by Jodi Picoult
What I could never puzzle out, however, was how you'd get from where you are to where you might one day be - until I was given the materials to make a bridge. Too late I learned that that bridge was made of thorns, that it might not be strong enough to hold us all.
When it comes to memories, the good and the bad never balance. I am not sure how I came to measure your life by the moments when it's fallen apart - surgeries, breaks, emergencies - instead of the moments in between. Maybe that makes me a pessimist, maybe it makes me a realist. Or maybe it just makes me a mother.
You will hear people saying things about me. Some are lies, some are truth. There's only one fact that matters: I don't want you to ever suffer another break.
Especially one between you and me, because that might never set properly.
Sean
I
was hemorrhaging money.
Not only was my paycheck being stretched to cover the mortgage and the car payment and the credit card finance charges but now any cash I might have been able to sock away was being poured, forty-nine dollars per night, into the Sleep Inn motel, where I'd been living since the day Charlotte came to ream me out at the highway construction detail.
This is why, when Charlotte told me she was leaving one Friday to take the girls to an OI convention for the weekend, I checked out of the Sleep Inn and let myself into my own house.
It's a weird thing, coming back home as a stranger. You know how, when you go into someone else's house, it smells - sometimes like fresh laundry, sometimes like pine needles, but distinct from any other? You don't notice it where you live until you haven't been there for a while. The first night, I'd walked around soaking in the familiar: the newel post on the banister that still popped off because I'd never gotten around to fixing it; the herd of stuffed animals on your bed; the baseball I'd caught while on a trip to Fenway with a bunch of other cops back in '90, a Tom Brunansky homer to center field in a game that put the Sox in first place over Toronto for the season.
I went into my bedroom, too, and sat down on Charlotte's side of the bed. That night, I slept on her pillow.
The next morning, as I packed up my toiletries, I wondered if Charlotte would go to wash her face and be able to smell the scent of me on the towels. If she'd notice that I'd finished off the loaf of bread and the roast beef. If she'd care.
It was my day off, and I knew what I had to do.
The church was quiet at this time on a Saturday morning. I sat down in a pew, looking up at a stained-glass window that reached long, blue fingers down the aisle.
Forgive me, Charlotte, for I have sinned.
Father Grady, who was close to the altar, noticed me. 'Sean,' he said. 'Is Willow all right?'
He probably thought the only time I'd willingly set foot in a church was if I had to pray hard for my daughter's failing health. 'She's doing okay, Father. I actually was hoping I could talk to you for a minute.'
'Sure.' He sank down into the pew in front of me, turning sideways.
'It's about Charlotte,' I said slowly. 'We're having some problems seeing eye to eye.'
'I'm happy to talk to both of you,' the priest said.
'It's been months. I think we're past that point.'
'I hope you're not talking about divorce, Sean. There is no divorce in the Catholic Church. It's a mortal sin. God made your marriage, not some piece of paper.' He smiled at me. 'Things that look impossible suddenly seem a lot better, once you get God onboard.'
'God's got to make exceptions every now and then.'
'No way. If He did, people would go into marriage thinking there was a way out when the going got tough.'
'My wife,' I said flatly, 'plans to swear on a Bible in court and then say she wishes she'd aborted Willow. Do you think God would want me married to someone like that?'
'Yes,' the priest said immediately. 'The biggest purpose of marriage, after having children, is to support and help your spouse. You might be the one who manages to make Charlotte see she's wrong.'
'I tried. I can't.'
'A sacrament - like marriage - means living a life better than your natural instincts, so that you're modeling God. And God never gives up.'
That, I thought to myself, wasn't entirely true. There were plenty of places in the Bible where God backed Himself into a corner and, instead of toughing it out, simply started over. Look at the great flood, at Sodom and Gomorrah.
'Jesus didn't get to drop that Cross,' Father Grady said. 'He carried it all the way uphill.'
Well, in one respect the priest was right. If I stayed in this marriage, either Charlotte or I was going to wind up being crucified.
'How about you and Charlotte come see me together sometime next week?' Father Grady said. 'We'll figure this out.'
I nodded, and he patted my hand and headed toward the altar again.
Lying to a priest was a sin, too, but that was the least of my worries.
Adina Nettle's office was nothing like Guy Booker's, although they apparently had gone to law school together. Adina, Guy said, was the one you wanted if you were getting a divorce. He'd used her twice now himself.
She had overstuffed couches with those lacy things that look like they belong on valentines draped over the backs. She served tea but not coffee. And she looked like everybody's grandmother.
Maybe that's why she got what she wanted in settlements.
'You're not too cold, Sean? I can turn down the air-conditioning . . .'
'I'm fine,' I said. For the past half hour, I'd drunk three cups of Earl Grey and told Adina about our family. 'We go back and forth to different hospitals, depending on what the problem is,' I said. 'Omaha, for orthopedics. Boston, for pamidronate. Local hospitals for most breaks.'
'It must be very difficult, not knowing what's going to happen.'
'No one knows what's going to happen,' I said soberly. 'We just have emergencies more often than most folks.'
'Your wife must not be able to work, then,' Adina said.
'No. We've been trying to make ends meet ever since Willow was born.' I hesitated. 'And I can't say it's any easier with me living in a motel.'
Adina made a note on her legal pad. 'Sean, divorce is financially devastating to most people, and it's going to be even more so for you, because you and Charlotte are living from paycheck to paycheck - plus you've got the added stressor of your daughter's illness. And there's a strange catch-22 here, too - if you want custody, that means you're going to be working less, making even less money. When you're not working, your children are with you. You won't have any free time anymore.'
'That doesn't matter,' I said.
Adina nodded. 'Does Charlotte have job skills?'
'She used to be a pastry chef,' I said. 'She hasn't worked since Willow was born, but last winter she started a little stand at the end of the driveway.'
'A stand?'
'Like a vegetable stand. But with cupcakes.'
'If you cut back on your hours to be with the children, will you be able to afford to keep the house? Or will it have to be sold so that you can have two smaller households?'
'I . . . I don't know.' Our savings were shot to hell, that much was clear.
'Based on what you've told me, with all of Willow's adaptive equipment and her schedule, it seems that keeping her in one location would be easier for everyone involved . . . even when it comes to visitation . . .' Adina glanced up at me. 'There is one other option. You could live at the house until the divorce is finalized.'
'Wouldn't that be - a little uncomfortable?'
'Yes. It's also cheaper, which is why a majority of couples who are in the process of divorcing choose to do it. And it's easier on the children.'
'I don't get it--'
'It's very simple. We draw up a negotiated plan, so that you're in the house when your wife isn't and vice versa. That way you each have time with the girls while the divorce is pending, and the household expenses are no greater than they are right now.'
I looked down
at the floor. I didn't know if I could be that generous. I didn't know if I could stand to see Charlotte in the thick of this lawsuit and not want to kill her for the things she said. But then again, I would be right there, a call away, if you needed someone to hold you in the middle of the night. If you needed reinforcement to believe that the world would not be anywhere near as bright without you in it.
'There's only one catch,' Adina said. 'It's not ordinary in New Hampshire for a father to get physical possession of a child, especially in a case where the child has special needs and the mother has been a stay-at-home caretaker the child's whole life. So how are you going to convince a judge that you're the better parent?'
I met the lawyer's eye. 'I'm not the one who started a wrongful birth lawsuit,' I said.
After I walked out of the attorney's office, the world seemed different. The road looked too clear, the colors too jarring. It was like getting a pair of glasses that were overcorrected, and I felt myself moving more carefully.
At a stoplight, I looked out the window and saw a young woman crossing the street with a cup of coffee in her hand. She caught my eye and smiled. In the past, I would have looked away, embarrassed - but now? Were you allowed to smile back, to look, to acknowledge other women, if you'd taken the first steps to ending your marriage?
I had two hours before my shift started, and I headed toward Aubuchon Hardware. The irony didn't escape me - I was shopping at a home improvement mecca, although I didn't currently have a home. But while staying in the house this weekend, I'd noticed that the ramp I'd built for your wheelchair three years ago was rotting out in one spot where we had some standing water this spring. My plan was to build you a new one today, so you'd see it when you returned from your conference.
The way I figured it, I'd need three or four sheets of three-quarterinch pressure-treated plywood, plus a stretch of indoor-outdoor carpeting to give traction under the wheels of your chair. I headed for the service desk to try to estimate the cost. 'You're talking about $34.10 a sheet,' the employee said, and I found myself backpedaling through the math. If the wood alone cost over a hundred bucks, I'd have to work more overtime, and that wasn't even counting the cost of the carpet material. The more hours I spent at work, the less I would have with you girls. The more money I spent on the ramp, the less I'd have for another night's motel room.
'Sean?'
Piper Reece was standing three feet away.
'What are you doing here?' she asked, but before I could answer, she held up her hands, revealing a packet of wire connectors and a GFCI receptacle. 'I'm replacing one. I've been pretty handy lately, but this is the first time I've fooled around with electricity.' She laughed nervously. 'I keep seeing the headline: "Woman Found Electrocuted in Her Own Kitchen. Counter was not clean at the time of death." It's supposed to be easy, right? Like, the chances of being zapped during a do-it-yourself project can't be nearly as high as the chances of getting into a car accident on your way to the hardware store, right?' She shook her head and blushed. 'I'm babbling.'
I've got to go. The words were in my mouth, smooth and round like cherry pits, but what came out was this: 'I could help you.'
Stupid, stupid, stupid ass. That's what I kept telling myself I was, once the back of my truck was loaded with three sheets of pressure-treated plywood and carpeting and I was headed to Piper Reece's house. There was no real explanation for why I hadn't simply turned my back and walked away from her except for this: in all the years I'd known Piper, I'd never seen her as anything but confident and self-assured - to the point where she was too sharp, too arrogant. Today, though, she'd been completely flustered.
I liked her better this way.
I knew the way to her house, of course. When I pulled onto her street, I experienced the slightest panic - would Rob be home? I didn't think I could handle both of them at once. But his car was gone, and as I turned off the engine, I took a deep breath. Five minutes, I told myself. Install the freaking GFCI and get out of there.
Piper was waiting at the front door. 'This is really so nice of you,' she said as I stepped inside.
The hallway hadn't always been this color. And when I walked into it, I saw that the kitchen had been remodeled. 'You've had some work done in here.'
'Actually, I did it myself,' Piper admitted. 'I've had a lot more time lately.'
An uncomfortable silence settled over us like a shroud. 'Well. Everything looks completely different.'
She stared at me. 'Everything is completely different.'
I jammed my hands into the pockets of my jeans. 'So the first thing you have to do is cut off the power at the circuit box,' I said. 'I'm guessing that's in the basement?'
She led me downstairs, and I switched off the breaker. Then I walked into the kitchen. 'Which one is it?' I asked, and Piper pointed.
'Sean? How are you doing?'
I deliberately pretended to hear her incorrectly. 'Just taking out the busted one,' I said. 'Look, it's that easy, once you unscrew it. And then you have to take all the white wires and pigtail them together into one of these little caps. After that, you take the new GFCI and use your screwdriver to connect the pigtail over here - see where it says "white line"?'
Piper leaned closer. Her breath smelled of coffee and remorse. 'Yes.'
'Do the same thing with the black wires, and connect them to the terminal that says "hot line." And last of all, you connect the grounding wire to the green screw and stuff it all back into the box.' With the screwdriver, I reattached the cover plate and turned to her. 'Simple.'
'Nothing's simple,' she said, and she stared at me. 'But you know that. Like, for example, crossing over to the dark side.'
I put the screwdriver down gently. 'It's all the dark side, Piper.'
'Well, still. I feel like I owe you a thank-you.'
I shrugged, looking away. 'I'm really sorry this all happened to you.'
'I'm really sorry it happened to you,' Piper answered.
I cleared my throat, took a step backward. 'You probably want to go down and throw the breaker, so you can test the outlet.'
'That's all right,' Piper said, and she offered me a shy smile. 'I think it's going to work.'
Amelia
O
kay, let me just tell you that it's not easy to keep a secret in close quarters. My house was bad enough, but have you ever noticed how thin the walls of a hotel bathroom are? I mean, you can hear everything - which meant that when I needed to make myself sick, I had to do it in the big public restrooms in the lobby, which required sitting in a stall until I could peek left and right and not see any other pairs of shoes.
After I'd gotten up this morning and found a note from Mom, I'd gone downstairs to eat and then found you in the kids' area. 'Amelia,' you said when you saw me. 'Aren't those cool?' You were pointing to little colored rods that some of the kids had affixed to the wheels of their chairs. They made an annoying clicking sound when you pushed, which to be honest would get awfully old awfully quick, but - to be fair - they were pretty awesome when they glowed in the dark.
I could practically see you taking mental notes as you sized up the other kids with OI. Who had which color wheelchair, who put stickers on their walkers, which girls could walk and which ones had to use a chair, which kids could eat by themselves and which needed help being fed. You were placing yourself in the mix, figuring out where you fit in and how independent you were by comparison. 'So what's on the docket for this morning?' I asked. 'And where's Mom?'
'I don't know - I guess at one of the other meetings,' you said, and then you beamed at me. 'We're going swimming. I've already got on my bathing suit.'
'That sounds kind of fun--'
'You can't come, Amelia. It's for people like me.'
I knew you didn't mean to sound like such a snot, but it still hurt to be cut out. I mean, who else was left to ignore me? First Mom, then Emma, now even my little disabled sister was dissing me. 'Well, I wasn't inviting myself,' I said, stung. 'I have somewhere to go
anyway.' But I watched you wheel yourself into the pack as one of the nurses called the first group of kids to head toward the pool. You were giggling, whispering with a girl who had a bumper sticker on the back of her chair: HOGWARTS DROPOUT.
I wandered out of the kiddie zone and into the main hallway of conference rooms. I had no idea what presentation my mother was planning to attend, but before I could even think about that, one of the signs outside the doors caught my attention: TEENS ONLY. I poked my head inside and saw a collection of kids my age with OI - some in wheelchairs, some just standing - batting around balloons.
Except they weren't balloons. They were condoms.
'We're going to get started,' the woman in the front of the room said. 'Hon, can you close the door?'
She was, I realized, talking to me. I didn't belong here - there were special programs for siblings like me who didn't have OI. But then again, looking around the room, I could see there were plenty of kids who weren't as bad off as you were - maybe no one would know my bones were perfectly fine.
Then I noticed the boy from yesterday - the one who'd come over to get that little girl Niamh when we were still registering. He looked like the kind of guy who would play the guitar and make up songs about the girl he loved. I'd always thought it would be amazing to have a guy sing to me; although what on earth could he find interesting enough about me to write a song about? Amelia, Amelia . . . take off your shirt and let me feel ya?
I stepped into the room and closed the door behind me. The boy grinned, and I lost all sensation in my legs.
I sat down on a stool beside him and pretended I was far too cool to notice the fact that he was close enough for me to feel his body heat. 'Welcome,' the woman at the front of the room said. 'I'm Sarah, and if you're not here for Birds and Bees and Breaks, you're in the wrong place. Ladies and gentlemen, today we're going to talk about sex, sex, and nothing but sex.'
There was some edgy laughter; the tips of my ears started to burn.
'Nothing like beating around the bush,' the boy beside me said, and then he smiled. 'Oops. Bad metaphor.'
I looked around, but he was very clearly speaking to me. 'Very bad,' I whispered.
