The Jodi Picoult Collection #3

by Jodi Picoult

  “For her,” Eric corrects, his face flushed. He sinks into his chair. “Nothing further.”

  * * *

  “I’m fine,” Eric assures me minutes later, when we have adjourned for a recess. “I just forgot where I was for a moment.” In the conference room where we’ve sequestered ourselves, he raises a Styrofoam cup, his hand still trembling. Some water splashes onto his shirt and tie. “It might even have worked in our favor.”

  I do not know what to say. As it is, I am shaken myself: I knew what to expect in terms of testimony, but I never considered the cost of what memories it was going to jog.

  “I’ll get some paper towels,” I manage, and I head toward the ladies’ room.

  Standing in front of the sink, I burst into tears.

  I lean down and splash my face with cold water, until the collar of my blouse is damp. “Here,” says a voice, and I am handed a paper towel.

  When I look up, my mother is standing next to me.

  “I’m sorry you had to listen to that,” she says quietly. “I’m sorry I had to say it.”

  I press the towel against my face, so that she won’t see that I’m crying. She rummages in her purse and then opens a small ceramic pillbox. “Take this. It’ll help.”

  I look at the caplets in my hand skeptically, picturing her witch’s workbench.

  “It’s Tylenol,” she says dryly.

  I swallow them and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. “Where did you go?” I ask.

  She shakes her head. “When?”

  “You left us, once. You went away, maybe for a week.”

  My mother leans against the wall. “You were so little. I can’t believe you even remember.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Go figure. Were you getting drunk? Or were you getting dry?”

  She sighs. “Your father gave me an ultimatum.”

  I hadn’t been told where she’d gone. I had wondered if I’d done something wrong, that made her vanish. I had spent that week being extra careful: picking up my toys after I was done playing, looking both ways before I stepped off the curb, brushing my teeth for two whole minutes each time.

  I’d wondered if she’d come back.

  I’d wondered if I wanted her to.

  I never said these things to my father, keeping my fear from him the same way he kept his from me.

  “Did it work?” I ask.

  “For a while. And then . . . like everything else . . . it didn’t.” My mother looks up at me. “Your father and I never should have gotten married, Delia. It all happened very fast—we hardly knew each other, and then I got pregnant.”

  I swallow hard. “Didn’t you love him?”

  She rubs at an invisible mark on the sink counter. “There are two kinds of love, mija. In the safe kind, you look for someone who’s exactly like you. It’s what most folks settle for. But then there’s the other kind of love. Everyone’s born with a ragged edge, and some folks crave the piece that’s a perfect fit. You’ll search for it forever, if you have to. And if you’re lucky enough to find it, it looks so right, you start to tear at your own seams, thinking, maybe I could look just as perfect. But then, of course, when you try to get close to their other half, you don’t fit anymore.” She looks up at me. “That kind of love . . . you come out of it a different person than you were when you started.”

  She takes a deep breath. “I was a high school dropout who worked in a biker bar. Your father was the sort of person who had already planned out his life. He actually thought I was capable of being a mother, of taking care of a family—and God, I wanted to believe him. I wanted to be the person he saw when he looked at me . . . it was so much more than I ever imagined of myself.” She smiles faintly. “Like you,” my mother says. “I desperately wanted to be someone who didn’t really exist, because that was who he loved.”

  She leans toward me and fixes the collar of my shirt. It is such a maternal, intimate thing to do that it takes me by surprise. Then she reaches into her pocket, and slips something into my hand.

  It is a small red cloth bag, sewn shut, and it burns against my skin. Suddenly, I can smell the rotten flesh of mangoes and sun-spotted tomatoes in a Mexican mercado; I can taste the bitter blood of a hundred babies being born. I can see vendors shoulder to shoulder, calling out, ¿Qué le damos? I can see an old woman kneeling on a quilt beside a statue of an owl, a red candle growing from its beak. I notice iguanas the length of my legs and packs of Tarot cards wrapped in plastic and keychains made of the neckbones of rattlesnakes. I smell urine and roasted corn and the smiling raw mouth of a watermelon. It is my mother’s world, I realize, in the palm of my hand.

  I stare down at it. “I don’t want your help,” I say.

  My mother folds my fingers over the tiny purse. “No. But your father might.”

  * * *

  Former detective Orwell LeGrande has spent the past fifteen years of his retirement from the Scottsdale PD on a houseboat in the middle of Lake Powell. His skin is the crusty brown of cowboy leather; his hands are leopard-dotted with sunspots. “In 1977,” he replies to the prosecutor, “I was with the violent crimes unit.”

  “Did you ever have any contact with Elise Matthews?”

  “I was on duty on June 20 when she called to report her daughter missing. I responded with several officers. When we got to the defendant’s apartment, Ms. Matthews was a wreck. Her child had been due back the previous evening, at five P.M., after a custody visit with the defendant, but she never came home.”

  “What did you do?” Emma asks.

  “I called the local hospitals to see if the child and her father had been admitted. But there was no record of their names, or of any John or Jane Doe with the same characteristics. Then I checked the registry of motor vehicles, to see if the car had been reported stolen or in an accident. A search of the apartment led me to believe we might have an abduction on our hands.”

  “What happened next?”

  “I had dispatch put out a message to local officers, so they could alert us if the car or the subjects were found.”

  “Detective, what other measures did you take to try to find the defendant?”

  “We got his credit card records, but he was smart enough to not use plastic on the road. And we got access to his bank account.”

  “What did that reveal?”

  “It had been closed out on June 17 at 9:32 A.M., with a withdrawal of $10,000.”

  Emma pauses. “Do you remember what day of the week that was?”

  LeGrande nods. “Friday.”

  “Let me get this straight,” Emma says. “The defendant withdrew $10,000 from his bank account on the Friday before his scheduled custody visit?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “As an experienced detective, did you consider that to be an important detail?”

  “Absolutely,” LeGrande says. “It was the first piece of proof I had that Charles Matthews had deliberately planned to kidnap his daughter.”

  * * *

  Rubio Greengate has a head full of snakes. Cornrowed in crazy stripes and patterns, they end in long ropes that fall to his waist. With his two front teeth made of solid gold, and his baggy black pants and vest, he is a modern-day pirate. He slouches on the witness stand as Emma Wasserstein paces in front of him. “Mr. Greengate,” she says.

  “Call me Rubio, sugar.”

  “Maybe not,” the prosecutor replies. “How did you get involved in this case?”

  “I saw it on the news, and I said, I know that guy.”

  “What exactly is your line of business, Mr. Greengate?”

  He flashes a smile. “I’m in the market of reinvention, sugar.”

  “Please tell the jury what you mean by that,” Emma says.

  He leans back in the witness chair. “For a fee, I can get you a new identity.”

  “How do you get these identities?”

  He shrugs. “Read the obits. Go to records departments—you know, I’m a relative of someone who died; or I’ve
lost my mother’s death certificate. You can always make up something that gets the authorities to turn over what you need.”

  “Once you have these documents, what do you do?”

  “People know how to find me. If they need to disappear, I make it happen. I got my own laminating machine, a printing press, a photo shop, and more engraving plates than the Federal Mint.”

  “When did you meet the defendant?”

  “Long time ago. Twenty-eight years, to be exact. Back then, I didn’t have quite the operation I do now. I was keepin’ a low profile, and working out of the attic of a crack house in Harlem. One night, this guy showed up, askin’ for me.”

  “It’s been, as you said, quite a while. How do you know for sure it was the defendant you met that night?”

  “Because he had a kid with him. A little girl. I ain’t got many clients with kids.”

  “What time of day was it?”

  “After midnight; that’s when I opened up shop.”

  “How would he have to get to your shop?”

  “He’d come up the stairs, and ask someone for directions.”

  “What was going on on the stairs?” Emma asks.

  “It’s a crack house, what you think was going on? Couple of folks lying around shootin’ up, smokin’, some fellas fightin’, you name it.”

  “So, he took his young daughter through this scene, and then what?”

  “He told me he needed to become someone else.”

  “Did you ask why?” Emma says.

  “I respect my clients’ privacy. But I had the perfect set of IDs for him—a thirty-year-old father with a four-year-old girl. I gave him the Social Security numbers and some doctored birth certificates and even a driver’s license.”

  “How much did you charge for the new identity?”

  “Fifteen hundred. I cut him a break and only took a thousand for the kid.”

  “How long did the whole exchange take?”

  “About an hour.”

  “How were you paid?”

  “Cash,” Greengate says.

  “Do you remember anything in particular about the little girl?”

  “She was cryin’. I figured it was past her bedtime and all.”

  “What did her father do?”

  He grins. “It was actually pretty cool, man. He did magic tricks. Pulled a quarter out of her ear and shit.”

  “Did the little girl say anything?”

  He thinks for a minute. “After we signed everything, and the money changed hands, he told the kid they were playin’ a game, and everyone had a new name. He said she was gonna be Delia now. And she asked what they were gonna call Mommy.”

  As Emma lets this sink in, I try to see the girl I used to be, the one I never got to know. I try to imagine the words Rubio Greengate has tossed into the courtroom, sitting on my own tongue. But I might as well be any member of the jury: These aren’t recollections to me, they’re brand-new pictures.

  Why do some memories bleed out of nowhere and others stay locked behind doors?

  “Mr. Greengate, you’ve had some previous felony convictions. Several theft charges are on your record, and you’ve been arrested for manufacturing identities.”

  He spreads his palms. “Professional hazard.”

  “Were you serving time in jail or prison twenty-eight years ago, when Bethany Matthews disappeared?”

  “No. I was workin’.”

  “Right now, Mr. Greengate, you’ve been charged with petty identity theft in New York.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Were you in custody in that state, before you came to us with this information?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Are you receiving some benefit for your testimony here today?”

  He smiles. “The DA say if I testify here, I get a reduced sentence there.”

  “In light of that, Mr. Greengate, can you give us a reason to believe you actually are telling the truth?”

  “I know something about those dead folks that never came out in the obits,” he says. “I had to doctor up the copies of the birth certificate when the guy paid for them.”

  “Mr. Greengate,” the prosecutor says, walking toward him with a piece of paper, “do you recognize this?”

  Greengate looks it over. “It’s a copy of the original birth certificate. The one I fixed for the girl.”

  “Can you read the part that’s highlighted?”

  He nods. “Cordelia Lynn Hopkins,” he says, “Race: African American.”

  * * *

  During the lunch recess, I tell Eric that I need to go let Greta out. Instead of driving home, though, I leave the car in the lot and start walking east. I hold my breath every time I cross an intersection, like she told me to. I close my eyes when a shadow crosses my path.

  The first body of water is one of the canals that run through Phoenix, the reservoir of water tapped from the Colorado River. I remember Ruthann saying the Pueblo Indians had designed the canals in the city, the ones still being used years later. This, to me, seems like good fortune, so I take off my shoes and sit on the bank.

  The tiny mojo bag is pinched between my fingers. Inside is a pinch of white pepper, a little sage. A sprinkling of powdered garlic and some cayenne. A spot of tobacco, a thorn from a cactus, a tiger’s eye stone. My mother says that for the past four nights, she has slept with this underneath her pillow, but that it will take both of us to make this work.

  Muddy water moves through the sieve of my toes. I turn to the north, then the east, then the south, then the west. If you are up there, Ruthann, I think, I could use your help right now.

  “Sanctified Santa Marta,” I say, feeling foolish. “Slay the dragon of his misfortune.”

  I pick at the stitches that hold the charm bag shut. The contents float on the air, then settle on the surface of the water. The stone sinks right away; the rest of the powder is harder to track.

  But I watch until I cannot see a speck anymore, like she instructed. I fold the red fabric and tuck it inside my bra, where I will keep it until the moon asks for it back.

  When I’m finished with the mojo, I step out of the canal and put on my shoes. I walk back to the courthouse. It’s not that I believe, exactly. It’s just that, as with most acts of faith, I can’t afford not to.

  * * *

  After court is adjourned, Eric goes back to the law offices to prepare for tomorrow’s testimony. Fitz comes with me to pick Sophie up from the day-care center, and suggests we all go get something to eat, but I am afraid to be alone with him, I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel. “Rain check?” I say, trying to sound breezy and comfortable. I hurry Sophie outside the court before Fitz can plead his case, only to run into a gauntlet of reporters. The lights on their cameras blind me, and send Sophie burrowing into my arms; it’s enough to make me understand that all I really want to do is crawl into our pink trailer and hide.

  I make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for dinner, and then as I’m watching Sophie draw pictures of blue whales and mermaids and other creatures that live in the bottom of the sea, I fall asleep.

  In my dreams I’m wearing a collar, and Greta is holding my leash. She wants me to find something, but I have no idea what I am supposed to be looking for.

  When I wake up, the first thing I think about is not my father’s trial. The sun has bitten halfway through the horizon, and the whole trailer is flooded in an eerie orange light, as if Sophie’s colored it completely while I’ve been sleeping. I glance down at the floor and see a scattering of pictures, but she’s not drawing anymore.

  “Soph?” I call, sitting up. I walk into the bathroom, but she’s not there. I check in the bedroom. “Sophie?”

  I check under the bed, in the hamper, under the kitchen cabinets, in the refrigerator, anywhere a child might play hide and seek. Outside the trailer, the only thing I hear are the distant rumble of cars and an occasional dog barking. “Sophie Isabel Talcott,” I say, as my heart starts to race. “Come out right now.”


  I glance across at Ruthann’s dark trailer, where Sophie had spent so much time this past month.

  Greta wriggles out from the spot beneath the trailer steps where she’s been lying in the shade. She looks up at me and whines. “Do you know where she is?”

  I start banging on the doors of neighbors I have never bothered to meet, asking for Sophie. I check every nook and cranny of the pink trailer. I stand in the front yard again, and call out her name at the top of my lungs.

  How hard would it be to take a little girl when no one is watching?

  I suddenly hear my mother’s voice, from the witness stand: Can you honestly tell me that you’ve never in your life made a mistake?

  I fumble in my purse for my cell phone and call Eric. “Is Sophie with you?”

  He is distracted by something else; I can tell by his voice. “Why would she be at the office?”

  “Then she’s missing,” I tell him, choking back tears.

  There is a beat of utter disbelief. “What do you mean she’s missing?”

  “I fell asleep. And when I woke up . . . she’s not here.”

  “Call the police,” Eric orders. “I’m coming home.”

  * * *

  The police want to know how tall Sophie is, how much she weighs. If she was wearing a blue shirt or a yellow one. If I remember the brand of her sneakers.

  Their questions rope me like a noose; I don’t have any of the right answers. I can’t be sure if she was wearing a blue T-shirt today, or if that was last week. I haven’t measured her lately. I know she has pink sneakers, but I cannot tell them the brand name.

  The details I can give them are not the ones that will help find a missing child, but they’re indelibly inked on my heart: the dimple Sophie has in only one cheek; the space of the gap between her front teeth; the beauty mark that sits square on her back. The sound of her voice when she calls for me in the middle of the night; the rock she has in her pocket that glitters like gold in the sun. I can tell them that she is just tall enough to touch the door frame when she is on my shoulders. I can estimate her weight, by judging what’s missing in my arms.

  Eric sits on the trailer steps, answering their questions. He has taken off his tie, but he is still sporting the suit he wore in court. I am aware of the other neighbors, watching us from their porches and trailer windows. I wonder if they know who we are; if they are aware of the irony.