by Jodi Picoult
They left the restaurant at seven, plenty of time, Nicholas said, to get to the Esplanade. But a car fire on the highway blocked traffic for a good hour. He hated when things didn't go according to plan, especially when they moved beyond the realm of his control. Nicholas sat back and sighed. He switched on the radio, then he shut it off. He honked his horn, even though they weren't moving at all. "I can't believe this," Nicholas said. "We're never going to get there in time."
Paige was sitting cross-legged on the seat. "It doesn't matter," she said. "Fireworks are fireworks."
"Not these," Nicholas said. "You've never seen these." He told her about the barges in the basin of the Charles and the way the explosions were orchestrated to the "1812 Overture."
"The '1812 Overture'?" Paige said. "What's that?" And Nicholas had looked at her and honked again at the immobile car ahead of him.
After they'd played six games of Geography and three rounds of Twenty Questions, the traffic started to move. Nicholas drove like a madman toward Boston but couldn't get any closer to the Esplanade than Buckingham, Browne, and Nichols, a prep school that was miles away. He parked in the faculty lot and told Paige it would be worth the walk.
By the time they got to the Esplanade, it was a sea of people. Over the bobbing heads, in the distance, Nicholas could make out the Hatch Shell and the orchestra beneath it. A woman kicked him in the shin. "Hey, mister," she said, "I been camping out here since five in the morning. You ain't cutting in." Paige wrapped her arms around Nicholas's waist as a man pulled at the back of her shirt and told her to sit down. He felt her whisper against his chest. "Maybe," she said, "we should just go."
They didn't have a choice. They were pushed farther back by the heaving throng of people until they were standing underneath a highway tunnel. It was long and dark, and they could not see a thing. "I can't believe this," Nicholas said, and just as he was wondering how things could possibly get worse, a convoy of helmeted bikers cut him off, one ten-speed running over his left foot.
"Are you okay?" Paige asked, touching his shoulder as he hobbled around and winced at the pain. In the background, Nicholas heard the beginning bursts of fireworks. "Jesus Christ," he said.
Beside him, Paige leaned against the damp concrete wall of the tunnel. She crossed her arms. "Your problem, Nicholas," she said, "is that you always see the glass half empty instead of half full." She turned to stand in front of him, and even in the darkness he could see the bright glow of her eyes. From somewhere came the whistle of a Roman candle. "That's a red one," Paige said, "and it's climbing higher and higher, and now--there--it's shimmering across the sky and falling like a shower of hot sparks from a soldering iron."
"For God's sake," Nicholas muttered. "You can't see a thing. Don't be ridiculous, Paige."
He had snapped at her, but Paige only smiled. "Who's being ridiculous?" she said. She moved in front of him and placed her hands on his shoulders. "And who says I can't see a thing?" she said.
Two loud booms sounded. Paige turned so that her back was pressed against him and they were both staring at the same blank tunnel wall. "Two circles exploding," Paige said, "one inside the other. First blue streaks and then white streaks reaching over them, and now, just as they're fading, little silver spirals are showing up at the edges like dancing fireflies. And here's a fountain of gold spouting like a volcano, and this one is an umbrella, raining tiny blue spots like confetti."
Nicholas felt the silk of Paige's hair beneath his cheek; the tremble of her shoulders when she spoke. He wondered how one person's imagination could possibly hold so much color. "Oh, Nicholas," Paige said, "this is the finale. Wow! Huge bursts of blue and red and yellow splashing over the sky, and just as they're fading, the biggest one yet is exploding--it covers everything--it's a huge silver fan, and its fingers are stretching and stretching, and they hiss and they sizzle and fill the sky with a million new glowing pink stars." Nicholas thought he could listen to Paige's voice forever. He pulled her tightly against him, closed his eyes, and saw her fireworks.
"I won't embarrass you," Paige said. "I know which one is the salad fork."
Nicholas laughed. They were driving to his parents' home for dinner, and Paige's understanding of table etiquette had been the last thing on his mind. "Do you know," he said, "you are the only person in the world who can make me forget about atrial fibrillation?"
"I'm a girl of many talents," Paige said. She looked at him. "J know the butter knife too."
Nicholas grinned. "And who taught you all these grand things?"
"My dad," Paige said. "He taught me everything."
At a red light, Paige leaned out the open window to catch a better glimpse of herself in the side mirror. She stuck out her tongue. Nicholas looked appreciatively at the white curve of her neck and the tips of her bare feet, curled beneath her. "And what other things did your father teach you?"
Nicholas smiled as Paige's face lit up. She counted off on her fingers. "Never to leave the house without eating breakfast," she said, "to always walk with your back to a storm, to try to steer into a skid." She straightened her legs and slipped her shoes back on. "Oh, and to bring snacks to Mass, but not things that crunch." She began to tell Nicholas about her father's inventions--ones that had succeeded, like the automatic spinning carrot peeler, and ones that hadn't, like the canine toothbrush. In the middle of her reverie she cocked her head and looked at Nicholas. "He would like you," she said. "Yes." She nodded, convincing herself. "He'd like you very much."
"And why's that?"
"Because of what you have in common," Paige said. "Me."
Nicholas ran his hands around the edges of the steering wheel. "And your mother?" he said. "What did you learn from her?"
He remembered after he said it what Paige had told him about her mother at the diner. He remembered when it was too late, when the words, heavy and stupid, were hanging almost palpably in the space between them. For a moment Paige did not answer, did not move. He would have thought she hadn't even heard him, but then she leaned forward and switched on the radio, blasting the music so loudly she could only have been trying to crowd out the question.
Ten minutes later, Nicholas parked in the shade of an oak tree. He got out of the car and walked around to Paige's side to help her, but she was already standing and stretching.
"Which one is yours?" Paige asked, looking across the street at several pretty Victorians with white picket fences. Nicholas turned her by her elbow so that she would notice the house behind her, a tremendous brick colonial with ivy growing on its north side. "You've got to be kidding," she said, shrinking back a little. "Are you a Kennedy?" she murmured.
"Absolutely not," Nicholas said. "They're all Democrats." He walked her up the slate path to the front door, which, he thanked God, was opened not by the maid but by Astrid Prescott herself, wearing a wrinkled safari jacket, three cameras slung around her neck.
"Nicholas," she breathed. She threw her arms around him. "I've just gotten back. Nepal. Amazing culture; can't wait to see what I've got." She patted her cameras, caressing the one on top as if it were alive. She pulled Nicholas through the doorway with the force of a hurricane, and then she took Paige's small, cold hands in her own. "And you must be Paige." She pulled Paige into a breathtaking mahogany-paneled hallway with a marble floor that reminded her of the Newport mansions she had seen when visiting RISD as a junior. "I've been back less than an hour, and all Robert's told me about is this mysterious, magical Paige."
Paige took a step back. Robert Prescott was a well-known doctor, but Astrid Prescott was a legend. Nicholas didn't like to tell acquaintances he was related to "the Astrid Prescott," which people said with the same reverent tone they'd used a hundred years before to murmur "the Mrs. Astor." Everyone knew her story: the rich society girl had impetuously given up balls and garden parties to toy with photography, only to become one of the best in the field. And everyone knew Astrid Prescott's photography, especially her graphic black-and-white portraits of endan
gered species, which--Paige noticed--were placed haphazardly throughout the hall. They were haunting photos, shadows and light, of giant sea turtles, bird-wing butterflies, mountain gorillas. In flight, a spotted owl; the split of a blue whale's tail. Paige remembered a Newsweek article she'd read some years ago on Astrid Prescott, who was quoted as saying that she wished she'd been around when the dinosaurs died, because that would have been quite a scoop.
Paige looked from one photograph to another. Everyone had an Astrid Prescott calendar, or a small Astrid Prescott day diary, because her pictures were remarkable. She caught the terror and the pride. Next to this mythic woman, dwarfed by the monstrous house, Paige felt herself slipping away.
But Nicholas was more affected by his father. When Robert Prescott entered the room, the atmosphere changed, as if the air had become ionized. Nicholas stood straighter, put on his most winning smile, and watched Paige from the corner of his eye, wondering for the first time ever why he had to put on an act in front of his own parents. He and his father never touched, unless you counted shaking hands. It had something to do with showing affection, a forbidden thing among Prescotts, which left family members wondering at funerals why there were so many things that hadn't been said to the deceased but that should have been.
Over cold fruit soup and pheasant with new potatoes, Nicholas told his parents about his rotations, especially the emergency ward, downplaying the horrors for the dinner table. His mother kept bringing the conversation back to her trip. "Everest," she said. "You can't even take it with a wide-angle." She had removed her jacket for the dinner, revealing an old tank top and baggy khaki pants. "But damn if those Sherpas don't know the mountain like the back of their hand."
"Mother," Nicholas said, "not everyone is interested in Nepal."
"Well, not everyone is interested in orthopedic surgery, either, darling, but we all listened very politely." Astrid turned toward Paige, who was staring at the head of a tremendous buck poised above the door leading into the kitchen. "It's awful, isn't it?"
Paige swallowed. "It's just that I can't see you--"
"It's Dad's," Nicholas interrupted, winking at her. "Dad's a hunter. Don't get them started," he warned. "They don't always see eye to eye."
Astrid blew a kiss to the opposite end of the table, where Robert Prescott sat. "That awful thing got me my own darkroom in the house," she said.
"Fair trade," Robert called, saluting his wife with a fork-speared potato.
Paige turned her head from Nicholas's mother to Nicholas's father and then back again. She felt lost in the easy volley between them. She wondered how Nicholas had ever managed to get noticed while growing up. "Paige, dear," Astrid said, "where did you meet Nicholas?"
Paige toyed with her silverware, seizing her salad fork; something only Nicholas noticed. "We met at work," Paige said.
"So you're a . . ." Astrid left the sentence hanging, waiting for Paige to fill in medical student, or registered nurse, or even lab technician.
"Waitress," Paige said flatly.
"I see," said Robert.
Paige watched Astrid Prescott's warmth curl in around her, retreating like tentacles; she saw the hooded look Astrid passed to her husband: She's not what we expected. "Actually," Paige said, "I doubt you do."
Nicholas, whose stomach had been in knots since they sat down to dinner, did something else forbidden to Prescotts: he laughed out loud. His mother and father looked at him, but he only turned to Paige and gave her a smile. "Paige is a fabulous artist," he said.
"Oh?" Astrid said, leaning forward to offer Paige a second chance. "What an admirable hobby for a young lady. You know, that's how it all began for me." She snapped her fingers, and a maid appeared, whisking away her empty plate. Astrid leaned forward, placing her tanned elbows on the fine linen cloth. She smiled smoothly, but the light did not quite reach her eyes. "Where did you go to college, dear?"
"I didn't," Paige said evenly. "I was going to go to RISD, but something came up." She pronounced the name of the school as an acronym, as it was known.
"Riz-dee," Robert repeated coolly, staring at his wife. "Haven't heard much about that one."
"Nicholas," Astrid said sharply, "how is Rachel?" Nicholas saw Paige's face fall at the mention of another woman, one whose name she'd never heard before. He crumpled his napkin into a ball and stood up. "Why do you care, Mother?" he said. "You ever have before." He moved to Paige's chair and pulled it out, lifting her by her shoulders until she was standing. "I'm sorry," Nicholas said, "but I'm afraid we have to go."
In the car, they drove in circles. "What the hell was that all about?" Paige demanded when he'd finally reached a major highway. "Am I some kind of pawn or something?"
Nicholas did not answer her. She stared at him for a few minutes with her arms crossed, but finally sank back against the seat.
As soon as Nicholas reached the outskirts of Cambridge, she opened the door of the car. He came to a sudden stop. "What are you doing?" he asked, incredulous.
"I'm getting out. I can walk the rest of the way." She stood up, the moon looming behind her, soaking into the edge of the Charles River like a bloodstain. "You know, Nicholas," Paige said, "you sure aren't what I thought you were."
And as she walked away, a muscle throbbed along the edge of Nicholas's jaw. She's just like the rest of them, he thought, and just to prove her wrong, he sped past her on Route 2, screaming like a madman, shrieking until he thought his lungs would burst.
The next day Nicholas was still seething. He met Rachel after her anatomy class and suggested they go for coffee. He knew a place, he said, where they do portraits of you while you eat. It was a bit of a hike, all the way across the river, but it was relatively close to his apartment, for afterward. And then he walked beside her to the car, counting the stares of other men as they took notice of Rachel's honey hair, her soft curves. At the door of the diner, he pulled her into his arms and kissed her hard.
"Well," Rachel said, smiling. "Welcome back."
He led her to the booth he always took, and she almost immediately disappeared to the bathroom. He couldn't see Paige, which made him angry. After all, why else had he come? He was still questioning himself when she came up behind him. She was as quiet as a breeze, and he would not have sensed her if not for the clean scent of pears and willows he had come to know her by. When she stood in front of him, her eyes were wide and tired. "I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to piss you off."
"Who's pissed?" Nicholas said, grinning, but he distinctly felt the pinching of his heart, and he began to wonder if this was what cardiac patients always tried to describe.
At that point Rachel came out and slid into the booth across from Nicholas. "I'm sorry," Paige said, "but this booth is taken."
"Yes, I know," Rachel said coolly. She looked at Nicholas and then glared at Paige. She reached across the table and took Nicholas's hand, weaving her fingers through his with the quiet power of possession.
Nicholas couldn't have planned it better, but he didn't expect it to hurt quite so much. It wasn't that Paige stood rooted before him, her lips parted, as if she hadn't heard correctly. It was that when she turned, Nicholas did not see disappointment or betrayal. Instead, he realized she was looking at him, still, as if he were mythic. "What did you come here for?" she asked.
Nicholas cleared his throat, and Rachel kicked him under the table. "Rachel heard about the pictures and would like to have one done."
Paige nodded and left to get a pad. She sat at the front of the booth on a little stool, holding the pad tilted up the way she always did so the picture would be a surprise when she was finished. She drew clean, quick strokes and blended with her thumb, and as she drew, other diners peeked over her shoulder and laughed and whispered. When she finished, she threw the pad in front of Nicholas and walked into the kitchen. Rachel turned it over. There was her hair, her glittering eyes, and even the gist of her lovely features, but quite clearly the picture was that of a lizard.
Althou
gh he was scheduled to be on call that night at the hospital, Nicholas did something he had never done before: he phoned in sick. Then he grabbed a bite at McDonald's and walked through Harvard Square after the sun went down. He sat on a brick wall on the corner of Brattle and watched a juggler with flaming torches, wondering if the guy worried about what might happen. Nicholas put a faded dollar bill in the case of a jazz guitarist, and he stood at the window of a toy store, where stuffed alligators wearing rain slickers tumbled in tinfoil puddles. When it was five to eleven, he walked to Mercy, wondering what he would do if Doris or Marvela or anyone other than Paige was locking up that night. He realized that he would just keep walking, then, until he found her.
Paige was emptying the ketchup bottles when he came in. Over her head, taped to the wall, was the picture of Rachel as a lizard. "I like it," he said, making her jump.
In spite of herself, Paige smiled a little. "I'm sure I've lost us one customer," she said.
"So what," Nicholas said. "You made me come back." "And just what do I get?" Paige said. Nicholas smiled. "Whatever you want."
Many years later, when Nicholas thought of that exchange, he realized he shouldn't have made promises he couldn't have kept. But he did believe that no matter what Paige wanted, he could be it. He had a feeling about this, a feeling that all Paige really needed was him, not his trappings and not his success, and that was so new to Nicholas that he felt as if the weight of the world had been lifted from his shoulders. He pulled Paige closer and saw her stiffen and then relax. He kissed her ear, her temple, the corner of her mouth. In her hair he smelled bacon and waffles, but also sunshine and September, and he wondered how he could be thinking the things he was.
When she put her arms around him, as if she was testing the water, he put his hands on her waist and felt the hint of her hips below. "Is Lionel still here?" he whispered, and when she shook her head he took the keys from her pocket and locked the front door, turned off the light. He sat on one of the counter stools and pulled Paige to stand between his legs, and he kissed her, letting his hands run from her neck to her breasts to her belly. Softly he kissed her, this child-woman, and when he stroked her thighs and she tensed, he had to smile. She must be a virgin, he realized, and he was overwhelmed by a sudden thought: I want to be her first. I want to be the only one. "Marry me," he said, as surprised as she was by the words. He wondered if this was the way his luck would run out; if his career would start its disintegration, if this would be the first downslide to the avalanche. But he held Paige and decided that the hollow in his heart was just the fanning of love. Nicholas marveled at the luck of finding someone who so needed his security, never considering that although the dangers could be different, maybe he needed to be protected too.