The Jodi Picoult Collection #4

by Jodi Picoult

  I didn’t want to listen. I didn’t need to borrow anyone else’s problems. But I found myself nodding at the priest all the same.

  “So it was a few toasts, a few shots of whiskey,” Father Grady said. “Don’t you lose sleep over this, Sean. I know perfectly well that doing the right thing for someone else occasionally means doing something that feels wrong to you.”

  The door swung open in front of us. I’d never been inside the rectory before—it was homey and small, with framed psalms hanging on the walls for decoration, a crystal bowl of M&M’s on the kitchen table, and a Patriots banner behind the couch. “I’m just going to lie down,” Father Grady murmured, and he stretched out on the couch.

  I took off his shoes and covered him with a blanket I found in a closet. “Good night, Father.”

  His eyes opened a crack. “See you tomorrow at Mass?”

  “You bet,” I said, but Father Grady had already started to snore.

  • • •

  When I had told Charlotte that I wanted to go to church the next morning, she asked if I was feeling all right. Usually, she had to drag me to Mass, but part of me had wanted to know if Father Grady was going to do a sermon about our encounter last night. Sins of the fathers, that’s what he could call it, I thought now, and I snickered. Beside me, in the pew, Charlotte pinched me. “Sssh,” she mouthed.

  One of the reasons I didn’t like going to church was the stares. Piety and pity were a little too close to each other for my tastes. I’d listen to a blue-haired old lady tell me she was praying for you, and I’d smile and say thanks, but inside, I was ticked off. Who’d asked her to pray for you? Didn’t she realize I did enough of that on my own?

  Charlotte said that an offer to help was not a comment on someone else’s weakness, and that a police officer ought to know that. But hell, if you wanted to know what I was really thinking when I asked a lost out-of-towner if he needed directions or gave a battered wife my card and told her to call me if she needed assistance, it was this: pull yourself up by your bootstraps and figure a way out of the mess you’ve gotten yourself into. There was a big difference, the way I saw it, between a nightmare you woke up in unexpectedly and a nightmare of your own making.

  Father Grady winced as the organist started a particularly rousing version of a hymn, and I tucked away my grin. Instead of leaving the poor guy a glass of water last night, I should have mixed him up a hangover remedy.

  Behind us, a baby started to wail. As mean-spirited as it was of me, it felt good to have everyone focused on a family other than ours. I heard the furious whispers of the parents deciding who would be the one to take the baby out of the church.

  Amelia was sitting on my other side. She elbowed me and mimed for a pen. I reached into my pocket and handed her a ballpoint. Turning over her palm, she drew five tiny dashes and a hangman’s noose. I smiled and traced the letter A on her thigh.

  She wrote: _A_A_

  M, I wrote with my finger.

  Amelia shook her head.

  T?

  _ATA_

  I tried L, P, and R, but no luck. S?

  Amelia beamed and scribbled it into the puzzle: SATA_

  I laughed out loud, and Charlotte looked down at us, her eyes flashing a warning. Amelia took the pen and filled in the N, then held up her hand so I could see. Just then, loud and clear, you said, “What’s Satan?” and your mother turned bright red, hauled you into her arms, and hurried outside.

  A moment later, Amelia and I followed. Charlotte was sitting with you on the steps of the church, holding the baby who’d been screaming during the whole Mass. “What are you doing out here?” she asked.

  “Thought we’d be safer when the lightning struck.” I smiled down at the baby, who was stuffing grass into his mouth. “Did we pick up an extra along the way?”

  “His mother’s in the bathroom,” Charlotte said. “Amelia, watch your sister and the baby.”

  “Do I get paid for it?”

  “I cannot believe you’d have the nerve to ask me that after what you just did during Mass.” Charlotte stood up. “Let’s take a walk.”

  I fell into step beside her. Charlotte had always smelled of sugar cookies—later I learned that it was vanilla, which she would rub on her wrists and behind her ears, perfume for a pastry chef. It was part of why I loved her. Here’s a news flash for the ladies: for every one of you who thinks we all want a girl like Angelina Jolie, all skinny elbows and angles, the truth is, we’d rather curl up with someone like Charlotte—a woman who’s soft when a guy wraps his arms around her; a woman who might have a smear of flour on her shirt the whole day and not notice or care, not even when she goes out to meet with the PTA; a woman who doesn’t feel like an exotic vacation but is the home we can’t wait to come back to. “You know what?” I said genially, wrapping an arm around her. “Life is great. It’s a gorgeous day, I’m with my family, I’m not sitting in that cave of a church . . .”

  “And I’m sure Father Grady enjoyed hearing Willow’s little outburst, too.”

  “Believe me, Father Grady’s got bigger problems on his plate,” I said.

  We had crossed the parking lot, heading toward a field overrun with clover. “Sean,” Charlotte said, “I’ve got a confession to make.”

  “Maybe you ought to take that inside, then.”

  “I went back to the lawyer.”

  I stopped walking. “You what?”

  “I met with Marin Gates, about filing a wrongful birth lawsuit.”

  “Jesus Christ, Charlotte—”

  “Sean!” She threw a glance toward the church.

  “How could you do that? Just go behind my back like my opinion doesn’t matter?”

  She folded her arms. “What about my opinion? Doesn’t that matter to you?”

  “Of course it does—but some bloodsucking lawyer’s opinion, I don’t give a shit about. Don’t you see what they’re doing? They want money, pure and simple. They don’t give a damn about you or me or Willow; they don’t care who’s screwed during the process. We’re just a means to an end.” I took a step closer to her. “So Willow’s got some problems—who doesn’t? There’s kids with ADHD and kids who sneak out at night to smoke and drink and kids who get beat up at school for liking math—you don’t see those parents trying to blame someone else so they can get cash.”

  “How come you were perfectly willing to sue Disney World and half of the public service system in Florida for cash? What’s different here?”

  I jerked my chin up. “They played us for fools.”

  “What if the doctors did, too?” Charlotte argued. “What if Piper made a mistake?”

  “Then she made a mistake!” I shrugged. “Would it have changed the outcome? If you’d known about all the breaks, all the trips to the ER, all we’d have to do for Willow, would you have wanted her any less?”

  She opened her mouth, and then resolutely clamped it shut.

  That scared the hell out of me.

  “So what if she winds up in a lot of casts?” I said, reaching for Charlotte’s hand. “She also knows the name of every bone in the freaking body and she hates the color yellow and she told me last night she wants to be a beekeeper when she grows up. She’s our little girl, Charlotte. We don’t need help. We’ve handled this for five years; we’ll keep handling it ourselves.”

  Charlotte drew away from me. “Where’s the we, Sean? You go off to work. You go out with the guys for poker night. You make it sound like you’re with Willow twenty-four/seven, but you have no idea what that’s like.”

  “Then we’ll get a visiting nurse. An aide . . .”

  “And we’ll pay her with what?” Charlotte snapped. “Come to think of it, how are we going to afford a new car big enough to carry Willow’s chair and walker and crutches, since ours is going on two hundred thousand miles? How are we going to pay off her surgeries, the parts insurance won’t cover? How are we going to make sure her house has a handicapped ramp and a kitchen sink low enough for a wheelcha
ir?”

  “Are you saying I can’t provide for my own kid?” I said, my voice escalating.

  Suddenly, all the bluster went out of Charlotte. “Oh, Sean. You’re the best father. But . . . you’re not a mother.”

  There was a shriek, and—instinct kicking in—both Charlotte and I sprinted across the parking lot, expecting to find Willow twisted on the pavement with a bone breaking through her skin. Instead, Amelia was holding the crying baby at arm’s length, a stain streaking the front of her shirt. “It barfed on me!” she wailed.

  The baby’s mother came hurrying out of the church. “I’m so sorry,” she said, to us, to Amelia, as Willow sat on the ground, laughing at her sister’s bad luck. “I think he might be coming down with something . . .”

  Charlotte stepped forward and took the baby from Amelia. “Maybe a virus,” she said. “Don’t worry. These things happen.”

  She stood back as the woman gave a wad of Baby Wipes to Amelia to clean herself off. “This conversation is over,” I murmured to Charlotte. “Period.”

  Charlotte bounced the baby in her arms. “Sure, Sean,” she said, too easily. “Whatever you say.”

  • • •

  By six o’clock that night, Charlotte had caught whatever the baby had, and was sick as a dog. Vomiting like crazy, she’d sequestered herself in the bathroom. I was supposed to work the night shift, but it was blatantly clear that wasn’t going to happen. “Amelia needs help with her science homework,” Charlotte murmured, patting her face with a damp towel. “And the girls need dinner . . .”

  “I’ll take care of it,” I said. “What else do you need?”

  “To die?” Charlotte moaned, and she shoved me out of the way to kneel in front of the toilet again.

  I backed out of the bathroom, closing the door behind me. Downstairs, you were sitting on the living room couch eating a banana. “You’re gonna spoil your appetite,” I said.

  “I’m not eating it, Daddy. I’m fixing it.”

  “Fixing it,” I repeated. On the table in front of you was a knife, which you weren’t supposed to have—I made a mental note to yell at Amelia for getting you one. There was a slice down the center of the banana.

  You popped open the lid of a mending kit we’d taken from the hotel room in Florida, pulled out a prethreaded needle, and started to sew up the wound in the banana skin.

  “Willow,” I said. “What are you doing?”

  You blinked up at me. “Surgery.”

  I watched you for a few stitches, to make sure you didn’t poke yourself with the needle, and then shrugged. Far be it from me to stand in the way of science.

  In the kitchen, Amelia was sprawled across the table with markers, glue, and a piece of poster board. “You want to tell me why Willow’s out there with a paring knife?” I said.

  “Because she asked for one.”

  “If she asked for a chain saw, would you have gotten it out of the garage?”

  “Well, that would kind of be overkill for cutting up a banana, don’t you think?” Looking down at her project, Amelia sighed. “This totally sucks. I have to make a board game about the digestive system, and everyone’s going to make fun of me because we all know where the digestive system ends.”

  “Funny you should use that word,” I said.

  “G-R-O-double-S, Dad.”

  I started pulling pots and pans out from beneath the counter and set out a frying pan. “What do you say to pancakes for dinner?” Not that they had a choice; it was the only thing I knew how to cook, except for peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

  “Mom made pancakes for breakfast,” Amelia complained.

  “Did you know that dissolvable stitches are made out of animal guts?” you called out.

  “No, and now I kind of wish I didn’t . . .”

  Amelia rubbed a glue stick over her poster board. “Is Mom better yet?”

  “No, baby.”

  “But she promised me she’d help draw the esophagus.”

  “I can help,” I said.

  “You can’t draw, Dad. When we play Pictionary you always make a house, even when that has nothing to do with the answer.”

  “Well, how hard can an esophagus be? It’s a tube, right?” I rummaged for a box of Bisquick.

  There was a thump; the knife had rolled under the couch. You were twisting uncomfortably. “Hang on, Wills, I can get that for you,” I called.

  “I don’t need it anymore,” you said, but you hadn’t stopped squirming.

  Amelia sighed. “Willow, stop being such a baby before you pee in your pants.”

  I looked from your sister to you. “Do you have to go to the bathroom?”

  “She’s making that face she makes when she’s trying to hold it in—”

  “Amelia, enough.” I walked into the living room and crouched down beside you. “Honey, you don’t have to be embarrassed.”

  You flattened your lips together. “I want Mom to take me.”

  “Mom’s not here,” Amelia snapped.

  I hoisted you off the couch to carry you into the downstairs bathroom. I’d just wrangled your awkwardly cast legs into the doorframe when you said, “You forgot the garbage bags.”

  Charlotte had told me how she’d line them inside your cast before you went to the bathroom. In all the time you’d been in your spica, I hadn’t been pressed into duty for this—you were wildly self-conscious about having me pull down your pants. I reached around the doorframe to the dryer, where Charlotte had stashed a box of kitchen trash bags. “Okay,” I said. “I’m a novice, so you have to tell me what to do.”

  “You have to swear you won’t peek,” you said.

  “Cross my heart.”

  You untied the knot that was holding up the gigantic boxer shorts we’d pulled over your spica, and I lifted you up so that they would pool at your hips. As I pulled them off, you squealed. “Look up here!”

  “Right.” I resolutely fixed my eyes on yours, trying to maneuver the shorts off you without seeing what I was doing. Then I held up the garbage bag, which would have to be tucked in along the crotch line. “You want to do this part?” I asked, blushing.

  I held you under the armpits while you struggled to line the cast with the plastic. “Ready,” you said, and I positioned you over the toilet.

  “No, back more,” you said, and I adjusted you and waited.

  And waited.

  “Willow,” I said, “go ahead and pee.”

  “I can’t. You’re listening.”

  “I’m not listening—”

  “Yes you are.”

  “Your mother listens . . .”

  “That’s different,” you said, and you burst into tears.

  Once the floodgates opened, they opened universally. I glanced down at the bowl of the toilet, only to hear you cry louder. “You said you wouldn’t peek!”

  I snapped my eyes north, juggled you into my left arm, and reached for the toilet paper with the right.

  “Dad!” Amelia yelled. “I think something’s burning . . .”

  “Oh shit,” I muttered, giving only a passing thought to the swear jar. I stuffed a wad of paper into your hand. “Hurry up, Willow,” I said, and then I flushed the toilet.

  “I h-have to w-wash my hands,” you hiccuped.

  “Later,” I bit out, and I carried you back to the couch, tossing your shorts into your lap before racing to the kitchen.

  Amelia stood in front of the stove, where the pancakes were charring. “I turned off the burner,” she said, coughing through the smoke.

  “Thanks.” She nodded and reached around me onto the counter for . . . Were those what I thought they were? Sure enough, Amelia sat down and picked up the hot glue gun. She’d affixed about thirty of my good clay poker chips around the edge of her poster board.

  “Amelia!” I yelled. “Those are my poker chips!”

  “You have a whole bunch. I just needed a few . . .”

  “Did I tell you you could use them?”

  “Yo
u didn’t tell me I couldn’t,” Amelia said.

  “Daddy,” you called out from the living room, “my hands!”

  “Okay,” I said under my breath. “Okay.” I counted to ten, and then carried the pan to the trash to scrape out its contents. The metal lip grazed my wrist and I dropped the pan. “Sonofabitch,” I cried, and I switched on the cold-water faucet, thrusting my arm beneath it.

  “I want to wash my hands,” you wailed.

  Amelia folded her arms. “You owe Willow a quarter,” she said.

  • • •

  By nine o’clock, you girls were asleep and the pots had been washed and the dishwasher was humming in the kitchen. I went around the house, turning out the lights, then crept into the dark bedroom. Charlotte was lying down with one arm thrown over her head. “You don’t have to tiptoe,” she said. “I’m awake.”

  I sank down beside her. “You feeling any better?”

  “I’m down a dress size. How are the girls?”

  “Fine. Although I’m sorry to say Willow’s patient didn’t survive.”

  “Huh?”

  “Nothing.” I rolled onto my back. “We had peanut butter and jelly for dinner.”

  She patted my arm absently. “You know what I love about you?”

  “Hmm?”

  “You make me look so good by comparison . . .”

  I propped my arms behind my head and stared up at the ceiling. “You don’t bake anymore.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t burn the pancakes,” Charlotte said, smiling a little. “Amelia ratted you out when she came in to say good night.”

  “I’m serious. Remember how you used to make crème brûlée and petit fours and chocolate èclairs?”

  “I guess other things became more important,” Charlotte answered.

  “You used to say you’d have your own bakery one day. You wanted to call it Syllable—”

  “Syllabub,” she corrected.

  I may not have remembered the name right, but I knew what it meant, because I’d asked you: syllabub was the oldest English dessert, made when dairymaids would shoot warm milk straight from the cow into a pail that held cider or sherry. It was like eggnog, you told me, and you promised me you’d make me some to try, and the night you did you dipped a finger in the sweet cream and traced a trail down my chest that you kissed clean.