The Jodi Picoult Collection #3

by Jodi Picoult

  Questions & Topics for Discussion

  1. When Delia learns she was kidnapped as a child, her choice of profession takes on a new significance. What motivated Delia to pursue a career in search-and-rescue? Does she view it differently once she knows about her past?

  2. Delia says that as children she, Fitz, and Eric each had their roles: “Fitz was the dreamer; I was the practical tactician. Eric, on the other hand, was the front man: the one who could charm adults or other kids with equal ease.” Have they continued these roles into adulthood? How so? Is each one comfortable in his or her role, or is there a longing to be something different?

  3. In one instance Eric muses that “there are people in this world who have done worse things than Andrew Hopkins.” What is your opinion of what Andrew did—taking Delia away from her mother and creating a new life for the two of them? From a legal standpoint, is he guilty of a crime? How about from a moral standpoint?

  4. Andrew himself says, “Does it really matter why I did it? By now, you’ve already formed your impression. You believe that an act committed a lifetime ago defines a man, or you believe that a person’s past has nothing to do with his future.” A person cannot change his or her past actions, but can they make up for the hurt they’ve caused by helping others? Does the good that Andrew has done for the town of Wexton and for the senior citizens in his care—not to mention the happy childhood he gave Delia—make up for or excuse his taking his daughter? What do you make of Elise’s remark to Andrew that Delia “turned out absolutely perfect”?

  5. Eric believes that he does not have “the experience or the wits or the confidence” to represent Andrew. Why then does he agree to take on the case? Why does he continue to act as Andrew’s attorney even when it causes tension between him and Delia?

  6. In one instance Delia says to Fitz about meeting her mother for the first time, “I want this to be perfect. I want her to be perfect. But what if she’s not? What if I’m not?” How does the reality measure up when she finally meets her mother? What kind of understanding do Delia and Elise come to? Why does Elise give Delia the “spell”—is it to help Andrew or her daughter?

  7. Delia believes “it takes two people to make a lie work: the person who tells it, and the one who believes it.” How do the characters in the novel, including Delia herself, prove this to be true?

  8. During the trial, Eric tells the court he is an alcoholic. What does the exchange between Eric and Delia while he is questioning her on the witness stand reveal about their relationship? Do they view each other differently after this exchange? As two people who love alcoholics, how does Delia’s treatment of Eric differ from Andrew’s treatment of Elise? Whose actions and reactions, given their partner’s disease, do you support?

  9. Eric says to Andrew, “Everyone deserves a second chance.” How does the idea of second chances play out in Vanishing Acts? Are there any characters who deserve a second chance and don’t get one? And conversely, are there any characters who do get a second chance—and squander it?

  10. Elise tells Delia, “If you had grown up with me, this is one of the things I would have tried to teach you: marry a man who loves you more than you love him. Because I have done both now, and when it is the other way around, there is no spell in the world that can even out the balance.” Discuss this in terms of Delia’s relationships with both Eric and Fitz. Which man do you think Delia should be with, and why?

  11. Both Delia and Sophie quickly develop a close relationship with Ruthann. When Ruthann commits suicide, Delia is there to witness it. Why does she not try to stop Ruthann? What does Delia come to realize about herself from this experience?

  12. Many of the chapters told from Andrew’s point of view occur while he is in prison, “where everyone reinvents himself.” What do these scenes, which depict in graphic detail the harsh realities of life behind bars, reveal about Andrew? What do they add to the overall storyline?

  13. Right versus wrong is a dominant theme in Vanishing Acts—whether Andrew was right or wrong to kidnap Delia, whether Eric is right or wrong to hide his continued drinking from Delia, whether Delia is right or wrong not to stop Ruthann. How do the multiple perspectives in the story blur these lines and show how two people can view the same situation completely differently? Were there any instances where you changed your mind about something in the story after reading a different character’s viewpoint?

  14. Fitz tells Delia, “I think you’re angry at yourself, for not being smart enough to figure this out all on your own. . . . If you don’t want someone to change your life for you again, Dee, you’ve got to change it yourself.” How do Fitz’s words make Delia see her circumstances differently?

  15. Ruthann introduces Delia to the Hopi creation myth, which suggests that humans have outgrown the world four times already, and are about to inhabit a fifth. Do most people outgrow their origins? Is reinvention part of the human experience? How do each of the characters’ actions support or disprove this?

  16. At one point, we learn that Fitz has not been writing about Andrew’s trial, but about Delia. In fact, when he reads the first few pages to her, we can recognize them as the first few pages of this book. How does this affect the story you read? Is Fitz a reliable narrator?

  17. Much is made of the nature of memory—whether it is stored physically, whether it can be conjured at will, whether it can be organically triggered or planted. Ultimately, do you believe Delia’s recovered memories at the end of the book? Why or why not?

  18. How are each of the main characters—Delia, Fitz, Eric, Andrew, and Elise—most changed by the events that take place? Where do you envision the characters five years from now?

  1230 Avenue of the Americas

  New York, NY 10020

  www.SimonandSchuster.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2005 by Jodi Picoult

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Atria Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition as follows:

  Picoult, Jodi, 1966–

  Vanishing acts: a novel / by Jodi Picoult.—1st Atria Books hardcover ed.

  p. cm.

  1. Young women—Fiction. 2. Adult children of divorced parents—Fiction. 3. Fathers and daughters—Fiction. 4. Parental kidnapping—Fiction. 5. Divorced fathers—Fiction. 6. New Hampshire—Fiction. 7. Arizona—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3566.I372V36 2005

  813’.54—dc22

  2004059454

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7434-5454-4

  ISBN-10: 0-7434-5454-5

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7434-5455-1 (Pbk)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-41650-670-6 (ebook)

  ISBN-10: 0-7434-5455-3 (Pbk)

  This Washington Square Press trade paperback edition November 2005

  ATRIA BOOKS and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  For Nick and Alex Adolph (and their parents, Jon and Sarah) because I promised that one day I would.

  CONTENTS

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  A Readers Club Guide

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  This was a massive undertaking, and it would have been an impossible one without the help of my Dream Team of research helpers.

  My usual suspects: Betty Martin, Lisa Schiermeier, Nick Giaccone, Frank Moran, David Toub, Jennifer Sternick, Jennifer Sobel, Claire Demarais, JoAnn Mapson, Jane Picoult.

  Two ladies with the grace to help rape victims find a
fragile peace: Laurie Carrier and Annelle Edwards.

  Three terrific young women who let me peek into the life of a teenager: Meredith Olsen, Elise Baxter, and Andrea Desaulniers.

  The entire team at Atria Books and Goldberg McDuffie Communications, especially Judith Curr, Karen Mender, Jodi Lipper, Sarah Branham, Jeanne Lee, Angela Stamnes, Justin Loeber, and Camille McDuffie.

  Laura Gross, who goes above and beyond the call of agent duty on a daily basis.

  Emily Bestler, who said all the wonderful, right things I needed to hear when I gave her a book that was like nothing she’d ever seen before.

  Joanne Morrissey, who gave me a refresher course on Dante and whom I’d most like to be stranded with in hell.

  My own personal comic book superheroes: Jim Lee, Wyatt Fox, and Jake van Leer.

  Pam Force, for the opening poem.

  My Alaskan hosts: Annette Rearden, and Rich and Jen Gannon.

  Don Rearden, who is not only an excellent writer (one who probably regrets ever saying, “Hey, if you ever want to go to the Alaskan bush . . .”) but also generous to a fault with his own knowledge and experience. And who guided me into the bush and, months later, to my last page.

  Dustin Weaver, the comic book penciler who said he thought this might be fun. Quite simply: You drew the soul of this book.

  And finally, thanks to Tim, Kyle, Jake, and Sammy, who give me my happy endings.

  In the very earliest time,

  when both people and animals lived on earth,

  a person could become an animal if he wanted to and an animal could become a human being.

  Sometimes they were people

  and sometimes animals

  and there was no difference.

  All spoke the same language.

  That was the time when words were like magic.

  The human mind had mysterious powers.

  A word spoken by chance

  might have strange consequences.

  It would suddenly come alive

  and what people wanted to happen could happen—

  all you had to do was say it.

  Nobody could explain this:

  That’s the way it was.

  —“Magic Words,” by Edward Field

  Inspired by the Inuit

  PROLOGUE

  December 23, 2005

  This is how it feels when you realize your child is missing: The pit of your stomach freezes fast, while your legs go to jelly. There’s one single, blue-bass thud of your heart. The shape of her name, sharp as metal filings, gets caught between your teeth even as you try to force it out in a shout. Fear breathes like a monster into your ear: Where did I see her last? Would she have wandered away? Who could have taken her? And then, finally, your throat seals shut, as you swallow the fact that you’ve made a mistake you will never be able to fix.

  The first time it happened to Daniel Stone, a decade ago, he had been visiting Boston. His wife was at a colloquium at Harvard; that was a good enough reason to take a family vacation. While Laura sat on her panel, Daniel pushed Trixie’s stroller the cobbled length of the Freedom Trail. They fed the ducks in the Public Garden; they watched the sloe-eyed sea turtles doing water ballet at the aquarium. After that, when Trixie announced that she was hungry, Daniel headed toward Faneuil Hall and its endless food court.

  That particular April day was the first one warm enough for New Englanders to unzip their jackets, to remember that there was any season other than winter. In addition to the centipedes of school groups and the shutter-happy tourists, it seemed that the whole of the financial district had bled out, men Daniel’s age in suits and ties, who smelled of aftershave and envy. They sat with their gyros and chowder and corned beef on rye on the benches near the statue of Red Auerbach. They sneaked sideways glances at Daniel.

  He was used to this—it was unusual for a father to be the primary caretaker of his four-year-old daughter. Women who saw him with Trixie assumed that his wife had died, or that he was newly divorced. Men who saw him quickly looked the other way, embarrassed on his behalf. And yet Daniel would not have traded his setup for the world. He enjoyed molding his job around Trixie’s schedule. He liked her questions: Did dogs know they were naked? Is adult supervision a power grown-ups use to fight bad guys? He loved the fact that when Trixie was spacing out in her car seat and wanted attention, she always started with “Dad . . .?” even if Laura happened to be driving the car.

  “What do you want for lunch?” Daniel asked Trixie that day in Boston. “Pizza? Soup? A burger?”

  She stared up at him from her stroller, a miniature of her mother with the same blue eyes and strawberry hair, and nodded yes to all three. Daniel had hefted the stroller up the steps to the central food court, the scent of the salted ocean air giving way to grease and onions and stir-fry. He would get Trixie a burger and fries, he decided, and for himself, he’d buy a fisherman’s platter at another kiosk. He stood in line at the grill, the stroller jutting out like a stone that altered the flow of human traffic. “A cheeseburger,” Daniel yelled out to a cook he hoped was listening. When he was handed the paper plate he juggled his wallet free so that he could pay and then decided that it wasn’t worth a second tour of duty just to get himself lunch, too. He and Trixie could share.

  Daniel maneuvered the stroller into the stream of people again, waiting to be spit out into the cupola. After a few minutes, an elderly man sitting at a long table shuffled his trash together and left. Daniel set down the burger and turned the stroller so that he could feed Trixie—but the child inside was a dark-haired, dark-skinned infant who burst into tears when he saw the stranger in front of him.

  Daniel’s first thought: Why was this baby in Trixie’s stroller? His second: Was this Trixie’s stroller? Yes, it was yellow and blue with a tiny repeating bear print. Yes, there was a carrying basket underneath. But Graco must have sold millions of these, thousands alone in the Northeast. Now, at closer inspection, Daniel realized that this particular stroller had a plastic activity bar attached on the front. Trixie’s ratty security blanket was not folded up in the bottom, just in case of crisis.

  Such as now.

  Daniel looked down at the baby again, the baby that was not his, and immediately grabbed the stroller and starting running to the grill. Standing there, with a cabbage-cheeked Boston cop, was a hysterical mother whose sights homed in on the stroller Daniel was using to part the crowd like the Red Sea. She ran the last ten feet and yanked her baby out of the safety restraint and into her arms while Daniel tried to explain, but all that came out of his mouth was, “Where is she?” He thought, hysterical, of the fact that this was an open-air market, that there was no way to seal the entrance or even make a general public announcement, that by now five minutes had passed and his daughter could be with the psychopath who stole her on the T heading to the farthest outskirts of the Boston suburbs.

  Then he noticed the stroller—his stroller—kicked over onto its side, the safety belt undone. Trixie had gotten proficient at this just last week. It had gotten comical—they would be out walking and suddenly she was standing up in the fabric hammock, facing Daniel, grinning at her own clever expertise. Had she freed herself to come looking for him? Or had someone, seeing a golden opportunity for abduction, done it for her?

  In the moments afterward, there were tracts of time that Daniel couldn’t remember even to this day. For example, how long it took the swarm of police that converged on Faneuil Hall to do a search. Or the way other mothers pulled their own children close to their side as he passed, certain bad luck was contagious. The detective’s hammered questions, a quiz of good parenting: How tall is Trixie? What does she weigh? What was she wearing? Have you ever talked to her about strangers? This last one, Daniel couldn’t answer. Had he, or had he just been planning to? Would Trixie know to scream, to run away? Would she be loud enough, fast enough?

  The police wanted him to sit down, so that they’d know where to find him if necessary. Daniel nodded and promised, and the
n was on his feet the moment their backs were turned. He searched behind each of the food kiosks in the central court. He looked under the tables in the cupola. He burst into the women’s bathroom, crying Trixie’s name. He checked beneath the ruffled skirts of the pushcarts that sold rhinestone earrings, moose socks, your name written on a grain of rice. Then he ran outside.

  The courtyard was full of people who didn’t know that just twenty feet away from them the world had been overturned. Oblivious, they shopped and milled and laughed as Daniel stumbled past them. The corporate lunch hour had ended, and many of the businessmen were gone. Pigeons pecked at the crumbs they’d left behind, caught between the cobblestones. And huddled beside the seated bronze of Red Auerbach, sucking her thumb, was Trixie.

  Until Daniel saw her, he didn’t truly realize how much of himself had been carved away by her absence. He felt—ironically—the same symptoms that had come the moment he knew she was missing: the shaking legs, the loss of speech, the utter immobility. “Trixie,” he said finally, then she was in his arms, thirty pounds of sweet relief.

  Now—ten years later—Daniel had again mistaken his daughter for someone she wasn’t. Except this time, she was no longer a four-year-old in a stroller. This time, she had been gone much longer than twenty-four minutes. And she had left him, instead of the other way around.

  Forcing his mind back to the present, Daniel cut the throttle of the snow machine as he came to a fork in the path. Immediately the storm whipped into a funnel—he couldn’t see two feet in front of himself, and when he took the time to look behind, his tracks had already been filled, a seamless stretch. The Yup’ik Eskimos had a word for this kind of snow, the kind that bit at the back of your eyes and landed like a hail of arrows on your bare skin: pirrelvag. The term rose in Daniel’s throat, as startling as a second moon, proof that he had been here before, no matter how good a job he’d done of convincing himself otherwise.

  He squinted—it was nine o’clock in the morning, but in December in Alaska, there wasn’t much sunlight. His breath hung before him like lace. For a moment, through the curtain of snow, he thought he could see the bright flash of her hair—a fox’s tail peeking from a snug woolen cap—but as quickly as he saw it, it was gone.