by Jodi Picoult
“Sure.”
“Why don’t you talk about your family? How could you move out here and not have to make a phone call to them saying where you’d be?”
I watched the cows milling in the field, lowering their heads to the fresh grass. “My mother’s dead, and I haven’t spoken to my father in a few years.” Not since I became a defense attorney, and he accused me of selling out my morals for money. “I never got married, and my boyfriend and I just ended our relationship.”
“How come?”
“We sort of outgrew each other,” I said, testing the answer on my lips. “Not surprising, after eight years.”
“How can you be boyfriend and girlfriend for eight years and not get married?”
How to describe the intricacies of 1990s dating to an Amish girl? “Well, we started out thinking we were right for each other. It took us that long to find out we weren’t.”
“Eight years,” she scoffed. “You could have had a whole bunch of kids by now.”
At the thought of all that time wasted, I felt my throat close with tears. Katie dipped her toe in the small puddle of mud forming beneath the nozzle of the hose, clearly embarrassed at having upset me. “You must miss him.”
“Not Stephen, so much,” I said softly. “Just that bunch of kids.”
I waited for Katie to make the connection, to say something about her own circumstances in relation to mine—but once again she surprised me. “You know what I noticed when I was with Jacob? In your world, people can reach each other in an instant. There’s the telephone, and the fax—and on the computer you can talk to someone all the way around the world. You’ve got people telling their secrets on TV talk shows, and magazines that publish pictures of movie stars trying to hide in their homes. All those connections, but everyone there seems so lonely.”
Just as I started to protest, Katie handed me the hose and hopped over the fence. Reaching for the nozzle again, she turned the water on and waved it over the cows, who bellowed and tried to dodge the spray. Then, with a grin, she turned the hose on me.
“Why, you little—!” Soaked from my hair to my ankles, I climbed the fence and started to run after her. The cows got between us, milling in circles. Katie shrieked as I finally grabbed the hose and saturated her. “Take that,” I laughed, then slipped on the wet grass and landed on my bottom in a slick of mud.
“Excuse me? I’m looking for Ellie Hathaway.”
At the sound of the deep voice, both Katie and I turned, the nozzle in my hand spraying the shoes of the speaker before he managed to jump out of the way. I stood up, wiping mud off my hands, and grinned sheepishly at the man on the other side of the heifer pen, a man staring at my boots and apron and the muck all over me. “Coop,” I said. “It’s been a while.”
* * *
Ten minutes later when I came downstairs fresh from a shower, I found Coop sitting on the porch with Katie and Sarah. A platter of cookies was on the wicker table, and Coop held a sweating glass of ice water in his hand. He stood up as soon as he saw me.
“Still a gentleman,” I said, smiling.
He leaned forward and kissed me on the cheek, and to my surprise a hundred memories rushed at me—the way his hair had always smelled of wood smoke and apples, the curve of his jaw, the imprint of his fingers splayed over my back. Dizzy, I stepped back and did my best not to look uncomfortable.
“These ladies have been kind enough to keep me company,” he said, and Katie and Sarah bent their heads together, whispering like schoolgirls.
Sarah came to her feet. “We’ll leave you to your caller,” she said, nodding at Coop as she walked back into the house. Katie headed toward the garden, and I sat down. After twenty years, Coop had grown into his looks. His features—just a little too sharp in college—had roughened with time, chiseling his skin with a scar here and a laugh line there. His black hair, which once hung to his shoulders, was neatly trimmed and feathered with gray. His eyes were still that clear pale green that I had only seen twice in my life: on Coop, and once from the window of a plane when I was traveling to the Caribbean with Stephen.
“You’ve aged well,” I said.
He laughed. “You make it sound like I’m a bottle of wine.” Leaning back in his chair, he grinned at me. “You look pretty good, yourself. Especially compared to about fifteen minutes ago. I’d heard defense litigation was a dirty business, but I never took it literally.”
“Well, it’s sort of like method acting. The Amish aren’t a particularly trusting lot, when it comes to outsiders. When I look like them, work with them, they open up.”
“Must be hard, being stuck here away from home.”
“Is that John Joseph Cooper the psychiatrist asking?”
He started to say something, then shook his head. “Nah. Just Coop, the friend.”
I shrugged, deliberately looking away from his careful gaze. “There are things I miss—my coffee maker, for one. Downshifting in my car. The X-Files, and ER.”
“Not Stephen?”
I had forgotten that the last time I saw Coop, we’d been with our significant others. We met in the lobby during the intermission of a performance by the Philadelphia Symphony. Although we’d been in touch occasionally for business reasons, I had never before met his wife, who was fine-boned and blond, and fit against his side as neatly as a matched jigsaw puzzle piece. Even after all those years, just the sight of her was a sucker punch.
“Stephen isn’t in the picture,” I admitted.
Coop regarded me for a moment before saying, “I’m sorry to hear that.”
I was a grown-up; I could get through this. Taking a deep breath, I summoned a smile and clapped my hands on my knees. “Well. You didn’t come all the way out here to talk to me—”
“But I would have, Ellie,” Coop said, his voice soft. “I forgave you a long time ago.”
It would have been easy to pretend that I had not heard him; to simply launch into a discussion about Katie. But you can’t speak to someone partly responsible for making you who you are without unearthing a little bit of that history. Maybe Coop had forgiven me, but I hadn’t.
Coop cleared his throat. “Let me tell you what I found out about Katie.” He dug in a briefcase and pulled out a pad of yellow legal paper covered with his chicken-scratch handwriting. “There are two camps of psychiatric explanations for neonaticide. The minority attitude is that women who kill their newborns have gone into a dissociative state that lasts throughout the pregnancy.”
“Dissociative state?”
“A very concentrated focus state, where a person blocks out all but the one thing they’re doing. In this case, these women fracture off a bit of their consciousness, so that they’re living in a fantasy world where they’re not pregnant. When the birth finally occurs, the women are totally unprepared. They’ve dissociated from the reality of the event, experiencing memory lapses. Some women even become temporarily psychotic, once the shock of the birth slams through that shell of denial. In either case, the excuse is that they’re not mentally present at the moment of the crime, so they can’t be held legally accountable for their actions.”
“Sounds very Sybil to me.”
Coop grinned and handed me a list of names. “These are some psychiatrists who’ve testified the past few years with the soft approach. They’re clinical psychiatrists, you’ll see—not forensic ones. That’s because the majority of forensic psychiatrists who deal with neonaticides say the women are not in a dissociative state—just detached from the pregnancy. They feel dissociation might occur at the moment of birth. Plus, even I’d tell you that some dissociation is entirely normal, given the pain of childbirth. It’s like when you cut yourself chopping vegetables, and you kind of stand there for a second and say, ‘Wow, that’s a deep one.’ But you don’t go chopping off your hand after that to eliminate the problem.”
I nodded. “Then why do they kill the babies?”
“Because they have no emotional connection to them—it’s like passing a gallstone. At the
moment of murder, they aren’t out of touch with reality—just frightened, embarrassed, and unable to face an illegitimate birth.”
“In other words,” I said flatly, “patently guilty.”
Coop shrugged. “I don’t have to tell you how insanity defenses go over with a jury.” He handed me another list, this one three times as long as the first. “These psychiatrists have supported the mainstream view. But every case is different. If Katie’s still refusing to admit to what’s happened in the face of a murder charge and medical evidence of pregnancy, there may be something more at work creating that defense mechanism.”
“I wanted to talk to you about that. Is there any way to find out if she was raped?”
Coop whistled. “That would be a hell of a reason to get rid of a newborn.”
“Yeah. I’d just like to be the one to find out, instead of the prosecutor.”
“It’s going to be tough, so many months after the fact, but I’ll keep it in mind when I’m talking to her.” He frowned. “There’s another option, too—that she’s been lying all along.”
“Coop, I’m a defense attorney. My bullshit meter is calibrated daily. I’d know if she was lying.”
“You might not, El. You have to admit you’re a little close to the situation, living here.”
“Lying isn’t one of the hallmarks of the Amish.”
“Neither is neonaticide.”
I thought of the way Katie would blush and stammer when she was confronted with something she didn’t want to talk about. And then I thought of how she’d looked every time she denied having a baby: her chin jutting straight, her eyes bright, her focus right on me. “In her mind, that baby never happened,” I said quietly.
Coop considered this. “Maybe not in her mind,” he answered. “But that baby was here.”
* * *
Katie fisted her hands in her lap, looking as if she’d been sentenced to an execution. “Dr. Cooper just wants to ask you some questions,” I explained. “You can relax.”
Coop smiled at her. We were all sitting by the creek, far enough away from the house for privacy. He slipped a tape recorder out of his pocket, and I quickly caught his eye and shook my head. Unfazed, Coop reached for his pad instead. “Katie, I just want to start off by telling you that whatever you say isn’t going to go beyond us. I’m not here to tattle on you; I’m just here to help you work through some of the feelings you must be having.”
She looked at Ellie, then back at Coop.
He grinned. “So—how are you feeling?”
“All right,” she said, wary. “Good enough that I don’t need to talk to you.”
“I can understand why you feel that way,” Coop responded pleasantly. “A lot of people do, who’ve never spoken to a psychiatrist. And then they figure out that sometimes it’s easier to talk to a stranger about personal things than it is to talk to a family member.”
I knew Coop was watching the same things I was—how Katie’s spine had become just a little less stiff, how her hands had uncurled in her lap. As his voice continued to wash over her, as his eyes held hers, I wondered how anyone stood a chance of keeping secrets from him. There was an affability to Coop, an effortless charm, that immediately made you feel like you had an intimate connection to him.
Then again, I had.
Shaking my attention back to my client, I listened to Coop’s question. “Can you tell me about your relationship with your parents?”
Katie looked at me as if she didn’t understand. What was a perfectly normal question for a clinical interview seemed silly, given the Amish. “They are my parents,” she said haltingly.
“Do you spend a lot of time with them?”
“Ja, out in the fields or in the kitchen, at meals, at prayer.” She blinked at Coop. “I’m with them all the time.”
“Are you close to your mother?”
Katie nodded. “I’m all she’s got.”
“Have you ever had seizures, Katie, or head trauma?”
“No.”
“How about very bad bellyaches?”
“Once.” Katie smiled. “After my brother dared me to eat ten apples that weren’t ripe.”
“But not . . . recently?” She shook her head. “How about losing big chunks of time . . . you suddenly realize that hours have passed, and you can’t remember where you’ve been or what you’ve done?”
At that, inexplicably, Katie blushed again and said no.
“Have you ever had hallucinations—seen things that aren’t really there?”
“Sometimes I see my sister—”
“Who died,” I interrupted.
“She drowned at the pond,” Katie explained. “When I’m there, she comes too.”
Coop didn’t even blink, as if seeing ghosts were the normal course of one’s day. “Does she speak to you? Tell you to do anything?”
“No. She just skates.”
“Does it bother you to see her?”
“Oh, no.”
“Have you ever been very sick? Had to go to the hospital?”
“No. Not until this last time.”
“Let’s talk about that,” Coop said. “Do you know why you were hospitalized?”
Katie’s cheeks flamed and she stared into her lap. “It was for a woman’s problem.”
“The doctors said you had a baby.”
“They were wrong,” Katie said. “I didn’t.”
Coop let the denial roll right off his back. “How old were you when you started menstruating, Katie?”
“Twelve.”
“Did your mother explain what was happening?”
“Well, a little. But I knew. I’d seen the animals and such.”
“Do you and your parents talk about sex?”
Katie’s eyes widened, absolutely scandalized. “Of course not. It’s not right, not until a girl’s gotten herself married.”
“Who says it’s not right?”
“The Lord,” she said promptly. “The church. My parents.”
“Would your parents be upset if they found out you were sexually active?”
“But I’m not.”
“I understand. But if you were, what do you think would happen?”
“They’d be very disappointed,” Katie answered quietly. “And I’d be put in the bann.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s when you break a rule, and the bishop finds out. You have to confess, and then, for a little while anyway, you’re shunned.” Her voice lowered to a whisper. “You’re cut off, is all.”
For the first time I saw it through Katie’s eyes—the stigma of being an outcast in a community where sameness was so highly valued.
“If you were in trouble, Katie, would you turn to your mother or father for help?”
“I would pray,” she said. “And whatever happened would be the Lord’s will.”
“Have you ever drunk alcohol, or taken drugs?”
To my great shock, Katie nodded. “I had two beers, once, and peppermint schnapps, when I was with my gang.”
“Your gang?”
“Other young people who are my friends. We’re called the Sparkies. Most Plain kids my age join up with a gang when they come into their Rumspringa.”
“Rumspringa?”
“Running-around years. When we’re fourteen or fifteen.”
Coop looked at me, but I raised my brows. This was the first I was hearing of it. “So—what made you join the Sparkies?”
“They were right for me. Not too crazy, but still fun. We have a few fellows who’ll buy beer at the Turkey Hill and race their buggies after midnight down Route 340, but most of the wild kids would rather join the Shotguns or the Happy Jacks—they hold hops, and drive around in plain sight, and really become Sod—worldly. We get together on Sunday nights and sing hymns, mostly. But sometimes,” she admitted shyly, “we do other things.”
“Like?”
“Drink. Dance to music. Well, I used to do that, but now I leave after the singing when things are
getting a little crazy.”
“How come?”
Katie fisted her hands in the grass. “Now I’m baptized.”
Coop’s brows raised. “Haven’t you been since you were a baby?”
“No, we get baptized when we’re older. For me, it was last year. We make the choice to stand before God and agree to live by the Ordnung—those rules I was talking about.”
“When you went to these singings, and drank and danced, did your parents know?”
Katie looked toward the house. “All the parents know that the kids are up to something; they just look the other way and hope it isn’t too dangerous.”
“Why would they accept behavior like this, but be disappointed by sexual activity?”
“Because it’s a sin. The singings—well, it’s kind of like a fling with being English. Folks believe if their kids have a chance to try it once or twice, they’ll still give up worldly things and take on the responsibility of living Plain.”
“Do most kids?”
“Ja.”
“Why?”
“All their friends are Plain. And their family. If they don’t join the church, they won’t be like everyone else. Plus, they have to be baptized, if they want to get married.”
“Do you? Want to get married?”
“Who doesn’t?” Katie said.
Coop grinned. “Well, Ellie for one,” he joked under his breath, just loud enough for me to hear. I was so busy turning over his words in my mind, and what they meant, that I nearly missed his next question.
“Have you ever kissed a boy, Katie?”
“Ja,” she said, blushing again. “Samuel. And before him, John Beiler.”
“Samuel is your boyfriend?”
Was, I thought.
“Have you and your boyfriend ever had sexual intercourse?”
“No!”
Coop hesitated. “Does he kiss you anywhere but on the lips?”
“On the neck,” she murmured. “My forehead.”
“What about on your breasts, Katie? Your belly?”
Katie inched her bare feet out from beneath her skirt and set them one by one into the running creek. “Samuel wouldn’t do that.”
“Have you ever let anyone else kiss or touch you?” Coop gently pressed. When she didn’t answer, he softened his voice even more. “Do you want to have babies one day, Katie?”