The Jodi Picoult Collection #4

by Jodi Picoult

  The moment cooled, until I stood uncomfortably in the circle of his embrace, awkwardly aware that he didn’t want me there. Bravely, I took a step backward, putting inches between us. “So what do we do now?”

  “I think,” Sean said, “we have to be adults. No fighting in front of the girls. And maybe—if you’re okay with it—I could move back in. Not into the bedroom,” he added quickly. “Just the couch. Neither of us can afford to take care of two places, and the girls. The lawyer told me most people who are in the middle of a divorce stay in the same house. We just, you know, figure out a way so that if you’re here, I’m not. And vice versa. But we both get to be with the kids.”

  “Amelia knows. She read the letter from the court,” I said. “But not Willow.”

  Sean rubbed his chin. “I’ll tell her we’re working some things out between us.”

  “That’s a lie,” I said. “That suggests there’s still a chance.”

  Sean was quiet. He didn’t say there was a chance. But he didn’t say there wasn’t, either.

  “I’ll get you an extra blanket,” I said.

  That night in bed I lay awake, trying to list what I really knew about divorce.

  1. It took a long time.

  2. Very few couples did it gracefully.

  3. You were required to divide everything that belonged to both of you, which included cars and houses and DVDs and children and friends.

  4. It was expensive to surgically excise someone you loved from your life. The losses were not just financial but emotional.

  • • •

  Naturally, I knew people who had been divorced. For some reason, it always seemed to happen when their kids were in fourth grade—all of a sudden, that year in the school phone directory, the parents would be listed individually instead of linked with ampersands. I wondered what it was about fourth grade that was so stressful on a marriage, or maybe it was just hitting that ten- to fifteen-year mark. If that was the case, Sean and I were precocious for our marital age.

  I had been a single mother for five years before I met and married Sean. Although I truly considered Amelia the one good element of a disastrous relationship, and never would have married her father, I also knew what it was like to have other women scan your left hand for an absent ring, or never to have another adult in the house to talk to after the kids were asleep. Part of what I loved about being married to Sean was the ease of it—letting him see me when my hair was Medusa-wild in the mornings and kiss me when my teeth weren’t brushed yet, knowing which television show to click on when we sat down with a mutual sigh on the couch, instinctively recognizing which drawer housed his underwear or T-shirts or jeans. So much of marriage was implicit and nonverbal. Had I gotten so complacent I’d forgotten to communicate?

  Divorced. I whispered the word out loud. It sounded like a snake’s hiss. Divorced mothers seemed to have evolved into their own breed. Some went to the gym incessantly, hell-bent on getting remarried as soon as possible. Others just looked exhausted all the time. I remembered Piper once having a dinner party and not knowing whether to invite a woman who had recently been divorced because she didn’t know whether it would be uncomfortable to be the only single in a room full of doubles. “Thank God that’s not us. Can you imagine having to date again?” Piper had shuddered. “It’s like being a teenager twice.”

  I knew there were couples who mutually decided that relationships were past repair, but it was still always one partner who brought up the solution of divorce. And even if the other spouse went along with it, she’d secretly be stunned at how quickly someone who claimed to care about you could imagine a life that didn’t include you.

  My God.

  What Sean had done to me was exactly what I’d done to Piper.

  I reached for the telephone receiver on my nightstand and, although it was 2:46 in the morning, dialed Piper’s number. The phone was next to her side of the bed, too, although she slept on the left and I slept on the right. “Hello?” Piper said, her voice thick and unfamiliar.

  I covered the base of the receiver. “Sean wants a divorce,” I whispered.

  “Hello?” Piper repeated. “Hello!” There was an angry, muffled sigh, and the sound of something being knocked over. “Whoever the hell this is, you shouldn’t be calling this late.”

  Piper used to be accustomed to waking up in the middle of the night; as an OB, she was on call most of the time. Much in her life must have changed if this was her reaction, instead of the assumption that someone was in labor.

  Much in everyone’s life had changed, and I had been the catalyst.

  The canned voice of the operator filled my ear. If you want to make a call, please hang up and try again.

  I pretended instead it was Piper. Oh, God, Charlotte, she would say. Are you all right? Tell me everything. Tell me every last little thing.

  • • •

  The next morning I woke up with the panic of someone who knows she’s overslept because the sun is too high and bright in the sky. “Willow?” I called, leaping out of bed and running to your room. Every morning, you’d sing out to me, so that I could help you transition from bed to the bathroom and then back into your room to dress. Had I slept through it? Or had you?

  But your bedroom was empty, the sheets and comforters pulled tidy. Near Amelia’s bed were your unpacked suitcases, zipped up and ready to be carried to the attic.

  As I went downstairs, I heard you laughing. Sean was standing at the stove with a dish towel wrapped around his head, flipping pancakes. “It’s supposed to be a penguin,” you said. “Penguins don’t have ears.”

  “Why couldn’t you have just asked for something normal, like your sister did?” Sean said. “She’s got a perfect bear over there.”

  “Which would be cool,” Amelia said, “if I hadn’t asked for a lizard.” But she was smiling. When was the last time I’d seen Amelia smile before noon?

  “One penguin-slash-donkey, coming right up,” Sean said, sliding a pancake onto your plate.

  You both noticed me standing in the kitchen. “Mom, look who woke me up today!” you said.

  “I think maybe you’ve got that backward, Wills,” Sean said. His smile did not quite reach his eyes as he met my gaze. “I figured you could probably use a few extra hours of sleep.”

  I nodded and wrapped my robe tighter. Like origami, I thought. I could fold myself in half and then in half again, and so on, until I was someone else entirely. “Thank you.”

  “Daddy!” you cried. “The pancake’s on fire!”

  Not on fire, exactly, but charred and smoking. “Oh, shoot,” Sean said, whirling around to scrape it off the pan.

  “And here I thought you’d gone and learned how to cook.”

  Sean looked up over the open trash can. “It’s amazing what desperation—and a box of Bisquick—can do for a guy,” he admitted. “I thought, since I’ve got the day off, I’d hang out with the girls. Finish up the wheelchair ramp for Willow.”

  What he was telling me, I realized, was that this was the first step in our informal shared custody–shared household–split marriage situation. “Oh,” I said, trying to sound nonchalant. “I guess I’ll just run some errands then.”

  “You should go out and have fun,” he suggested. “See a movie. Visit a friend.”

  I didn’t have any friends, anymore.

  “Right,” I said, forcing a smile. “Sounds great.”

  There was a fine line, I thought an hour later as I pulled out of the driveway, between being kicked out of your house and not being welcome there, but from my vantage point, they looked pretty much the same. I drove to the gas station and filled up, and then just . . . well . . . began to aimlessly tool around in the car. For all of your life, I’d either been with you or been waiting for a phone call to tell me you had broken; this freedom was almost overwhelming. I didn’t feel relieved, just untethered.

  Before I realized it, I had driven to Marin’s office. This would have made me laugh if it wasn’t
so blatantly depressing. Grabbing my purse, I went inside and took the elevator upstairs. Briony, the receptionist, was on the phone when I entered, but she waved me back down the hallway.

  I knocked on Marin’s door. “Hi,” I said, peeking around the corner.

  She looked up. “Charlotte! Come on in.” As I sat down in one of the leather chairs, she stood up and came around to lean against the desk. “Did you talk to Sutton?”

  “Yes, it’s . . . overwhelming.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “Sean’s at my house now,” I blurted out. “We’re trying to work out a schedule, so that we’re both taking care of the girls.”

  “That sounds awfully mature.”

  I glanced up at her. “How can I miss him more when he’s two feet away from me than when he’s not around?”

  “You’re not really missing him. You’re missing the idea of what she could have been.”

  “He,” I corrected, and Marin blinked.

  “Right,” she said. “Of course.”

  I hesitated. “I know it’s office hours and everything, but would you want to go grab a cup of coffee? I mean, we could pretend that it’s an attorney-client thing . . .”

  “It is an attorney-client thing, Charlotte,” Marin said stiffly. “I’m not your friend . . . I’m your lawyer, and to be perfectly honest, that’s already required putting aside some of my personal feelings.”

  I felt a flush rise up my neck. “Why? What did I ever do to you?”

  “Not you,” Marin said. She looked uncomfortable, too. “I just— This is not the kind of case I would personally endorse.”

  My own lawyer thought I shouldn’t sue for wrongful birth?

  Marin stood up. “I’m not saying you don’t have a good chance of winning,” she clarified, as if she’d heard me out loud. “I’m just saying that morally—philosophically—well, I understand where your husband is coming from, that’s all.”

  I stood up, reeling. “I can’t believe I’m arguing with my own attorney about justice and accountability,” I said, grabbing my purse. “Maybe I should be hiring another firm.” I was halfway down the hallway when I heard Marin call after me. She was standing in the doorway, her fists clenched at her sides.

  “I’m trying to find my birth mother,” she said. “That’s why I’m not thrilled about your case. It’s why I won’t be having coffee with you or hoping that we’ll have a sleepover and do each other’s hair. If this world existed the way you want, Charlotte, with babies being disposable if they aren’t exactly what a woman wants or needs or dreams of, you wouldn’t even have a lawyer right now.”

  “I love Willow,” I said, swallowing hard. “I’m doing what I think is best for her. And you’re judging me for that?”

  “Yes,” Marin admitted. “The same way I judge my mother for doing what she thought was best for me.”

  For a few moments after she went back into her office, I stood in the hallway, leaning against the wall for support. The problem with this lawsuit was that it didn’t exist in a vacuum. You could look at it theoretically and think, Hm, yes, that makes perfect sense. But no real thought occurred in such sterile conditions. When you read a news article about me suing Piper, when you saw A Day in the Life of Willow on video, you brought with you preconceived notions, opinions, a history.

  It was why Marin had to swallow her anger while she worked on my case.

  It was why Sean couldn’t understand my reasoning.

  And it was why I was so afraid to admit that one day, looking back on this, you might hate me.

  • • •

  Wal-Mart became my playground.

  I wandered up and down the aisles, trying on hats and shoes, looking at myself in mirrors, stacking Rubbermaid bins one inside the other. I pedaled an exercise bike and pushed buttons on talking dolls and listened to sample tracks from CDs. I couldn’t afford to buy anything, but I could spend hours looking.

  I didn’t know how I would support you kids by myself. I knew that alimony and child support figured into that somehow, but no one had ever explained the math to me. Presumably, though, I would have to be able to provide for you if any court was going to find me a fit parent.

  I could bake.

  The thought snaked into my mind before I could dismiss it. No one made a living with cupcakes, with pastries. True, I had been selling for a few months now; I’d made enough money to fly to the Omaha OI convention and to attract the attention of a string of service stations. But I couldn’t work for a restaurant or expand my market past the Gas-n-Get. At any moment, you might fall and need me.

  “Pretty sweet, huh?”

  I turned to find a Wal-Mart employee standing beside me, staring up at a trampoline that had been half erected to show actual size. He looked to be about twenty, and he had such severe acne that his face looked like a swollen tomato. “When I was a kid, I wanted a trampoline more than anything else in the world.”

  When he was a kid? He was still a kid. He had a lifetime of mistakes left to make.

  “So, you got children who like to jump?” he asked.

  I tried to picture you on this trampoline. Your hair would fly out behind you; you’d somersault and not break. I glanced at the price tag, as if this item was actually something I would consider. “It’s expensive. I think I may have to browse a little more before I decide.”

  “No prob,” he said, and he sauntered off, leaving me to trail my hands over shelves full of tennis racquets and stubbled skateboards, to smell the acrid wheels of the bicycles, strung overhead like haunches in a butcher’s shop, to envision you bouncing and healthy, a girl you would never be.

  • • •

  The church I went to later that day was not my own. It was thirty miles north, in a town I knew only from the highway road sign. It smelled overpoweringly of beeswax, and the morning Mass had recently let out, so a number of parishioners were praying quietly in the pews. I slipped into one and said an Our Father under my breath and stared up at the Cross on the altar. All my life I’d been told that if I fell off a cliff, God was there to catch me. Why wasn’t that true, physically, for my daughter?

  There was a memory I’d been having lately: a nurse on the birthing ward looked at you in your foam-lined bassinet, with tiny bandages wrapped around your limbs. “You’re young,” she said, patting my arm. “You can have another one.”

  I could not recall whether you had just been born or if this was several days later. If anyone else was there to hear her, or if she’d even been real or just a trick of the drugs I was taking for pain. Did I make her up, so that she could say aloud what I had been thinking silently? This is not my baby; I want the one I’ve dreamed of.

  I heard a curtain open, and I stepped up to the empty confessional. I slid open the grate between me and the priest. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” I said. “It has been three weeks since my last confession.” I took a deep breath. “My daughter is sick,” I said. “Very sick. And I’ve started a lawsuit against the doctor who treated me when I was pregnant. I’m doing it for the money,” I admitted. “But to get it, I have to say that I’d have had an abortion, if I’d known about my baby’s illness earlier.”

  There was a viscous silence. “It’s a sin to lie,” the priest said.

  “I know . . . that’s not what brought me to Confession today.”

  “Then what did?”

  “When I say those things,” I whispered, “I’m afraid I might be telling the truth.”

  Marin

  September 2008

  Jury selection was an art, combined with pure luck. Everyone had theories about how best to select juries for different kinds of cases, but you never really knew if your hypothesis was right until after the verdict. And it was important to note that you didn’t really get to pick who was on your jury—just who was off it. A subtle difference—and a critical one.

  There was a pool of twenty jurors for voir dire. Charlotte was fidgeting beside me in the courtroom. Her living arrangem
ent with Sean, ironically, made it possible for her to be here today; otherwise, she would have been stressing over child-care arrangements for you—which was going to be challenging enough during the trial.

  Usually when I tried a case, I hoped for a certain judge—but this time around it had been hard to know what to wish for. A female judge who had children might have sympathy with Charlotte—or might find her plea absolutely revolting. A conservative judge might oppose abortion on moral grounds—but also might agree with the defense’s position that a doctor shouldn’t be the one to determine which children were too impaired to be born. In the end, we had drawn Judge Gellar, the justice who’d sat the longest on the superior court in the state of New Hampshire and who, if he were to have it his way, would die on the bench.

  The judge had already called the potential jurors to order and explained the nuts and bolts of the case to them—the terminology of wrongful birth, the plaintiff and the defendant, the witnesses. He’d asked if anyone knew the witnesses or parties in the case, had heard about the case, or had personal or logistical problems with sitting on the case—like child-care issues or sciatica that made it impossible to sit for hours at a time. Various people raised their hands and told their stories: they’d read all the news articles about the lawsuit; they’d been pulled over for a traffic ticket by Sean O’Keefe; they were scheduled to be out of town for their mother’s ninety-fifth birthday celebration. The judge gave a little canned speech about how, if we chose to dismiss them, they shouldn’t take it personally and how we all truly appreciated their service—when, I bet, most of those jurors were hoping they would be allowed to leave and go back to their real lives. Finally, the judge called us up to the bench to conference about whether anyone should be dismissed. In the end, he struck two jurors for cause: a man who was deaf and a woman whose twins had been delivered by Piper Reece.

  That left a pool of thirty-eight individuals, who had been given questionnaires that Guy Booker and I had slaved over for weeks. Used to get a sense of the people in the pool—and to either strike jurors based on their answers or formulate further questions during the individual interviews—the survey we’d created had involved a complicated tango. I’d asked: