Leaving Home: Short Pieces

by Jodi Picoult

  It occurs to me that there are Ritz-Carltons in every corner of the planet. That this might not be a break for my mother, but a beginning. What if it turns out I didn't come here to bring her back, but to say goodbye?

  "You must be exhausted," my mother says. "Why don't you go to sleep?"

  I want to tell her that I'm fine; that I don't have to sleep at all, but suddenly I am so tired that I can't even form the words. I fit my curves against hers, as if we are carved from the same stone.

  When Devon and I were little we used to put on gymnastics shows on the front lawn. Sometimes, when a somersault came out wobbly or a cartwheel landed wrong, we'd shout out Do over! This was the cue for Mom, who was the audience, to pretend that the first one had never happened. "If you could," I ask, "would you start over?"

  Not only does my mother listen; she understands what I'm asking. She reaches across me to turn out the light; it feels like an embrace. "No," she answers. "I wouldn't have missed you for the world."

  #

  For a moment when I wake up, I think I've died. I have a cloud drawn up to my chin; the world is washed in the watercolors of early morning. Then I remember where I am, where we are, and I focus on the insistent knocking on the door. My mother wraps the terrycloth robe around herself; pulls open the door and falls into my father's arms.

  Then she lets go so that she can gather Devon beneath her wing; and from the way he clutches her, it's hard to believe this is the same brother who barely acknowledges her when his friends are around, because it's uncool to have a mother, I guess. Instead, he grabs onto her - awkward, because he's bigger than she is by now - and if I am not mistaken, he might be crying.

  Meanwhile, my father's spied me. He stumbles in an effort to get closer and crawls onto the bed to wrap me in his arms. "If you ever run away again," he threatens, the words muffled into my hair, "I will kill you." But he's holding me so tight, I know he couldn't possibly mean it.

  I wonder if this is why people run away - not because they want to get anywhere, but because they need to remember what they'd miss if they left for good.

  #

  Devon eats a waffle with strawberries and whipped cream; I have oatmeal and raisin toast and tea poured out of a little pot just for me. It would be great to get a little china teapot like this, even just to use in our boring old house. Maybe then it wouldn't be quite so boring.

  "We don't have to go home just yet," my father says. "The only times I've been to San Francisco, I've been stuck in business meetings. I haven't really seen anything."

  He has apologized to my mother, and my mother has apologized to him. Or something like that. They spent a long time with their arms around each other, their whispered words a screen. It reminded me of the wild animals you see on HD television channels, the ones who find a long lost pack member and nuzzle and circle and huddle close for days, lest the other one disappear again.

  There is quiet music in the restaurant; and women stroll across the lobby, their high heels kissing the marble. Businessmen hold folded newspapers beneath their arms and talk in languages I don't understand. A waiter comes by with a fresh glass of orange juice for my father, before he's even finished his first. "Maybe we should all move in here," he jokes.

  I listen to my family talk about how to spend the day, all the possibilities. And I cannot remember the last time we did this: made choices as a unit, instead of individuals.

  I set my spoon on the edge of my oatmeal bowl. "What person," I ask quietly, "would you most want to trade places with?"

  At first, everyone keeps talking, and I figure they haven't heard me. But then, one by one, they stop speaking. I bet they're all going to laugh - it was one thing to play games at the table when we were younger, but now? I might as well have IDIOT written on my forehead.

  "Bill Gates," my father says. "For all the obvious reasons."

  Devon is next. "Brad Pitt. Helloooo, Angelina."

  We look at my mother, it's her turn. "No one," she says, smiling. "There isn't a single person who's got it better than me right now."

  I almost want to let her know, at that moment, that she was wrong all those years ago about the memory you'd keep. It isn't the last best one you want to save; it's the one you haven't had yet. But I'll have years to explain that. And I'll have a lifetime to prove that even if an exotic destination has dazzling culture, stunning scenery, spectacular hotels, there's something it can never be: your home.

  My mother and father and brother, they're all looking at me. I can't remember the last time anyone was hanging on my words. I recall what I thought last night, when I first saw my mother: what if it turns out this isn't about going back, but starting over?

  What if?

  I open my mouth, and I tell them what they're waiting to hear.

  Books by Jodi Picoult

  Songs of the Humpback Whale

  Harvesting the Heart

  Picture Perfect

  Mercy

  The Pact

  Keeping Faith

  Plain Truth

  Salem Falls

  Perfect Match

  Second Glance

  My Sister's Keeper

  Vanishing Acts

  The Tenth Circle

  Nineteen Minutes

  Change of Heart

  Handle With Care

  House Rules

  Sing You Home (Coming March, 2011)