The Jodi Picoult Collection #2
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The Jodi Picoult Collection #2
Perfect Match
Second Glance
My Sister’s Keeper
New York London Toronto Sidney New Delhi
Contents
Perfect Match
Second Glance
My Sister’s Keeper
About Jodi Picoult
Reader’s Companion
About Emily Bestler Books
About Atria Books
Ask Atria
Praise for JODI PICOULT and her poignant and enthralling novels
“Picoult is a pro at lively storytelling.”
—The Boston Globe
“Picoult spins fast-paced tales of family dysfunction, betrayal, and redemption . . . [her] depiction of these rites of contemporary adolescence is exceptional: unflinching, unjudgmental, utterly chilling.”
—Washington Post
“Ms. Picoult has carved her own niche with her novels—one part romance, one part courtroom thriller, two parts social commentary.”
—Dallas Morning News
SECOND GLANCE
“Picoult writes with a fine touch, a sharp eye for detail, and a firm grasp of the delicacy and complexity of human relationships.”
—The Boston Globe
“Picoult has become a master—almost a clairvoyant—at targeting hot issues and writing highly readably page turners about them. . . . It is impossible not to be held spellbound by the way she forces us to think, hard, about right and wrong.”
—Washington Post
“Picoult ingeniously ties the ghost story to a true one about eugenics. . . . The history lesson makes for chilling, even shocking, reading.”
—People (Critic’s Choice)
“Fascinating, horrifying, and ultimately about the complexities of love. . . . Picoult fans will enjoy this; those new to her fiction will have discovered a treasure.”
—Winston-Salem Journal (NC)
THE TENTH CIRCLE
“A chilling account of the contemporary world of teenagers . . . [A] remarkable achievement and a great read.”
—Rocky Mountain News
“Another gripping, nuanced tale of a family in crisis from bestseller Picoult.”
—People
“Picoult’s writing finesse shines . . . Coupled with its illustrated counterpart, [The Tenth Circle] becomes a treat for both the mind and the eye. . . . Picoult challenges the reader to draw parallels in his own life.”
—Houston Chronicle
VANISHING ACTS
“Ms. Picoult is a solid, lively storyteller.”
—The New York Times
“Richly textured and engaging.”
—The Boston Globe
“The worlds Picoult creates for her characters resonates with authenticity, and the people who inhabit them are so engaging.”
—People
MY SISTER’S KEEPER
“Picoult is known for writing fictional page-turners that address controversial issues, and her latest novel is no exception. . . . My Sister’s Keeper is a thrill to read.”
—The Washington Post
“A powerfully poignant, page-turning read.”
—San Antonio Express-News
“A fascinating character study framed by a complex, gripping story . . . Picoult’s novel grabs the reader from the first page and never lets go. This is a beautiful, heartbreaking, controversial, and honest book.”
—Booklist (starred review)
PRAISE FOR JODI PICOULT
MY SISTER’S KEEPER
“[A] fascinating character study framed by a complex, gripping story. . . . A beautiful, heartbreaking, controversial, and honest book.”
—Booklist (starred review)
“It’s difficult to find a book combining a timely moral dilemma with well-drawn characters for whom one cares. Picoult has written such a book.”
—The Boston Herald
“[Picoult’s] thoughtful, thought-provoking and readable work is . . . arguably her best and most accessible effort to date.”
—The Denver Post
“ . . . Compelling and believable.”
—Richmond Times Dispatch
SECOND GLANCE
“Picoult writes with a fine touch, a sharp eye for detail, and a firm grasp of the delicacy and complexity of human relationships.”
—The Boston Globe
“Picoult has become a master—almost a clairvoyant—at targeting hot issues and writing highly readable page-turners about them. . . . It is impossible not to be held spellbound by the way she forces us to think, hard, about right and wrong.”
—The Washington Post
“Picoult ingeniously ties the ghost story to a true one about eugenics. . . . The history lesson makes for chilling, even shocking, reading.”
—People (Critic’s Choice)
“[An] elaborate, engrossing plot. . . . Suspense and the supernatural are artfully interwoven. . . . Picoult’s ability to bring [her characters] all vividly to life is remarkable.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
PERFECT MATCH
“Picoult’s characters are so compelling.”
—USA Today
“Picoult’s novel . . . reminds us how easy it is to jump to conclusions and to do all the wrong things for all the right reasons.”
—Glamour
“A spellbinding story.”
—The Toronto Sun
SALEM FALLS
“Picoult . . . keep[s] the reader constantly guessing.”
—The Dallas Morning News
“Picoult’s depiction of the legal process is excellent . . . intriguing and thorough . . . [with] a couple of eye-opening surprises.”
—Kirkus Reviews
PLAIN TRUTH
A People magazine “Page-Turner of the Week”
“[A] suspenseful, richly layered drama. . . . [A] hummer of a tale.”
—People (starred review)
“Absorbing and affecting.”
—Entertainment Weekly
“Quietly electrifying . . . [with a] magnificently painted backdrop and distinctive characters.”
—Publishers Weekly
SONGS OF THE HUMPBACK WHALE
“Picoult spreads her wings and catches an updraft.”
—The New York Times Book Review
“Rich and charming. . . . Picoult casts a spell with her beautiful imagery and language. Reading this book is a delight.”
—Ann Hood, author of Do Not Go Gentle
“As Picoult uses five voices to tell a complex tale of love, friendship, and a Faulknerian family history, her mastery of language strongly individuates her characters. . . . This powerful and affecting novel demonstrates that there are as many truths to a story as there are people to tell it.”
—Publishers Weekly
Contents
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
To Jake,
The bravest boy I know.
Love, Mom
Acknowledgments
I’m often asked how much of my boo
ks come from my own life, and given the nature of the issues I cover the answer is, thankfully, not much. Perfect Match was particularly difficult, however, because I would sit at the breakfast table with my children and take away their conversations to put into the mouth of young Nathaniel Frost. So I’d like to thank Kyle, Jake, and Samantha—not only for their jokes and their stories, but because they gave me the soul of my main character, a mother who would do anything for someone she loves. Thanks to my psychiatric research staff, Burl Daviss, Doug Fagen, Tia Horner, and Jan Scheiner; to my medical experts, David Toub and Elizabeth Bengtson; to Kathy Hemenway for an insight into social work; to Katie Desmond for all things Catholic; to Diana Watson for sharing kindergarten war stories; to Chris Keating and George Waldron for early legal information; to Syndy Morris for transcribing so fast; and to Olivia and Matt Licciardi, for the Holy Goats and the oxygen query. Also, thanks to Elizabeth Martin and her brother, who found my ending; and to Laura Gross, Jane Picoult, Steve Ives, and JoAnn Mapson for reading the early draft and loving it enough to help me make it better. Judith Curr and Karen Mender make me feel like a supernova among a constellation of Atria authors. Having Emily Bestler and Sarah Branham as my angels in the editorial department at Atria makes me the luckiest author alive; and Camille McDuffie and Laura Mullen—my fairy godmothers of publicity—deserve wands and crowns so everyone will know how much magic they can weave. I need to thank my husband, Tim van Leer, who is not only a ready source of information about guns, stars, and stonework but who also spoils me with coffee and salads and smooths the world so that I am free to do what I love to do. And finally, I’d like to thank three people who have become such strong research contributors that it’s hard to imagine writing anything without their input: Detective-Lieutenant Frank Moran, who made me think like a detective; Lisa Schiermeier, who not only taught me DNA but also mentioned, in passing, the wonderful medical twist that made my head start humming; and Jennifer Sternick, the district attorney who talked into a tape recorder for four straight days, and without whom Perfect Match would simply not have been possible.
PROLOGUE
When the monster finally came through the door, he was wearing a mask.
She stared and stared at him, amazed that no one else could see through the disguise. He was the neighbor next door, watering his forsythia. He was the stranger who smiled across an elevator. He was the kind man who took a toddler’s hand to help him cross the street. Can’t you see? she wanted to scream. Don’t you know?
Beneath her, the chair was unforgiving. Her hands were folded as neatly as a schoolgirl’s, her shoulders were squared; but her heart was all out of rhythm, a jellyfish writhing in her chest. When had breathing become something she had to consciously remember to do?
Bailiffs flanked him, guiding him past the prosecutor’s table, in front of the judge, toward the spot where the defense attorney was sitting. From the corner came the sibilant hum of a TV camera. It was a familiar scene, but she realized she had never seen it from this angle. Change your point of view, and the perspective is completely different.
The truth sat in her lap, heavy as a child. She was going to do this.
That knowledge, which should have stopped her short, instead coursed through her limbs like brandy. For the first time in weeks, she didn’t feel as if she were sleepwalking on the ocean floor, her lungs fiery, holding on to the breath she’d taken before she went under—a breath that would have been bigger, more deliberate, had she known what was coming. In this horrible place, watching this horrible man, she suddenly felt normal again. And with this feeling came the most wonderfully normal thoughts: that she hadn’t wiped down the kitchen table after breakfast; that the library book which had gone missing was behind the dirty clothes hamper; that her car was fifteen hundred miles overdue to have the oil changed. That in the next two seconds, the bailiffs escorting him would step back to give him privacy to speak to his attorney.
In her purse, her fingers slipped over the smooth leather cover of her checkbook, her sunglasses, a lipstick, the furry nut of a Life Saver, lost from its package. She found what she was looking for and grabbed it, surprised to see that it fit with the same familiar comfort as her husband’s hand.
One step, two, three, that was all it took to come close enough to the monster to smell his fear, to see the black edge of his coat against the white collar of his shirt. Black and white, that was what it came down to.
For a second she wondered why no one had stopped her. Why no one had realized that this moment was inevitable; that she was going to come in here and do just this. Even now, the people who knew her the best hadn’t grabbed for her as she rose from her seat.
That was when she realized she was wearing a disguise, just like the monster. It was so clever, so authentic; nobody really knew what she had turned into. But now she could feel it cracking into pieces. Let the whole world see, she thought, as the mask fell away. And she knew as she pressed the gun to the defendant’s head, she knew as she shot him four times in quick succession, that at this moment she would not have recognized herself.
I
When we are struck at without a reason, we should strike back again very hard; I am sure we should—so hard as to teach the person who struck us never to do it again.
—Charlotte Brontë, Jane Eyre
We’re in the woods, just the two of us. I have on my best sneakers, the ones with rainbow laces and the place on the back that Mason chewed through when he was just a puppy. Her steps are bigger than mine, but it’s a game—I try to jump into the hole her shoes leave behind. I’m a frog; I’m a kangaroo; I’m magic.
When I walk, it sounds like cereal getting poured for breakfast.
Crunch. “My legs hurt,” I tell her.
“It’s just a little bit longer.”
“I don’t want to walk,” I say, and I sit right there, because if I don’t move she won’t either.
She leans down and points, but the trees are like the legs of tall people I can’t see around. “Do you see it yet?” she asks me.
I shake my head. Even if I could see it, I would have told her I couldn’t.
She picks me up and puts me on her shoulders. “The pond,” she says. “Can you see the pond?”
From up here, I can. It is a piece of sky, lying on the ground.
When Heaven breaks, who fixes it?
ONE
I have always been best at closings.
Without any significant forethought, I can walk into a courtroom, face a jury, and deliver a speech that leaves them burning for justice. Loose ends drive me crazy; I have to tidy things up to the point where I can put them behind me and move on to the next case. My boss tells anyone who’ll listen that he prefers to hire prosecutors who were waiters and waitresses in former lives—that is, used to juggling a load. But I worked in the gift-wrapping department of Filene’s to put myself through law school, and it shows.
This morning, I’ve got a closing on a rape trial and a competency hearing. In the afternoon, I have to meet with a DNA scientist about a bloodstain inside a wrecked car, which revealed brain matter belonging to neither the drunk driver accused of negligent homicide nor the female passenger who was killed. All of this is running through my mind when Caleb sticks his head into the bathroom. The reflection of his face rises like a moon in the mirror. “How’s Nathaniel?”
I turn off the water and wrap a towel around myself. “Sleeping,” I say.
Caleb’s been out in his shed, loading his truck. He does stonework—brick paths, fireplaces, granite steps, stone walls. He smells of winter, a scent that comes to Maine at the same time local apples come to harvest. His flannel shirt is streaked with the dust that coats bags of concrete. “How is his fever?” Caleb asks, washing his hands in the sink.
“He’s fine,” I answer, although I haven’t checked on my son; haven’t even seen him yet this morning.
I am hoping that if I wish hard enough, this will be true. Nathaniel wasn’t really that sick last nig
ht, and he wasn’t running a temperature above 99 degrees. He didn’t seem himself, but that alone wouldn’t keep me from sending him to school—especially on a day when I’m due in court. Every working mother has been caught between this Scylla and Charybdis. I can’t give a hundred percent at home because of my work; I can’t give a hundred percent at work because of my home; and I live in fear of the moments, like these, when the two collide.
“I’d stay home, but I can’t miss this meeting. Fred’s got the clients coming to review the plans, and we’re all supposed to put in a good showing.” Caleb looks at his watch and groans. “In fact, I was late ten minutes ago.” His day starts early and ends early, like most subcontractors. It means that I bear the brunt of getting Nathaniel to school, while Caleb is in charge of the pickup. He moves around me, gathering his wallet and his baseball cap. “You won’t send him to school if he’s sick . . .”
“Of course not,” I say, but heat creeps beneath the neck of my blouse. Two Tylenol will buy me time; I could be finished with the rape case before getting a call from Miss Lydia to come get my son. I think this, and in the next second, hate myself for it.
“Nina.” Caleb puts his big hands on my shoulders. I fell in love with Caleb because of those hands, which can touch me as if I am a soap bubble certain to burst, yet are powerful enough to hold me together when I am in danger of falling to pieces.
I slide my own hands up to cover Caleb’s. “He’ll be fine,” I insist, the power of positive thinking. I give him my prosecutor’s smile, crafted to convince. “We’ll be fine.”
Caleb takes a while to let himself believe this. He is a smart man, but he’s methodical and careful. He will finish one project with exquisite finesse before moving on to the next, and he makes decisions the same way. I’ve spent seven years hoping that lying next to him each night will cause some of his deliberation to rub off, as if a lifetime together might soften both our extremes.