think that the shot is the worst for him, but he actually lifts up his shirt and pinches his stomach to inject himself without much fanfare. However, for a kid who’s got sensory issues, using a nasal spray is like waterboarding. Every day I watch Jacob stare down that bottle and finally convince himself he will be able to handle the feeling of the liquid dripping down his throat. And every day, it breaks my heart.

  It goes without saying that none of these supplements—which cost hundreds of dollars each month—are covered by medical insurance.

  I put a plate of muffins in front of him as he turns another page in the paper. “Did you brush your teeth?”

  “Yes,” Jacob mutters.

  I put my hand down on the paper so that it blocks his view. “Really?”

  The few times Jacob lies, it’s so obvious to me that all I have to do is raise an eyebrow and he caves. The only times I’ve ever even seen him attempt dishonesty are when he’s asked to do something he doesn’t want to do—like take his supplements or brush his teeth—or to avoid conflict. In those cases, he’ll say what he thinks I want to hear. “I’ll do it after I eat,” he promises, and I know he will. “Yes!” he crows suddenly. “It’s in here!”

  “What?”

  Jacob leans over, reading aloud. “Police in Townsend recovered the body of fifty-three-year-old Wade Deakins in a wooded area off Route 140. Deakins succumbed to hypothermia. No foul play was indicated.” He scoffs, shaking his head. “Can you believe that got buried on page A fourteen?”

  “Yes,” I say. “It’s gruesome. Why would anyone want to read about a man who froze to death?” I suddenly pause in the act of stirring half-and-half into my coffee. “How did you know that article was going to be in the paper this morning?”

  He hesitates, aware he’s been caught in the act. “It was a lucky guess.”

  I fold my arms and stare at him. Even if he won’t look me in the eye, he can feel the heat of my gaze.

  “Okay!” he confesses. “I heard about it on the scanner last night.”

  I consider the way he’s rocking in his seat and the blush that has continued to work its way up his face. “And?”

  “I went there.”

  “You what?”

  “It was last night. I took my bike—”

  “You rode your bike in the freezing cold to Route 140—”

  “Do you want to hear the story or not?” Jacob says, and I stop interrupting. “The police found a body in the woods and the detective was leaning toward sexual assault and homicide—”

  “Oh my God.”

  “—but the evidence didn’t support that.” He beams. “I solved their case for them.”

  My jaw drops. “And they were okay with that?”

  “Well . . . no. But they needed help. They were totally going in the wrong direction given the wounds to the body—”

  “Jacob, you can’t just crash a crime scene! You’re a civilian!”

  “I’m a civilian with a better understanding of forensic science than the local police,” he argues. “I even let the detective take the credit.”

  I have visions of the Townsend Police showing up at my house today to berate me (at best) and arrest Jacob (at worst). Isn’t it a misdemeanor to tamper with a police investigation? I imagine the fallout if it becomes public knowledge that Auntie Em, the advice expert, doesn’t even know where her own son is at night.

  “Listen to me,” I say. “You are absolutely not to do that again. Ever. What if it was a homicide, Jacob? What if the killer had come after you?”

  I watch him consider this. “Well,” he says, entirely literal, “I guess I would have run really fast.”

  “Consider it a new house rule. You are not to sneak out of here unless you tell me first.”

  “Technically, that wouldn’t be sneaking,” he points out.

  “Jacob, so help me—”

  He bobs his head. “Don’t sneak out to go to a crime scene. Got it.” Then he looks directly at me, something that happens so infrequently I find myself catching my breath. “But, Mom, seriously, I wish you could have seen it. The crosshatch marks on the guy’s shins and—”

  “Jacob, that guy died a horrible, lonely death and deserves a little respect.” But even as I say it, I know he can’t understand. Two years ago, at my father’s funeral, Jacob asked if the casket could be opened before the burial. I thought it was to say good-bye to a relative he’d loved, but instead, Jacob had put his hand against my father’s cold, rice-paper cheek. I just want to know what dead feels like, he had said.

  I take the newspaper and fold it up. “You’ll write a note to the detective today apologizing for getting in his way—”

  “I don’t know his name!”

  “Google it,” I say. “Oh, and you can consider yourself grounded until otherwise notified.”

  “Grounded? You mean, like I can’t leave the house?”

  “Not unless you’re going to school.”

  To my surprise, Jacob shrugs. “I guess you’ll have to call Jess, then.”

  Dammit. I’ve forgotten about his social skills tutor. Twice a week, Jacob meets with her to practice social interaction skills. A graduate student at UVM who plans to teach autistic kids, Jess Ogilvy is terrific with Jacob. He adores her, just as much as he dreads what she makes him do: look cashiers in the eye, initiate conversation with strangers on the bus, ask bystanders for directions. Today they have planned to visit a local pizza parlor so that Jacob can practice small talk.

  But in order to do that, he’ll have to be allowed out of the house.

  “Muffin?” he asks innocently, handing me the platter.

  I hate it when he knows he’s right.

  * * *

  Ask the mom of one autistic kid if vaccines had anything to do with her child’s condition, and she will vehemently tell you yes.

  Ask another, and she’ll just as vehemently tell you no.

  The jury’s still out, literally. Even though a handful of parents have sued the government—alleging that vaccinations caused their children’s autism—I haven’t gotten my class action suit check in the mail, and I’m not banking on it.

  Here are the facts:

  1. In 1988, the Centers for Disease Control recommended a change to infant immunizations schedules in America, adding three hepatitis B shots (including one at birth) and three haemophilis B shots, all given before the baby is six months old.

  2. Drug companies stepped up to the challenge by providing multiple-dose containers of vaccines preserved with thimerosal, an antibacterial made up of 49 percent ethyl mercury.

  3. Although the effects of mercury poisoning had been identified in the 1940s, the Food and Drug Administration and the CDC didn’t consider the effects of the dosage that newborns would receive because of these shots. The drug companies didn’t raise a red flag, either, even though the new regimen meant an average two-month-old at a well-baby checkup got a single-day dose of mercury one hundred times greater than the government’s long-term safe exposure level.

  4. The symptomology of autism looks an awful lot like the symptomology of mercury poisoning. To give you an example: when scientists studied the migration of mercury into primate brains, they noticed that the primates began to avoid eye contact.

  5. Between 1999 and 2002, thimerosal was quietly removed from the majority of childhood vaccines.

  There’s the opposing argument, too. That ethyl mercury—the kind in the vaccines—lea
ves the body faster than methyl mercury, the kind that is a poison. That in spite of the fact that most vaccines are now mercury-free, autism is still on the rise. That the CDC, the World Health Organization, and the Institute of Medicine completed five large studies, none of which have found a link between vaccines and autism. Those facts are compelling, but the next one is all I needed to convince me there’s some sort of connection:

  1. My son looked like any other two-year-old until he had a round of shots that included DTaP, Hib, and hepatitis B.

  I don’t think it’s a causal link. After all, out of 100 children receiving the same vaccine schedule, 99 will never become autistic. But just like we probably all have markers for cancer in our genes, if you smoke two packs a day you’re more likely to develop it than if you don’t. Kids with a certain predisposition in their genes can’t get rid of mercury as easily as most of us can and, as a result, wind up on the spectrum.

  I’m not one of these parents who swings so far to the other side that she eschews immunization. When Theo was born, he had his shots. In my opinion, the benefits of vaccination still outweigh the risks.

  I believe in vaccines, I do. I just believe in spreading them out.

  * * *

  It is because of Jess Ogilvy that Jacob went to his junior prom.

  It was not something I ever expected him to do, to be honest. There are a lot of moments I used to consider “definites” for a child of mine that, after Jacob’s diagnosis, became “wishes” instead. Going to college. Holding down a job. Finding someone to love him. I suppose Theo bears the brunt of all my dreams. I hope for Jacob to blend into the world more seamlessly, but I hope for his brother to leave his mark.

  Which is why, when Jacob announced last spring that he planned to go to his Spring Fling, I was surprised. “With whom?” I asked.

  “Well,” Jacob said. “Jess and I haven’t quite worked that out yet.”

  I could see why Jess had suggested it: the photographs, the dancing, the table conversation—all of these were skills he needed to know. I agreed with her, but I also didn’t want to see Jacob hurt. What if no one he asked would go with him?

  Don’t think I’m a bad mother; I’m just a realistic one. I knew that Jacob was handsome, funny, and so smart it sometimes left me reeling. It was hard, though, for others to see him in that light. To them, he just seemed odd.

  That night, I went into Jacob’s room. The pleasure of seeing him excited for once about initiating a social interaction was tempered by the thought of a string of girls laughing in his face. “So,” I said, sitting down on the edge of his bed. I waited for him to put down his reading material—the Journal of Forensic Sciences. “The prom, huh?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Jess thinks it’s a good idea.”

  “How about you? Do you think it’s a good idea?”

  Jacob shrugged. “I guess. But I’m a little worried . . .”

  I seized on this. “About what?”

  “My date’s dress,” Jacob said. “If it’s orange, I don’t think I could deal with it.”

  A smile tugged at my mouth. “Trust me. No girl wears orange to a prom.” I picked at a thread on his blanket. “Is there any particular girl you’re thinking of asking?”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “That way I won’t be disappointed,” he said, matter-of-fact.

  I hesitated. “I think it’s terrific that you’re trying this. And even if it doesn’t work out—”

  “Mom,” Jacob interrupted, “of course it will work out. There are 402 girls in my school. Assuming that one of them finds me remotely attractive, the probability of getting one of them to say yes is statistically in my favor.”

  As it was, he had to ask only 83. One finally said yes—Amanda Hillerstein, who had a younger brother with Down syndrome and was kindhearted enough to see past Jacob’s Asperger’s, at least for one night.

  What ensued was a two-week crash course in prom etiquette. Jess worked with Jacob to make small talk during dinner. (Appropriate: Are you visiting colleges this summer? Inappropriate: Did you know there’s a place in Tennessee called the Body Farm where you can study how corpses decay?) Me, I worked with him on everything else. We practiced how to walk close to a girl instead of keeping a full foot of space between you. We practiced how to look at the camera when someone takes your photograph. We practiced how to ask your date if she’d like to dance, although Jacob drew the line at slow dancing (“Do I really have to touch her?”).

  The day leading up to the prom, a thousand pitfalls raced through my head. Jacob had never worn a tuxedo; what if the bow tie aggravated him and he refused to put it on? He hated to bowl because he disliked the thought of putting his feet in shoes that had housed someone else’s feet moments before. What if he pitched a fit about his rented patent leather loafers for the same reason? What if the prom decorating committee had not gone with an under the sea theme, like they’d planned, but a disco party instead—with flashing lights and mirrored balls that would overstimulate Jacob’s senses? What if Amanda wore her hair loose, and Jacob took one look at her and ran back up to his room?

  Amanda, bless her heart, had offered to drive since Jacob couldn’t. She pulled up in her Jeep Cherokee at 7:00 on the dot. Jacob was waiting for her with a wrist corsage he’d picked out at the florist that afternoon. He’d been standing at the window, watching, since 6:00.

  Jess had come over with a video camera to record the event for posterity. We all held our breath as Amanda stepped out of her car in a long peach gown.

  “You said she wouldn’t wear orange,” Jacob whispered.

  “It’s peach,” I corrected.

  “It’s in the orange family,” he said, all he had time for before she knocked. Jacob yanked the door open. “You look beautiful,” he announced, just like we’d practiced.

  When I took their picture on the front lawn, Jacob even looked at the camera. It remains, to this day, the only photo I have of him where he’s doing that. I admit, I cried a little as I watched him extend his crooked elbow to escort his date to her car. Could I have asked for a better outcome? Could Jacob have done a finer job of remembering every lesson we’d worked on so diligently?

  Jacob opened Amanda’s door and then walked around to the passenger side.

  Oh no, I thought.

  “We totally forgot about that,” Jess said.

  And sure enough, Jess and I watched Jacob slide into his usual position in a car, the backseat.

  Theo

  “This is it,” I say, and my mother pulls the car over in front of some random house I’ve never seen before.

  “When do you want me to come get you?” she asks.

  “I don’t know. I’m not sure how long it’s going to take us to write up the lab report,” I say.

  “Well, you have your cell phone. Call me.” I nod and get out of the car. “Theo!” she yells. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

  A backpack. If I’m doing schoolwork with an imaginary lab partner, I should at least be smart enough to carry a freaking notebook.

  “Leon’s got everything,” I say. “It’s on his computer.”

  She peers over my shoulder to the front door of the house. “Are you sure he’s expecting you? It doesn’t look like anyone’s home.”

  “Mom, I told you. I talked to Leon ten minutes before we left the house. I’m supposed to go in the back door. Relax, okay?”

  “Make sure you’re polite,” she says, as I shut the car door. “Please and thank—”

  You, I mutter under my breath.

  I start up the driveway and along a path that leads around the house. I have just turned the corner when I hear my mother pull away.

  Of course it looks like there’s no one here. I planned it that way.

  I don’t have a lab report to do. I don’t even know anyone named Leon.

  This is a new neighborhood for me. A lot of professors who work at UVM live here. The houses are old and have little brass plaques on th
em with the years they were built. The really cool thing about old houses is that they have crappy locks. You can jimmy them open most of the time with a credit card slipped in the right way. I don’t have a credit card, but my school ID works just as well.

  I know that no one’s home because there aren’t any footprints on the driveway after last night’s snow—something my mother didn’t notice. On the porch, I kick the snow off my sneakers and walk inside. The house smells like old people—oatmeal and mothballs. There’s a cane propped inside the entryway, too. But—weird—there’s also a Gap hoodie hanging up. Maybe their granddaughter left it behind.

  Like last time, I go to the kitchen first.

  The first thing I see is a bottle of red wine on the counter. It’s about half full. I pop the cork and take a swig, and nearly spit the shit out all over the countertop. How come people drink if it tastes like this? Wiping my mouth, I rummage through the pantry for something to make me forget the taste of the wine, and find a box of crackers. I rip it open and eat a few. Then I check out the contents of the fridge and make myself a Black Forest ham and sage-cheddar sandwich on a baguette. No ham and cheese for this house. It’s even too fancy for good ol’ yellow mustard—I have to use champagne mustard instead, whatever that is. For a second I worry it will taste like the wine, but if there’s alcohol in it, you could have fooled me.

  Trailing crumbs, I walk into the living room. I haven’t taken my sneakers off, so I’m leaving behind a trail of melting snow, too. I pretend I’m superhuman. I can see through walls; I can hear a pin drop. Nobody could ever take me by surprise.

  The living room is exactly what you’d be expecting. Couches with crackly leather and stacks of paper everywhere, so many dusty books that even though I don’t have asthma I feel it coming on.

  A woman and a man live here. I can tell because there are books on gardening and little glass bottles lined up on the mantel. I wonder if they sit in this room and talk about their kids, way back when. I bet they finish each other’s sentences.

  Remember when Louis found a piece of felt on the driveway after Christmas . . .