The Jodi Picoult Collection

by Jodi Picoult

  “It’s nice out here,” Jane says. Then she shakes her head. “That’s an understatement.”

  “I know it. I come out here almost every Sunday if I get the chance. I like feeling that I’m part of this picture, kind of.”

  “I must be ruining the harmony, then,” Jane says.

  I open up the tackle box and take out a hook and a leader. “Not at all. You’re just what this place needed.” I point to the jar. “Hand me a worm?” Jane unscrews the lid and pulls out a fat worm without a second thought. “You should try catching the first bass.” I hand her the fishing rod. “You know how to cast?”

  “I think so.” I tell her to aim for the lily pads behind me. She stands up precariously, balancing the boat under her feet, and releases the catch on the reel. She whizzes the line over my head; a really good cast, actually. Then she chokes up on the line a little and sits back down. “Now I just wait?”

  I nod. “They’ll be here soon. Trust me.”

  I like fishing because it reminds me of Christmas, when you’re handed a box and you don’t know what’s inside. You get a tug on your line and you have no idea what you’re going to pull up-bass, sunfish, pickerel, perch. So you reel in, but slowly, because you don’t want the excitement to be over too quick. And then there’s something thrashing on the end of your hook, scales catching the sun, and it’s yours, all yours.

  We sit in the calm cradle of the rowboat, letting the sun drip down the necks of our shirts. Jane holds the cork grip of the rod lightly, and I think, please God, don’t let her drop it if it she gets a bite. The last thing I want to do is to lose my lucky rod overboard. She leans back against the bow of the boat, balancing her elbows just so. The backs of her legs rest on the seat, supporting the rest of her. “I should have told you this before,” I say, “but I hope you know you’re welcome to use the phone. If there’s someone you need to call in California. Your husband, or whoever.”

  “Thanks.” Jane gives me a perfunctory smile, and rolls the fishing rod around in her palm. If you ask me, she should call that scientist guy. He’s probably going out of his mind wondering if she’s all right. At least I know that’s the way I would be if my wife up and left me. But I don’t say anything. If I’ve asked Jane not to interfere in the way I run my life, I’m sure as hell not going to meddle in hers.

  Jane asks me when everyone else gets up on Sundays, and I’m about to answer when the tip of the rod jerks down violently. Her eyes fly open, and she grabs tight onto the rod while the bass starts running with the line. “It’s strong!” Jane cries, and as she says this the bass leaps arching its back, trying again to make a getaway. “Did you see it! Did you see it?”

  I reach over the side of the rowboat and pull the end of the line up. The fish comes out of the water, blue-green. The hook is caught in the corner of its jaw, and still it does not give up without a fight.

  “Well,” I say, holding up the bass. Its hinged mouth, a perfect round O, is translucent. You can see right through to its insides. Its tail flaps back and forth, curving the body into such a half-circle it seems impossible the fish could have a spine. I hold it up on the line in such a way that one filmy green eye stares at me, and the other one at Jane, taking us both in at the same time. “What do you think of your fish?”

  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 lose 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 sliver 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 one-bedroom 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 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 anchorperson 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 rushes 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.”