The Jodi Picoult Collection #4

by Jodi Picoult

  The way I see it, either my body wins and I reject the heart—or I win.

  And become who he used to be.

  My mother says that I’m going to work through all this, and that’s why I have to take Celexa (oh, right, forgot that one) and talk to a shrink twice a week. I nod and pretend to believe her. She’s so happy right now, but it’s the kind of happy that’s like an ornament made of sugar: if you brush it the wrong way, it will go to pieces.

  I’ll tell you this much: it’s so good to be home. And to not have a lightning bolt zapping me from inside three or four times a day. And to not pass out and wake up wondering what happened. And to walk up the stairs—upstairs!—without having to stop halfway, or be carried.

  “Claire?” my mother calls. “Are you awake?”

  Today, we have a visitor coming. It’s a woman I haven’t met, although apparently she’s met me. She’s the sister of the man who gave me his heart; she came to the hospital when I was totally out of it. I am so not looking forward to this. She’ll probably break down and cry (I would if I were her) and stare at me with an eagle eye until she finds some shred of me that reminds her of her brother, or at least convinces herself she has.

  “I’m coming,” I say. I have been standing in front of the mirror for the past twenty minutes, without a shirt on. The scar, which is still healing, is the angriest red slash of a mouth. Every time I look at it, I imagine the things it might be yelling.

  I resettle the bandage that I’m not supposed to peel off but do when my mother isn’t there to see it. Then I shrug into a shirt and glance down at Dudley. “Hey, lazybones,” I say. “Rise and shine.”

  The thing is, my dog doesn’t move.

  I stand there, staring, even though I know what’s happened. My mother told me once, in her dump truck–load of fun facts about cardiac patients, that when you do a transplant the nerve that goes from the brain to the heart gets cut. Which means that it takes people like me longer to respond to situations that would normally freak us out. We need the adrenaline to kick in first.

  You can hear this and think, Oh, how nice to stay calm.

  Or you can hear this and think, Imagine what it would be like to have a brand-new heart, and be so slow to feel.

  And then, boom, just like that it kicks in. I fall down to my knees in front of the dog. I’m afraid to touch him. I have been too close to death; I don’t want to go there again.

  By now the tears are here; they stream down my face and into my mouth. Loss always tastes like salt. I bend down over my old, sweet dog. “Dudley,” I say. “Come on.” But when I scoop him up—put my ear against his rib cage—he’s cold, stiff, not breathing.

  “No,” I whisper, and then I shout it so loud that my mother comes scrambling up the stairs like a storm.

  She fills my doorway, wild-eyed. “Claire? What’s wrong?”

  I shake my head; I can’t speak. Because, in my arms, the dog twitches. His heart starts beating again, beneath my own two hands.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  For those wishing to learn more about the topics in this book, try these sites and texts, which were instrumental to me during this journey.

  ABOUT THE DEATH PENALTY

  Death Penalty Information Center: www.deathpenaltyinfo.org.

  Death Row Support Project, PO Box 600, Liberty Mills, IN 46946. (Contact them if you want to write to a death row prisoner.)

  Murder Victims’ Families for Human Rights: www.mvfhr.org.

  Murray, Robert W. Life on Death Row. Albert Publishing Co., 2004.

  Prejean, Sister Helen. Dead Man Walking. New York: Vintage Books, 1993.

  ———. The Death of Innocents. New York: Random House, 2005.

  Rossi, Richard Michael. Waiting to Die. London: Vision Paperbacks, 2004.

  Turow, Scott. Ultimate Punishment. New York: Picador, 2003.

  ABOUT THE GNOSTIC GOSPELS

  Pagels, Elaine. Beyond Belief: The Secret Gospel of Thomas. New York: Random House, 2003.

  ———. The Gnostic Gospels. New York: Random House, 1979.

  Robinson, James M., ed. The Nag Hammadi Library. Leiden, the Netherlands: E. J. Brill, 1978.

  CHANGE of HEART

  Jodi Picoult

  A Readers Club Guide

  INTRODUCTION

  In her fifteen novels, Jodi Picoult delves deep into the most troubling contemporary social issues, writing fiction that the New York Daily News calls “intelligent, often moving, and always ripe for book club discussion.” In Change of Heart, she examines a convicted killer on death row, Shay Bourne, who has taken the lives of Officer Kurt Nealon and his young stepdaughter, Elizabeth. When Shay discovers that his victim’s living daughter, Claire, is desperately in need of a heart transplant, he sees his only chance for salvation. Standing in his way, however, is the law and a mother filled with anger and revenge. On his side are some unexpected allies—a Catholic priest who had a hand in Shay’s sentencing; an ambitious attorney who, despite her deep convictions against capital punishment, is determined to see Shay die on his own terms; and a community that sees something in Shay that gives them hope. Picoult expertly intersects matters of the state and matters of the spirit to probe questions about the meaning of salvation and who has the power to determine the fate of the soul.

  QUESTIONS AND TOPICS FOR DISCUSSION

  1. The author uses several famous quotations from some of the greatest thinkers in history, including Lewis Carroll, Voltaire, Woody Allen, Mother Teresa, Mark Twain, the Dalai Lama, Bono, Friedrich Nietzsche, and Albert Einstein. What effect do these philosophical tidbits have on the telling of this story? Which one resonated most with you?

  2. Discuss the theme of belief in this novel. What does Shay believe, and who believes in him? Apply this same question to Maggie, Michael, and June. Did this story call any of their beliefs into question? Which ones?

  3. When Shay is moved to the I-tier, some very strange things start happening—water turns to wine, Calloway’s pet robin is brought back to life, a tiny piece of gum becomes enough for all to share. Some call these miracles while others call them hijinks. What do you make of these incidents? Were you convinced that Shay had divine powers, and if so, at what point did you make that conclusion?

  4. Michael tells Maggie that “there’s a big difference between mercy and salvation.” What is that difference? Which characters are pursuing mercy and which are pursuing salvation? Which, do you think, is granted in the end for each of the main characters?

  5. Having lost a daughter and two husbands, June’s life is fraught with grief. How do you see that grief shaping her character and informing the choices that she makes? Do you think she makes choices in order to reconcile the past or in hopes of a better future?

  6. How do the three religions referenced in this book (Judaism, Christianity, Gnosticism) imagine the presence or reappearance of the divine? Compare Michael’s vision with Rabbi Bloom’s explanation of the Jewish Midrash and Shay’s depiction of heaven.

  7. Consider the passage where Maggie thinks “the penitentiary [Shay] was referring to was his own body.” In what ways are some of the other characters in this book (Claire, Maggie, Lucius) imprisoned by their bodies?

  8. Discuss June’s questions: “Would you give up your vengeance against someone you hate if it meant saving someone you love? Would you want your dreams to come true if it meant granting your enemy’s dying wish?” How do the characters answer this question?

  9. June thinks that if Claire accepted a heart transplant from Shay Bourne and had to absorb the emotional pain of her father’s and sister’s murders, it would be “better to have no heart at all.” This statement eerily echoes Shay’s own statement to June that her first daughter, Elizabeth, “was better off dead.” How do you feel about the adults in this novel making such grave choices over the life of a child? Do you feel as if they are being protective or presumptuous?

  10. Why do you think Shay never puts up a real fight for his innocence? Do you believe he is
resigned to his fate or is an active participant in choosing it? Has he made the ultimate sacrifice, or is he just trying to make the most out of circumstances beyond his control?

  11. Does Change of Heart have a hero? If so, who is it?

  12. In Change of Heart, religion seems at times to bring characters together and at others to drive a wedge between them. Ultimately, do you think religion unites people or divides them?

  A CONVERSATION WITH JODI PICOULT

  Q: What was the seed that started this story? You’ve delved sympathetically into the minds of criminals in your previous novels, but what led you this time to death row?

  A: Most of my books begin with something I’m worrying about, and Change of Heart was no exception. As an American, I feel as if this country can be folded along a fault line of religion—all the controversial issues (abortion, gay rights, capital punishment) can often be judged along religious lines. It got me wondering why religion, which was historically meant to unite people, has become so divisive . . . and why we believe what we do. Who says that just because you’re right, that means someone else has to be wrong? Why do we believe the things that we do—because they’re right, or because it’s too scary to admit we don’t know the answers? I narrowed the focus along capital punishment because it’s one of the controversies in America that people have passionate opinions about—but often don’t know why they have those opinions, or bother to listen to the other side’s arguments . . . and because I myself didn’t know how I’d feel about the death penalty when I finished exploring its underlying issues.

  Q: Did you personally visit death row prisoners? What was that experience like? What did you expect going in, and what were you surprised by?

  A: I’ve been to death row in Arizona twice now. It’s a very strange place—in all the years I’ve been doing research, I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a cloud of secrecy like the one I found there. I was literally on a plane when my visit was being nearly canceled—I had to arrive at the facility and talk my way into it, because they decided that if I was a writer, I must be “media.” I was able to charm the authorities into giving me a tour of their death row—which is more serene than you’d think, because the inmates are locked into their individual cells twenty-three hours a day. Then I begged to be taken to the execution chamber—the death house, as it used to be called in Arizona. It was while I was examining their gas chamber (Arizona uses both gas and lethal injection) that the warden approached me to ask me again who I was, and why I was writing a book about this. She definitely had her guard up—and wasn’t budging an inch. We started talking about the last execution in Arizona; and at some point she mentioned she was a practicing Catholic. “If you’re Catholic,” I said, “do you think the death penalty is a good thing?” She stared at me for a long moment and then said, “I used to.” At that moment, the wall between us came down, and she was willing to tell me everything I wanted and needed to know—including scenes you’ll see in Change of Heart—details that are top-secret, and that aren’t even given to prisoners who sue for the information. At one point I was talking to the warden in the death house, and I was having trouble juggling notebooks and papers. I leaned against the closest surface to take notes more easily . . . only to realize I was sprawled across the lethal injection gurney, which really freaked me out! What surprised me the most about death row was that everyone I met who worked there in Arizona said they did not believe in the death penalty—they’d seen too many feeble old men executed, because the system takes so long; they’d seen recidivist criminals whose crimes weren’t “eligible” for the death penalty. To them, justice didn’t seem particularly just, and yet they all also said they would continue to do their jobs. I went back a second time to meet a death row prisoner named Robert Towery. We are still pen pals—he calls me ma’am, asks after my kids, and is a brilliant artist (he has to make his own pigments, like Lucius in Change of Heart). He fills me in on the plots of Lost and Grey’s Anatomy. He is by all accounts a very nice guy—except for the fact that he committed armed robbery and told the victim he was going to anesthetize him . . . and instead injected the guy with battery acid and killed him. He says he was high at the time, and has been sober for over a decade now. It really made me think hard: We all know it’s wrong to execute someone innocent. But what about someone who’s guilty?

  Q: When did you first encounter the Gnostic gospels, and what did you find striking about them?

  A: I had first heard about them on a PBS documentary, and I was struck by the individuality they advocated in religious practice—the idea that it’s different for everyone, that there might be many paths up to the same spiritual peak. I remember thinking at the time what a different world this would have been if they’d been the dominant gospels, rather than the ones we’ve seen in the New Testament. Elaine Pagels, one of the foremost authorities on the Gnostic gospels, is a professor at Princeton, my alma mater. I was fortunate enough to badger her into a private tutorial, so that I could learn more about them. After Jesus’s death, Christianity was a mess—people believed all sorts of different things and studied many different gospels. One group, the Gnostic Christians, felt that being baptized was a good beginning, but that to know God, you have to know yourself. Or in other words, there’s a little bit of divinity in all of us, coded and hidden . . . and it’s up to each of us to figure out how to get it out. The Gnostics felt that religion was something that by definition had to be personal—and that if you simply believed what others told you to believe or said the right words during a church service or just got baptized, it wasn’t enough to reach spiritual fulfillment. Above all else, the Gnostics said, ask questions. Don’t believe everything you’re told; don’t assume that just because someone says, “This is the way it should be done,” that he or she is right. As you can imagine, this sent the early Christian Church into a tizzy—and the Gnostic gospels were labeled heretical, and disappeared . . . until 1945, when two brothers dug up a jar while looking for fertilizer in Nag Hammadi, Egypt, and found fifty-one of those gospels. In the meantime, Irenaeus—the bishop of Lyons—codified the Church by deciding that there would be four main gospels (Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John) and laying the cornerstones of the Nicene Creed. In doing that, Irenaeus said: “Believe this, and you’re Christian. If you don’t believe this, you’re not.” Now, there are a lot of good reasons—political and religious—why Orthodox Christianity had to reject the Gnostic movement in order to solidify its own beliefs . . . but something else was lost along with those gospels: the belief that people might reach spiritual enlightenment in a variety of ways, rather than one “right” way. “If you bring forth what is within you,” Jesus says, in the Gospel of Thomas, “what you bring forth will save you. If you do not bring forth what is within you, what you do not bring forth will destroy you.” Sounds like a riddle, right? But it’s actually pretty simple: the potential to free yourself—or ruin yourself—is entirely up to you. Which gets pretty interesting when you’re talking about a condemned man who happens to think that donating his heart to the sister of his victim is the way to save himself.

  Q: In your acknowledgments you say that “it’s very hard to write about religion responsibly.” Why do you think that’s so, and do you think it’s specific to religious culture in the United States?

  A: In this country, which was founded by people seeking religious freedom, there isn’t just the chance to practice what you want—there’s also the freedom of speech to preach it. The rise of the Evangelical movement in particular shows the difference between following one’s religion and feeling obligated to save the souls of others who haven’t found the same spiritual enlightenment you have. To the preacher, the act of trying to convert someone is doing that person a favor. To those who don’t wish to be converted, however, it’s very intrusive. To that end, it’s really hard to write about religion without preaching—but instead, with the intention to get people to understand why they believe what they do, and whether that necessarily means ever
yone else’s beliefs are rendered null and void. It’s interesting: I interviewed rabbis and priests and ministers for this book, and every last one of them was fantastic and admitted that they don’t really know which religion, if any, is the “right” one—and that there may be a lot of ways to reach spiritual enlightenment . . . but that openmindedness does not always filter down through the congregations, unfortunately! People who pick up Change of Heart aren’t going to find me preaching to them—because, as the book suggests, what I believe isn’t necessarily what they have to believe or should believe—but they will find me asking them to think hard about their beliefs.

  Q: This is a provocative book and will no doubt be controversial. What do you hope this novel might add to conversations about religion and capital punishment?

  A: I hope that instead of looking at religion as a set of absolutes, people who read Change of Heart might look at the book as a chance to start a conversation. As for the death penalty, I hope while exploring the reasons that capital punishment is allegedly good for us, we can be honest enough to admit those explanations don’t always stand up to logic—which means that if we keep capital punishment on the law books, we have to admit that it may not be fair, or cheaper, or a deterrent . . . but instead a way for us to permanently exclude from society someone who we think doesn’t belong there with us.

  Q: You constructed this story by interweaving the narratives of four main characters—June, Michael, Lucius, and Maggie. How difficult is it to juggle those four voices? Did you find yourself naturally wanting to give equal time to each character, or did you feel inclined to stay with one longer?