by Jodi Picoult
She catches me so off guard that I don’t stop her in time from pulling the quilt back from her chest. When she sees her sores on her chest, arms and legs, she gasps. Her hands, trembling, reach out for something. They find me. “When Hadley fell, you tried to climb down after him. You wouldn’t stop.” I take a deep breath, feeling my voice catch. “You kept saying you were trying to tear your heart out.”
Rebecca turns her face so that she is looking out the window. It is dark now, and all she will see is the reflection of her own pain. “I don’t know why I bothered,” she whispers. “You’d already done that.”
I used to think, before this whole incident, that parental love was supposed to be unconditional. I believed that Rebecca would naturally be tied to me because I had been the one to bring her into the world. I didn’t connect this with my own experience. When I could not love my father, I assumed there was something wrong with me. But when they carried Rebecca in here from the stretcher of the ambulance, I came to see things differently. If you want to love a parent you have to understand the incredible investment he or she has in you. If you are a parent, and you want to be loved, you have to deserve it.
Suddenly I am dizzy with guilt. “What do you want me to say, Rebecca?”
Rebecca will not look at me. “Why do you want me to forgive you? What do you get out of it?”
Absolution, I think, the first word that comes to my mind. I get to protect you from what I went through. “Why do I want you to forgive me? Because I never forgave my father, and I know what it will do to you. When I was growing up my father would hit me. He hit me and he hit my mother and I tried to keep him from hitting Joley. He broke my heart, and eventually he broke me. I never believed I could be anything important. Why else would my father hurt me?” I smile, wringing her hand. “Then I forgot about it. I married Oliver and three years later he hit me. That’s when I left the first time.”
Rebecca pulls her hand away. “The plane crash,” she says.
“I went back to him because of you. I knew that more than anything else I had to make sure you grew up feeling safe. And then I hit your father, and it all came back again.” I swallow, reliving that scene on the stairs in San Diego. The whale papers fluttering around my ankles. Oliver cursing at me. “This time it was part of me,” I say. “No matter how far I run. No matter how many states and countries I cross, I can’t get it out of myself. I never forgave him, because I thought that way I would have the last laugh. But he won. He’s in me.”
When she tries to sit up gain, I don’t stop her. I start to tell her about Sam. I let her know what it was like to give the stars we saw from the bedroom window the names of our ancestors. How he could finish the very thoughts I was thinking. “I didn’t believe anyone else could feel the way I did. Including—especially my daughter.”
I move to the edge of the bed, pulling the quilt back over her chest. I take her hand, counting her fingers. “I did this when you were a baby. Making sure there were ten. I wanted you to be healthy. I didn’t care if you were a boy or a girl. At least I said I didn’t. But it mattered. I used to hope I’d have a little girl, someone just like me. Someone I could go shopping with, and teach to wear makeup, and dress for the senior prom. But I wish now you hadn’t been a girl. Because we get hurt. It happens over and over.”
We stare at each other for a long time, my daughter and me. In the dim light of a sixty-watt bulb, I start to notice things about her that I have never seen. Everyone has always told me she looks like Oliver. I even thought she looked like Oliver. But here, and now, she has my eyes. Not the color, not the shape, but the demeanor—and isn’t that the most remarkable feature? This is my child. There is no denying it.
When I am looking at her, all of my decisions come clear. Love, I think, has very little to do with Sam, with Oliver, with Hadley. What it all boils down to is me. What it all boils down to is Rebecca. It is knowing that the memories I pass down to her will keep me from feeling pain the next time. It is knowing that she has stories of her own for me.
“Sometimes I cannot believe you are only fifteen,” I say. I pull back the quilt from my daughter’s chest and peel off the strips of gauze. In some places she starts to bleed again. Maybe this is good. Maybe something needs to be let out. I hold my hands across her chest, over her breasts. Her blood slips between my fingers. I want so much to heal.
68 OLIVER
I have one strong lasting image of you, Jane. It was the morning after our wedding night, and you looked lost in the large, king-size bed at the Hotel Meridien in Boston. I awakened before the five o’clock wake-up call just for the chance to watch you with all your defenses down. You have always been so lovely when you stop resisting. It is your face that I remember the most: alabaster, honest, the face of a child. You were a child.
You had never been abroad, do you remember? and you were so looking forward to Amsterdam, Copenhagen. But then came the phone call from Provincetown, about several beached whales that were stranded on the shores of Ogunquit. When the telephone rang, you rolled towards me. “Is it time?” you whispered, twining your arms around my hips, playing at this world of adults.
I decided to simply tell you the truth. Perhaps in retrospect I see that I embellished the plight of these whales to be in more dire straits than could be considered strictly truthful. But you surprised me. You did not frown, or sigh, or show evidence of regret. You began to get dressed in an old pair of jeans and a sweatshirt—not at all the pretty pink suit of which you’d been so proud, your going-away outfit. “Come on, Oliver,” you said to me. “We’ve got to get there as soon as we can!”
Driving to Maine I stole glances at you, checking once again for signs of self-pity. You exhibited none. You kept your hand covering mine for the entire trip, and you did not comment on our forgotten honeymoon or the missed flight. We reached Ogunquit the same time that our plane was scheduled to depart.
You worked beside me that day, and the next, ferrying buckets of water up from the ocean, massaging the crusted fins of these whales. You and I were a team, united in purpose. I had never felt so close to you as I did on the beaches of Ogunquit, separated by the huge frame of a whale, and yet still able to hear the song of your voice.
We told you to step aside when it came to moving the whales. You refused. You worked directly beside me, pushing where I told you it was necessary, stepping back delicately when common sense told you you were too small to do any good. You knew the clear danger of being so close to such a powerful mammal. You heard the stories of broken limbs, and worse, of bring crushed. We saw three whales swimming back out into the ocean that day—two females and a baby. The baby had to be redirected several times; it kept trying to swim back to shore. But we watched them go free. It took my breath away, seeing success right before my eyes. I wanted to tell you this but you were not there. I had to look around to find you in the cheering crowd. You were crouched near the one whale we could not save. Already the sun had cracked and bleached the skin on its back, and you were splashing bucket after bucket of water upon it. “It’s gone, Jane.” I tried to pull you away. You leaned against the still side of the whale near the hot and blistered eye, and you cried.
I do not know how it happened; the way we drifted apart. I am happy to assume the blame for it if it can be left in the past. I woke up one morning, greying at the temples, engrossed in the pursuit of my research, and discovered that my family had disappeared. I must confess to you that even as I began to search for you and Rebecca, I did not have a clear goal in mind. The object was to stop the nonsense, to bring you back as quickly as possible and resume the life that had been interrupted. But when I saw you in Iowa—yes, I was in Iowa at the same time, just across the cornfield—when I saw you with Rebecca, I realized there was much more going on than I had allowed myself to recognize. Here was this amazing woman with whom I had constructed the fragile shape of fifteen years. Here was this child who came back from the edge of death for something.
I understand
you have undertaken many changes yourself during this trip and although I cannot pretend this does not hurt, I will not blame you. I brought it upon myself. I drove you to find someone else. But you have to see, Jane, that I’m a different man. For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction: imagine how different our lives could be. Oh, I want you back. I want you and I want Rebecca, and I want for once to act like a family. I will bend over backward; I will give you both all I have. I know you have your own issues to sort out, but don’t you see? I need you, Jane. I love you. I know that the only reason I have become successful in other areas of my life is because of you—at your expense. And I still feel the way I did the day you willingly postponed your own honeymoon. I want you by my side.
It would be too much to ask you to believe in me. But I know you believe in second chances. You can’t throw this all away. At the very least, all the basal elements are still there: you, me, Rebecca. We could tear down everything, yet we would still have those building blocks. And my God, Jane, imagine the little world we three could create.
69 JOLEY
In all the years you’ve been coming to me for advice, I’ve never been able to get you to do something you didn’t already have your heart set on doing. There: my secret’s out. I’m not the sage I pretend to be; the fact is, Jane, you’ve got a mind of your own, and you only need me to pull the answers out from inside you. So I think you know what you are going to do. I think you understand, in this case, what would be the right thing.
Let me tell you a little something about love. It’s different every time. It’s nothing more than a chemical reaction, an arrow over an equation, but the elements change. The most fragile kind of love is that between a man and a woman. Chemistry, again: if you introduce a new element, you never know how stable the original bond is. You may wind up with a new union, with something left behind. I believe that you can fall in love many times with many different people. However I don’t think that you can fall in love the same way twice. One type of relationship may be steady. Another may be fire and brimstone. Who is to say if one of these is better than the other? The deciding factor is how it all fits together. Your love, I mean, and your life.
The problem is that when you’re old enough to really find a soulmate, you’re already carrying around all this extra baggage. Like where you grew up, and how much money you make, and whether you like the country or the city. And sometimes, most of the time, you fall really hard for someone who you just can’t squeeze into the limits of your life. The bottom line is: when your heart sets its sight on someone, it doesn’t consult with your mind.
Most people don’t marry the loves of their lives. You marry for compatibility; for friendship. And Jane, there’s a lot to be said for that. It may not be a kind of relationship where you can read each other’s minds, but it’s comfortable, like a familiar warm spot on your favorite chair. That’s just another kind of love, one that doesn’t burn itself out, one that lasts in the real world.
You don’t know how lucky you are. There’s one person for each of us on this whole planet with whom we can really connect. And you found yours. I know how it feels too, you see, because I have had you.
I have always been your greatest fan, Jane. I can identify you in a room by the motion of the air around you. I knew it would be like this from the night that Daddy first crashed into my room. He flung open the door and saw you already sitting on the bed, holding a pillow up around my ears so that I wouldn’t have to listen to the sounds downstairs of Mama crying. He told you to get the hell out of my room. You were no more than eight, all bones, and you hurled yourself at his groin with the force of a tropical storm. Perhaps it was just the region you hit that triggered his reaction, but I don’t believe that. I can still see his head striking the sharp corner of the wooden bureau, and his eyes rolling back. You looked at him, whispered, Daddy? “I didn’t do that,” you said, “you hear?” But even at four, I understood. “You’re the only one who could have,” I told you, and to this day that holds true.
You have untapped strength, Jane. It’s what got you through your childhood. It’s what kept Daddy from going after me. It’s what Oliver fell in love with, what Sam fell in love with, what I fell in love with. You came to me in Massachusetts, you said, because you couldn’t remember who you were anymore. Don’t you see? You’re everyone’s anchor. You are our center.
I want you to say it. Tell me what you are going to do.
Again.
You will not be sorry. I know; I have carried a memory of you wherever I have gone for thirty years now. That’s the way it had to be. You will see. No matter what. You will take him with you.
70 SAM
Until now, I didn’t know there was a down side to being able to read your mind. It’s written all over your face, you know. I don’t blame you. I should have known that you would go back to him. Back to California.
Later, when you are gone, it’s going to hit me. Hadley, and then you, leaving at the same time. I won’t blame you for what happened to him; I couldn’t. But I haven’t really grieved yet, not for him; not for you. In time, I’ll make peace with myself for Hadley’s death. With you, though, it will not be so simple.
It would be easy to say that when you leave I could just pretend this didn’t happen. Truth is, you weren’t here for all that long. I’ve always been sort of suspicious of immediate attraction, anyway, and I could just tell myself over and over that infatuation isn’t the same as love. But you and I both know that would be lying. You can tell yourself anything you want, but you can’t make what happened go away. It happened fast because we were making up for lost time.
When I picture you, it’s a collage I see, not one whole picture. There’s you sitting in the manure, doesn’t that seem like a year ago? And talking to Joley under the shade of a Gravenstein tree, the sun casting shadows on your back. I think I knew I loved you then, no matter how I acted. Maybe I always knew.
I keep thinking we were so stupid. If we hadn’t fought so hard when we first met, we would have had nearly twice as much time together. But then if we hadn’t fought so hard I wonder if I could have loved you so damn much.
It sounds funny to say it here, just like that, in the light of day. I love you. You hear it so often, you know, on soap operas and stupid sitcoms that sometimes the words are just sounds, they don’t mean anything. But God, I would shout it to the world day and night if it meant I could keep you with me. I’ve never tried to pack so much into one phrase in my whole life.
Is it different for you, because I am not the first man you’ve loved? I might as well say it, because it’s true. You went first to Oliver. So what I want to know is: does your heart feel like it’s being ripped out? Is it easier for you? Have you felt this way before?
I haven’t either. I can’t imagine ever feeling this way again. Not the pain, not now, that’s not what I’m talking about. I’m talking about us. When I was with you nothing mattered. I could have watched this whole orchard get wiped out by blight. I could have witnessed massacres, a war, Armageddon. It wouldn’t have made a difference.
I know that there will be other women, but they couldn’t compare. Maybe I’ll change, maybe love will change, but I think we were a once-in-a-lifetime. You could never leave me; that’s why I am not more upset. You can’t possibly break these feelings. They stretch, and they last. You’re taking them with you back to Oliver, back to Rebecca. You will never be the same, because of me.
If I have to remember you, just for a second, it will be like this: you kneeling in front of me, at the windowsill, counting the stars. I don’t remember why we decided to do that, if’s an impossible, infinite task. Maybe because when we were together, we thought we had all the time in the world. You gave up at two hundred and six. That’s when you started to name them, after grandparents, great-grandparents, distant ancestors. Antique names like Bertha and Charity and Annabelle, Homer and Felix and Harding. You asked me for family names, and I told you. We mapped the sky with our h
eritage. Do you know what a star is? I asked you. It’s an explosion that happened billions and billions of years ago. The only reason we see it now, is because it’s taken that long for the light, the sight, to travel here into our line of vision. I pointed to the North Star, and said I wanted to name it after you. Jane, you said, too plain for such a bright one. I said you were wrong. It was the biggest explosion, obviously, and it has taken many years to reach us, but it will be here for many more.
I will think about you every day for the rest of my life. It had to be this way; I can’t see myself surfing on a beach any more than you can imagine raising sheep. We come from different backgrounds, and we happened to cross for a little bit of time. But what a time that was.
Don’t say it. This is not goodbye.
Look at me. Hold me. I can get across so much more that way. There are things we need to say that there aren’t words for, yet.
Oh I love you.
71 REBECCA
July 3, 1990
I always pay attention to my parents’ fights. They’re incredible. It is hard to understand how so much anger could come from such indifference. When I picture my parents, I see them walking in concentric circles, in opposite directions. My mother’s circle is inside my father’s, for financial reasons. My father walks clockwise. My mother walks counterclockwise. Naturally they do not cross paths. From time to time they look up and see each other from the corners of their eyes. And it is this break in the line of vision that sparks an argument.
They are fighting, today, over me. My fifteenth birthday. My father is planning to be out of the country on my birthday. Out of fourteen birthdays, he has been here for seven. So it is not like this is something new. But my mother seems to have lost control. She yells at him in the kitchen, things I choose to ignore. I walk away from them on purpose, and turn up the game shows on TV.