by Jodi Picoult
When he turns around again, I draw in my breath. Somehow, his T-shirt has gotten lost between the cushions. His shoulders are wide and strong, his waist tapered, his sweats riding low. He has the easy beauty of someone young enough to dismiss how lucky he is to look like that without trying.
Me, on the other hand: I'm lying on a ratty couch in a cramped room with a jealous dog in the nearby closet, with freckles and wrinkles and fifteen more pounds than I ought to have and--
--Don't,|| Oliver says softly, as I pull the edges of my cardigan together again. He sits down on the edge of the couch beside me. --Or I will have to kill Thor.||
--Oliver, you could have any girl you want. Any girl your age.||
--You know what young wine is? Grape juice. There are some things worth the wait.||
--That argument would have been much more convincing coming from someone who hadn't just finished off a trough of Mountain Dew--||
He kisses me again. --Shut the hell up, Emma,|| he says amiably, and he puts his hands over mine where they rest on the edges of my sweater.
--It's been forever.|| The words are quiet, hidden against his shoulder.
--That's because,|| Oliver says, --you were waiting for me.|| He slips aside the sweater again and kisses my collarbone. --Emma. Is everything okay?|| he asks, for the second time this night.
Except this time, I say yes.
I should have gotten rid of the king-size bed. There is something horribly depressing about only having to tuck in half the sheets each morning, because the other side always remains pristine. I never cross the Mason-Dixon Line of my marriage and sleep, every now and then, on Henry's side. I've left it for him, for whoever might take his place.
That turned out to be Theo, during thunderstorms, when he was afraid. Or Jacob when he was sick and I wanted to keep an eye on him. I told myself that I liked the extra space anyway. That I deserved to spread out if I wanted to, even though I have always slept curled on my side like a fiddlehead fern.
Which is why, I suppose, it feels perfect when the pink fingers of the morning stroke the sheet that Oliver's tossed over us sometime in the night, and I realize that he's curled around me: a comma, his knees tucked up behind mine and his arm tight around my waist.
I shift, but instead of letting go of me, Oliver tightens his grasp. --What time is it?||
he murmurs.
--Five-thirty.||
I turn in his embrace, so that I am facing him. There's stubble on his cheeks and his chin. --Oliver, listen.||
His eyes squint open. --No.||
--No, you're not going to listen? Or no, you're not Oliver?||
--I'm not going to listen,|| he replies. --It wasn't a mistake, and it wasn't just a onetime, what-the-hell night. And if you keep fighting me on this, I'll make you read the fine print on the retainer you signed, which very clearly states that the attorney's sexual services are included in the fee.||
--I was going to tell you to come over for breakfast,|| I say drily.
Oliver blinks at me. --Oh.||
--It's Thursday. Brown day. Gluten-free bagels?||
--I prefer Everything,|| he answers, and then he blushes. --But I guess I made that fairly obvious last night.||
I used to wake up in the morning and lie in bed for thirty seconds, when whatever I had dreamed might still be possible, before I remembered that I had to get up and make whatever breakfast fit the color code and wonder whether we would survive the day without some schedule change or noise or social conundrum triggering a meltdown. I had thirty seconds when the future was something I anticipated, not feared.
I wrap my arms around Oliver's neck and kiss him. Even knowing that, in four and a half hours, this trial will start again; even knowing that I have to hurry home before Jacob realizes I am missing; even knowing that I have likely made a mess of things by doing what I've done ... I have figured out a way to stretch those thirty seconds of bliss into one long, lovely moment.
Three letters: a place where hope was found.
Joy.
Him.
Yes.
If this happened ... well, maybe anything can.
He puts his hands on my shoulders and gently pushes me away. --You have no idea how much it's killing me to say no,|| Oliver says, --but I've got an opening argument to write, and my client's mother is, well, incredibly demanding.||
--No kidding,|| I say.
He sits up and pulls my camisole out from under his head, helps me stretch it over my head. --This isn't nearly as much fun in reverse,|| he points out.
We both dress, and then Oliver frees Thor from his banishment and hooks a leash onto his collar, offering to walk me partway home. We are the only people on the streets at this hour. --I feel like an idiot,|| I say, glancing down at my slippers and my pajama bottoms.
--You look like a college student.||
I roll my eyes. --You are such a liar.||
--You mean lawyer.||
--Is there a difference?||
I stop walking and look up at him. --This,|| I say. --Not in front of Jacob.||
Oliver doesn't pretend to misunderstand me. He keeps walking, tugging at Thor's leash. --All right,|| he says.
We part ways at the skateboarding park, and I walk quickly with my head ducked against the wind--and the view of drivers in passing cars. Every now and then, a smile bubbles up from inside me, rising to the surface. The closer I get to home, the more inappropriate that feels. As if I am cheating somehow, as if I have the audacity to be someone other than the mother I am expected to be.
By 6:15 I am turning the corner of my street, relieved. Jacob wakes up like clockwork at 6:30; he'll be none the wiser.
But as I get closer, I see that the lights are on in the house, and my heart skips a beat. I start running, panicked. What if something happened to Jacob in the middle of the night? How stupid have I been, leaving him? I hadn't scribbled a note, I hadn't taken my cell phone, and as I throw open the front door, I am nearly bent double by the weight of what might have gone wrong.
Jacob stands at the kitchen counter, already making his own brown breakfast. There are two place settings. --Mom,|| he blurts, excited, --you'll never guess who's here.||
Before I can, though, I hear the downstairs toilet flush, and the running of the faucet, and the footsteps of the guest, who enters the kitchen with an uncomfortable smile.
--Henry?|| I say.
CASE 10: WOODN'T YOU LIKE TO
GET AWAY WITH MURDER?
On November 19, 1986, Helle Crafts, a Pan Am flight attendant from Connecticut, disappeared. Her husband was suspected shortly after she vanished: Richard Crafts told authorities that he hadn't left the house on November 19, but credit card records showed that he'd purchased new bedding. Shortly before his wife disappeared, he also had bought a large freezer and rented a wood chipper.
When a witness recalled seeing a wood chipper near the Housatonic River, police searched the Crafts home. Blood found on the mattress matched Helle's. A letter addressed to Helle was found near the Housatonic, and divers recovered a chain saw and cutting bar, which still had human hair and tissue in its jaws. Based on this, a more thorough evidence search was begun.
Here's what they found:
2660 hairs.
One fingernail.
One toenail.
One tooth cap.
Five droplets of blood.
(A fingernail in a U-Haul rented by Crafts chemically matched nail polish in Helle's bathroom, too, but it was thrown out of court because of the lack of a search warrant.) From this evidence, in 1989, Crafts was found guilty of his wife's murder and sentenced to ninety-nine years in prison.
This case made Dr. Henry Lee famous. Leave it to him, a forensic hero, to secure a murder conviction ... even without a body.
10
Emma
For just a moment, I am certain that I'm hallucinating. My ex-husband is not standing in my kitchen, is not coming forward to awkwardly kiss my cheek.
--What ar
e you doing here?|| I demand.
He looks at Jacob, who is pouring chocolate soy milk into a glass. --For once in my life, I wanted to do the right thing,|| Henry says.
I fold my arms. --Don't flatter yourself, Henry. This has less to do with Jacob than it does with your own guilt.||
--Wow,|| he says. --Some things never change.||
--What's that supposed to mean?||
--No one's allowed to be a better parent than you are. You have to be the gold standard, and if you're not, you'll cut everyone else down to make sure of it.||
--That's pretty funny, coming from a man who hasn't seen his son in years.||
--Three years, six months, and four days,|| Jacob says. I had forgotten he was still in the room. --We went out to dinner in Boston because you flew in for work. You ate beef tenderloin, and you sent it back because it was too rare at first.||
Henry and I look at each other. --Jacob,|| I say, --why don't you go upstairs and take the first shower?||
--What about breakfast--||
--You can eat it when you come back down.||
Jacob hustles upstairs, leaving me alone with Henry. --You have got to be kidding,||
I say, furious. --You think you can just show up here like some white knight and save the day?||
--Considering that I'm the one who cut the check for the lawyer,|| Henry says, --I have a right to make sure he's doing his job.||
That, of course, makes me think of Oliver. And the things we did that were not job-related.
--Look,|| Henry says, the bluster falling from him like snow from a tree limb. --I didn't come here to make things more difficult for you, Emma. I came to help.||
--You don't just get to be their father, now, because your conscience reared its ugly head. You're either a father twenty-four/seven or not at all.||
--Why don't we ask the kids if they want me to stick around or leave?||
--Oh, right. That's like dangling a brand-new video game in front of them. You're a novelty, Henry.||
He smiles a little. --Can't remember the last time I've been accused of that. ||
There is a commotion as Theo clatters down the stairs. --Wow, you are here,|| he says. --Weird.||
--It's because of you,|| Henry replies. --After you came all the way to see me, I realized I couldn't sit at home and pretend this wasn't happening.||
Theo snorts a laugh. --Why not? I do it all the time.||
--I'm not listening to this,|| I say, moving around the kitchen. --We have to be in court by nine-thirty.||
--I'll come,|| Henry said. --For moral support.||
--Thank you so much,|| I say drily. --I don't know how I'd get through the day if you weren't here. Oh, wait. I've gotten through five thousand days without you here.||
Theo skirts between us and opens the refrigerator. He pulls out a carton of grapefruit juice and drinks directly from it. --Gosh. What a happy little family unit we are.||
He glances overhead as the water in the pipes stops running. --I call the shower next,|| he says, and he heads back upstairs.
I sink down into a chair. --So how does this work? You sit in the courtroom and act concerned while your real family is waiting just outside the escape hatch?||
--That's not fair, Emma.||
-- Nothing's fair.||
--I'm here for as long as I need to be. Meg understands that I've got a responsibility to Jacob.||
--Right. A responsibility. But somehow she's neglected to invite him to sunny California to meet his stepsisters--||
--Jacob won't get on a plane, and you know it.||
--So your plan is to just come step into his life and then step out of it again after the trial?||
--I don't have a plan--||
--What about afterward?||
--That's why I came.|| He takes a step closer. --If ... if the worst happens, and Jacob doesn't come home ... well, I know you'll be there for him to lean on,|| Henry says. --But I thought you might need someone to lean on, too.||
There are a hundred comebacks running through my head--most of which ask why I would trust him now when he has a track record of abandoning me. But instead, I shake my head. --Jacob's coming home,|| I say.
--Emma, you have to--||
I hold up the flat of my hand, as if I can stop his words midstream. --Help yourself to breakfast. I need to get dressed.||
I leave him sitting in the kitchen, and I go upstairs to my bedroom. Through the wall I can hear Theo singing in the shower. I sit down on the bed, clasp my hands between my knees.
When the boys were little, we had house rules. I'd write them on the bathroom mirror when they were in the tub so that the next time the room steamed up, they would magically appear: commandments for a toddler and his painfully literal autistic brother, laws that were not to be broken.
1. Clean up your own messes.
2. Tell the truth.
3. Brush your teeth twice a day.
4. Don't be late for school.
5. Take care of your brother; he's the only one you've got.
One night Jacob had asked me if I had to follow the rules, too, and I said yes. But, he pointed out, you don't have a brother.
Then I will take care of you, I said.
However, I didn't.
Oliver will stand up in court today, and maybe the next day and the next, and try to accomplish what I have unsuccessfully tried to do for eighteen years now: make strangers understand what it is like to be my son. Make them feel sympathy for a child who cannot feel it himself.
When Theo's done in the bathroom, I go in. The air is still thick with heat and steam; the mirror's fogged. I can't see the tears on my face, but it's for the best. Because I may know my son, and I may believe viscerally that he is not a murderer. But the odds of a jury seeing this as clearly as I do are minimal. Because no matter what I tell Henry--or myself, for that matter--I know that Jacob isn't coming home.
Jacob
Theo is still getting dressed when I knock on his door. --What the fuck, dude?|| he says, holding up a towel to his body. I close my eyes until he tells me it's okay to look, and then I walk into his room.
--I need help with my tie,|| I say.
I am very proud of the fact that I got dressed today without any issues. I was a little freaked out by the buttons on the shirt, which felt like hot coals on my chest, but I put on a T-shirt underneath, and now it isn't quite as painful.
Theo stands in front of me in his jeans and a sweatshirt. I wish I could wear that to the courthouse. He straightens my collar and starts to loop the ends of the tie around and around so that it will be a tie, instead of the knot I've managed to make twice. The tie is like a long, skinny knit scarf; I like it a lot more than the striped thing Oliver made me wear yesterday.
--There you go,|| Theo says. Then he hunches his shoulders. --So what do you think about Dad?||
--I don't think about Dad,|| I say.
--I mean about him being here.||
--Oh,|| I say. --I guess it's good.||
(In reality, I don't think it's either good or bad. It's not as if it's going to make much difference, after all, but it seems like normal people would have a more positive reaction to seeing a close family member, and he did travel 3,000 miles on a plane, so I have to give him credit for that.) --I thought Mom was going to blow her stack.||
I don't know what he means by that, but I nod and smile at him. You'd be surprised at how far that response can get you in a conversation where you are completely confused.
--Do you remember him?|| Theo asks.
--He called on my birthday, and that was only three and a half months ago--||
--No,|| Theo interrupts. --I mean, do you remember him from back then? When he lived with us?||
I do, actually. I remember being in bed between him and my mother, and holding my hand up to his cheek while he slept. It was scratchy with incoming beard, and the texture used to intrigue me, plus I liked the sound it made when he scraped it. I remember his briefcase. He had flop
py disks inside in different colors that I liked to sort by spectrum, and paper clips in a small container that I would line up on the floor of his office while he worked. Sometimes, though, when he was doing programming and got stuck or excited, he yelled, and that usually made me yell, and he would call for my mother to take me so that he could get some work done.
--He took me apple picking once,|| I say. --He let me ride on his shoulders and showed me how the apple pickers get the apples out of their baskets without bruising them.||
For a while, I kept a list of apple facts as I learned them, because what I remembered about my father was that he at least had a passing interest in pomology, enough of one to take me out to an orchard for the day. I know, for example, that: 1. The world's top apple producers are China, the United States, Turkey, Poland, and Italy.
2. It takes about thirty-six apples to create a gallon of cider.
3. Red Delicious is the most widely grown variety in the United States.
4. It takes the energy of fifty leaves to produce a single apple.
5. The largest apple ever picked weighed three pounds.
6. Apples float because a quarter of their volume is air.
7. Apple trees are related to roses.
8. Archaeologists have found evidence of apples being eaten as early as 6500 B.C.
--That's cool,|| Theo says. --I don't remember anything about him at all.||
I know why; it is because Theo was only a few months old when my father left. I don't remember that day, but I do remember a lot leading up to it. My mother and father often fought right in front of me. I was there, but I wasn't there--those were the days when I would find myself completely entranced by the static on the television screen or the lever of the toaster. My parents assumed that I was not paying attention, but that isn't the way it works. I could hear and see and smell and feel everything at once back then, which is why I had to focus so hard to pay attention to only one of the stimuli. I've always sort of pictured it like a movie: imagine a camera that can record the entire world at once--every sight, every sound. That's very impressive, but it isn't particularly useful if you want to specifically hear a conversation between two people, or see a ball coming toward you while you're standing at bat. And yet, I couldn't change the brain I'd been born with, so instead I learned how to narrow the world with makeshift blinders, until all I noticed was what I wanted to notice. That's autism, for those who've never been there themselves.