The Jodi Picoult Collection

by Jodi Picoult

  I tell them where the net was caught. I tell them we used a grappling hook to cut it away. 1 tell them about the whale that came up to Marble and stroked her gently, and I let them know such tenderness is often exhibited among humpbacks. I tell them everything they want to know and then finally someone asks the question I have been waiting to hear.

  “Dr. Jones,” the man says, “was this a case of being in the right place at the right time? Or did you come here expressly to help the whale?”

  “I didn’t know about the whale until I heard of its plight through the efforts of you good folks. I’m in Massachusetts on a different sort of rescue mission. I have been traveling across the country looking for my wife Jane and my daughter Rebecca. I have reason to believe that they are in Massachusetts; unfortunately, it is a very big state and I don’t know where. If you’ll indulge me, I was hoping you’d allow me to send a message to them.”

  I pause long enough to let the cameras start rolling again. I clear my throat and look as honestly as one can into the blind eye of a TV camera. “Jane,” I say, and I realize that it comes out sounding like a question. “I need you. I hope you can see this, and I hope you and Rebecca are all right. I can’t stand being without you. I don’t blame you if you don’t believe me, but I came to save this whale because I knew you’d hear about it on the news and I wanted you to see me. I wanted you to remember how it used to be—we postponed our honeymoon because of a whale, don’t you remember that? Don’t you remember how we cheered and hugged each other when we saw it swimming again, miles off the coast? Well, I saved a whale today. And I want you to know it wasn’t any fun without you. If you’re watching this, I hope you’ll let me know where you are. Call the Provincetown Center for Coastal Studies—they’ll know how to get in touch with me.”

  A reporter interrupts. “Do you have a picture?”

  I nod and pull my wallet out of my pocket. I open to a photo taken of Jane and Rebecca less than a year ago. “Can you get this?” I hold it up towards the cameras. “If anyone out there has seen my wife, or this little girl, please call in.” I stare at the grey cataract eyes of the television cameras. Jane’s eyes are grey too, I think, surprised that I can still picture them so vividly. “I love you,” I say. “I don’t care if the whole world knows.”

  58 JANE

  For a long time I watch the different digits materialize on the face of the clock beside the bed. I wait until it says 1:23, and then I stand up and walk around this borrowed bedroom. There’s no moon tonight, so there is no natural light. It is only through the practice of several nights that I do not bump into the dresser, the post of the bed, the rocking chair, as I make my way out the door.

  I hold my breath as I walk down the hall. When I pass Rebecca’s bedroom, I press my ear against the door and I listen to her steady, even breathing. Satisfied by this small thing, I amass enough courage to walk seven steps farther down the hallway, to his room.

  Having practiced for twenty minutes on the doorknob of my own bedroom, I find it easy to let myself inside without making a sound. When I open the door, a slice of light from the hall spills onto the floor of his room, illuminating a runway that leads to the foot of the bed. From where I stand, I can see the tangled sheets and blankets.

  I take a deep breath and I sit on the edge of the mattress but all I hear is the sound of my own throat pounding. “I know you’re awake,” I say. “I know you can’t sleep either.” Jane, I tell myself, you are not leaving until you say what you’ve planned to say. “I’ve never been with anyone but Oliver, my whole life,” I say, turning the words over and over in my mouth. “I’ve never even kissed anyone but him. Really kissed. Well, you know, except for this afternoon.” I spread my fingers out in front of me, wondering if there is something there for me to touch. “I’m not saying that today was your fault. I’m not saying there’s anyone to blame. I’m just telling you I don’t know if I’m any good at this.” I wonder why there is no response. What if he hasn’t been thinking these things at all? “Are you awake?” I ask, leaning into the night, and then the air closes in from behind me.

  It envelopes me and wraps itself so tight that I start to scream, until I feel the hand press against my lips and I try to bite it but that’s no use, and it pushes me down against the bed, rolling me onto my back and pinning me by my shoulders and this entire time I am trying to scream, and then my eyes clear and inches away from me is Sam.

  He relaxes his hold on my mouth. “What are you doing?” I whisper, hoarse. “Why aren’t you in bed?”

  “I was in the bathroom. I stopped there on the way to your room.”

  “You did?” I sit up on the edge of the bed, and he is still holding my hands. Our fingers rest, entwined, on top of my leg.

  “And by the way,” Sam says, “I think you are very good at this.”

  I look down at my lap. “Oh, how much did you hear?”

  “All of it. I was waiting at the door, listening. You can’t get mad at me for eavesdropping, either, because you thought I was over there.” He points to the lump of blankets and pillows that have been balled into the center of the bed. Then he takes one of my hands and turns it over in his own, rubbing the warm skin of my palm with his thumb. “So what are you doing in my room?” He leans close.

  I sink down into his pillows. “I’m waiting for the guilt. I figure if the guilt comes, then I can punish myself and feel better. I keep waiting, you know, and I think about you, but no matter what I don’t feel guilty. So then I start to believe that I’m not the person I thought I was at all. And then I figure if I’m awful, I don’t deserve to be thinking about you.” I sigh. “You must think I’m crazy.”

  Sam laughs. “Want to know why I was headed to your room? To talk about marriage. Honest to God, I was. I wanted you to know that you were driving me nuts, because here I was thinking about things that I shouldn’t be, knowing you’ve got a family and all. And the worst part of it is: I believe in marriage. I haven’t gotten married because I haven’t found the right woman. My whole life I’ve been waiting for something to just click, you know. And tonight I was lying here, thinking about what you might have looked like the day you got hitched to Oliver Jones, and it all just connected for me. Don’t you get it? He’s taken the woman that I’m supposed to marry.”

  “When I got married, you were the same age as Rebecca. You were just a kid.”

  Sam lies down on his side so that he is facing me. He is wearing a T-shirt and polka-dotted boxer shorts, and when he sees me looking at them he reaches for a sheet and wraps it around his hips. “I’m not a kid now,” he says.

  He reaches his hand towards my face, and traces the length of my cheek and chin with his finger. Then he grabs my hand and holds it to his own cheek. He runs it over the coarse field of stubble, over the break of his jawbone and the soft, dry line of his lips. Then he lets go.

  But I don’t pull my hand away. I keep my fingers against his mouth as it opens to kiss them. I run them lightly over Sam’s eyelids, feeling his eyes moving wild behind. I comb over his lashes and down the bridge of his nose. I explore him as if I have never seen anything of the kind.

  He doesn’t move as I slide the palms of my hands over his shoulders and his arms, over the indentation where his muscles join, into the hollow of his elbow. He lets me trace the sinews of his strong forearms, turn his hands over in my own, feel for the callouses and cuts. He helps me pull his shirt over his head and when I throw it, it lands on the night table.

  If I keep it like this, like an exploration, then I have nothing to be afraid of. It is only if I move to a different level, to intimacy, that I will have to worry. Sex has never been mystical for me. The earth doesn’t move, and I don’t hear angels, or bells, or all those other things. I am always a little too self-conscious. With skeletons such as mine in the closet, I never expected making love to be magic. The way I saw it, I had done something extraordinary: I had pushed the worst memories out of my mind. The first time was the hardest for me, and ha
ving hurdled that with Oliver, I never expected to have to face that problem again.

  But when I feel Sam wrap his arms around my waist, and gently run his fingers over my ribs; when I feel him already hard, pushing against my thigh, I start to cry.

  “What is it? What’s the matter?” Sam pulls me against him. “Did I do something?”

  “No.” I try to catch my breath. I cannot tell him. I haven’t told anyone. But suddenly I don’t want to carry it around anymore, like Atlas’s weight. “When I was little,” I hear myself murmur against his skin. My voice sounds foreign, like I am listening, again, from that far corner, but as I speak I seem to be coming closer.

  Sam holds me at arm’s distance then, and I witness the most amazing thing. He is staring at me, puzzled, waiting for me to tell him about my father. But all I have to do is raise my eyes to his, and look at him, really look at him. And I realize from his gaze that he isn’t waiting for an explanation anymore. “I know,” he says then, sounding surprised at his own words. “I know about your father. I don’t know why, but just then I could tell what you were going to say.” He swallows hard.

  “How?” My mouth forms the word but there is no sound.

  “I—I don’t know how to explain it,” Sam says. “I can see it in you.” Then he winces, and draws back, as if he has been stricken. “You were just a kid,” he whispers.

  He holds me tight, and I hold him back. He is shivering, having found pieces of me that have been missing, having found parts of himself he didn’t know existed. The whole time, I cry like I have never cried before; tears I did not cry when I was nine and Daddy came into my room, tears I did not cry at my father’s funeral. Sam unbuttons the silk nightgown I am wearing, and slides it off my shoulders. He guides my hands to inch off his shorts. Our skin is iridescent in the dark. Sam reaches his hand between my legs. I cover his hand with my own; I urge him. He slips one finger inside me, moist and blossoming, and all the while he is watching my face. Is this all right? Just like that, he has found my center. Sam kisses away my tears, and then he kisses me. Like salt, I can taste my pain, my shame, on his lips.

  59 SAM

  She is so beautiful, lying here on my bed. And so sad. She keeps trying to turn her face, to hide in the pillow. But I can’t let her do that, not knowing what I now know. I am taking Jane with me every step of the way.

  I close my eyes and kiss her neck, her breasts, the curve of her hip. I breathe lightly inside her thighs, knowing she can feel it. That is when she takes my hand, guides me inside her. I watch her face the entire time. I ask her if this is all right. But she holds my wrist, insisting, and so I go as tenderly as I can. Inside is hot, pulsing. I can feel myself getting harder; I rub against her leg. When I think I am going to lose control I pull away, and run my tongue over her nipples. Her eyes are open, but she isn’t looking at anything. She does not make any noise. Sometimes I think she is forgetting to breathe.

  Then she sits up and reaches for me. She slides her palms up and down. Her touch is feather-light, teasing. When I can’t take it anymore I fall down on the bed, grab her roughly and kiss her. She tastes of mint and honey. Once I begin I cannot stop; I crush my mouth against hers, bruising. She pushes me away, gasping, and then she kisses me again. She rubs against me, wrapping her arms around my hips. I will not let her go. I drink her in, every inch that I can touch, and I watch to see her back arch, knotted by pleasure.

  We become a twist of arms and legs. It takes a moment to see that she is moving, tunneling low, running her fingers over my body like the feeding seam of a sewing machine. She stops, looks up at me once, and then takes me into her mouth.

  It is like a warm sponge, wrapped around, and she moves up and down, and the wonderful thing is: I can feel the line of her teeth; I can feel the nut of her tongue. I try to reach for her; to do something for her that feels as good as this does for me-but all I can touch are her shoulders. Her hair is spread over my hips like a dark fan. She begins to go faster and faster. I close my eyes, thinking of rhythm. I move my hips with her. This is going to be it; this is going to be it, but I want more. Gasping, I pull her hands from my sides to slide her up my body and that is when I see her ring.

  It has been there the entire time, but I didn’t notice. It’s thin, gold. It looks permanent. She follows my gaze to her left hand. “Throw it out,” she whispers, “I don’t care.” She rolls away from me and tugs it off, setting it spinning on the nightstand. She rubs her finger, as if she is trying to erase the memory. But there is a thin white line where she hasn’t tanned.

  She takes that hand and brushes hair away from my face. I can’t help it, I flinch—it’s got me thinking again. She leans over to kiss my chest, and then she buries her face in a blanket. “I just want to be yours,” she says.

  I turn her so that she is facing me again. We start to kiss, touching together with the sound of a sigh. This time, our eyes are open, because we don’t want to miss seeing each other. I become aware of her hands on my hips, lowering me. She wraps her legs around me, and eases me inside her, and that is when I understand what it is to feel whole.

  She closes around me like a soft throat. So this is what love is like. So this is the way all the pieces come together. All my blood is pouring towards my hips, pounding out of rhythm. I cannot press any closer to her, but I’m trying. I want to be contained, to come through to her other side. We cling to each other, heat steaming from our bodies.

  I start to feel it building up, insistent and demanding. She opens her eyes wide, looking at me in wonder. This is the image that I carry when I crush her to me, and feel myself explode just as she tightens around me.

  We stay like that for a long time. Neither of us wants to speak. I kiss her on the forehead. Astonished, that’s the way she’s watching me. And I suppose it’s the way I’m watching her too. When she shifts under my weight I move, wincing as we are ripped apart. It just doesn’t feel the same. Now that I know what it is like to feel complete, it’s no good to be by myself.

  60 REBECCA

  July 7, 1990

  This diner has velvet Elvises on the walls. Two waitresses are sharing a cigarette and talking about Elvis. The place is empty.

  “Vera saw him,” the fat waitress says. “A party in Blue Dome.”

  “Well Glory Be for Vera. He’s dead, I tell you. D-E-A-D. Dead.” The waitress turns to us. She has a nose ring. “Can I help you?”

  “We can seat ourselves,” my mother offers. The waitresses are already ignoring her.

  My mother and I don’t bother to read the menu. We’ve memorized it. We’re listening to these waitresses, and taking in the seventeen pictures of Elvis. They are the kind you buy on highways and they hang over each booth. In the one above our heads, Elvis wears a white jumpsuit and a belt whose buckle spells LOVE. He is gyrating, even on velvet.

  “Elvis died when you were three,” my mother says, and both waitresses stare at us. “Well, theoretically.”

  We order three sandwiches between us: chicken cutlet, meatball parmigiana, and tuna with swiss. We order Cokes and onion rings, potato skins. While this is all being cooked we go to the restrooms and wash up. Then while we eat our food, we plot the route from Idaho to Fishtrap, Montana, with spoons and forks and sugar packets. “It won’t take us more than a few hours,” I say, and my mother agrees.

  “I figure we’ll be in Massachusetts in a week,” she says. “We’ll probably celebrate your birthday in Minnesota, at this rate.”

  Minnesota. My birthday. I forgot about that. As the fat waitress brings us our food, I think about what my birthday might have been like. A big surprise party, maybe, out in our backyard. Maybe even a night cruise on one of my father’s Whale Watch boats from the Institute. With a DJ and a parquet dance floor laid down. Or maybe there’d be a huge wrapped package waiting at the foot of my bed when I woke up. Inside, a red dress with spaghetti straps and sequins, the kind I always want but my mother says makes me look like a child prostitute. And my father would promena
de my mother into my bedroom—she’d be wearing a taffeta gown and he’d have on his fancy tuxedo with the pinstriped bow tie. We’d walk down to the limo, and we’d be off to the fanciest restaurant for steamed lobster. And at the table, the waiter would be young and blond and gorgeous, and he’d hold out my chair for me and unfold my napkin and bring me a drink without questioning my age.

  It won’t happen in Minnesota. But it probably wouldn’t have happened in San Diego, either. My father wouldn’t have been around for my birthday, or we wouldn’t be here in the first place. He wasn’t home when I tried to call last night from the motel. I tried when my mother was in the bathroom, but she probably knew. I can’t hide those things from her, no matter what.

  It’s not so much that I miss him. I think if he’d picked up the phone I would have hung up anyway. Still, it would have been nice to hear his voice. To hear him say he missed me, even. I would like to think he wasn’t home because he’s on his way to find us. I have these Hollywood visions of him begging on his knees for my mom to come home, and then sweeping her up in his arms for a long movie-style kiss. I have these visions, but I know better.

  My mother, who has been rummaging through her wallet, starts to empty her entire pocketbook on the crummy table. “What’s the matter?”

  She looks up at me. “We can’t pay. Simple as that.”

  She’s got to be kidding. We have plenty of money. We would have noticed before now. My mother leans across the table and whispers to me. “Ask if they take checks.”

  So I sidle up to the fat waitress and in the most precious sugarcoated voice I can summon, I ask if a check is okay. “We’re just trying to ration our cash,” I say. The fat waitress says it’s okay, but a voice from the grill in the back yells out it isn’t, not one bit. Too many travelers come through. Too many checks bounce.