The Jodi Picoult Collection #3

by Jodi Picoult

It wasn’t what you didn’t know about the people you loved that would shock you; it was what you didn’t want to admit about yourself.

  When the door opened, Laura jumped, her thoughts scattering like a flock of crows. Charles stood on the steps, smoking a pipe. “You know what it means if you go outside and there are no Yupiit around?”

  “No.”

  “That it’s too damn cold to be standing here.” He took the basketball from Laura’s hands and sank a neat basket; together they watched it roll into a neighbor’s yard.

  Laura dug her hands into her pockets. “It’s so quiet,” she said. How ironic, she thought, to make conversation about the lack of it.

  Charles nodded. “Every now and again someone will move to Bethel, and then come back because it’s too loud. Down there, there’s too much going on.”

  It was hard to imagine this: Bethel was the last place Laura would ever have considered a metropolis. “New York City would probably make their heads explode.”

  “I was there once,” Charles said, surprising her. “Oh, I been lots of places you wouldn’t think: to California, and to Georgia, when I was in the army. And to Oregon, when I went to school.”

  “College?”

  Charles shook his head. “Boarding school. Back before they made it a law to have education in every village, the government used to ship us off to learn the same things the whites did. You could pick your school—there was one in Oklahoma, but I went to Chemawa in Oregon because my cousins were already there. I got sick like you can’t imagine, eating all that white food . . . melting in that heat. One time I even got in trouble for trying to snare a rabbit with one of my shoelaces.”

  Laura tried to imagine what it would be like to be sent away from the only home you’d ever known, just because somebody else thought it was best for you. “You must have hated it.”

  “Back then, I did,” Charles said. He dumped the contents of his pipe and kicked snow over the embers. “Now, I’m not so sure. Most of us came back home, but we got to see what else was out there and how those folks lived. Now some kids don’t ever leave the village. The only kass’aqs they meet are teachers, and the only teachers who come up here either can’t get hired in their own towns or are running away from something—not exactly role models. The kids today, they all talk about getting out of the village, but then when they do, it’s like Bethel—only a hundred times worse. People move too fast and talk too much, and before you know it, they come back to a place they don’t want to be—except now they know there’s nowhere left to run.” Charles glanced at Laura, then tucked the pipe into his coat pocket. “That’s how it was for my son.”

  She nodded. “Daniel told me about him.”

  “He wasn’t the first. The year before him, a girl took pills. And earlier still, two ball players hanged themselves.”

  “I’m sorry,” Laura said.

  “I knew all along that Wass wasn’t the one who killed Cane. Cane would have done that, no matter what, all by himself. Some people, they get down in a hole so deep they can’t figure out what to hold on to.”

  And some people, Laura thought, make the choice to let go.

  Although it was only two o’clock, the sun was already sagging against the horizon. Charles headed back up the steps. “I know this place must seem like Mars to you. And that you and me, we’re about as different as different could be. But I also know what it feels like to lose a child.” He turned at the top landing. “Don’t freeze to death. Wassilie’d never forgive me.”

  He left Laura outside, watching the night sky bloom. She found herself lulled by the lack of sound. It was easier than you’d think to grow accustomed to silence.

  • • •

  When the Jesuit Volunteers tried to raise Kingurauten Joseph’s body temperature by cutting off his frozen clothes and covering him with blankets, they found a dove fashioned delicately out of bone, a carving knife, and three hundred dollars in his boot. This was a cash economy, Carl told Trixie. That was Joseph’s health insurance, wadded up in his sock.

  Trixie had just come in from her rotation on the riverbank, and she was still frozen to the core. “Why don’t you two warm up together?” Carl suggested, and he left her watching over the old man.

  She didn’t mind, actually. While the mushers raced from Tuluksak to Kalskag and Aniak and back, the volunteers were mostly catching some sleep. But Trixie was wide awake; she’d slept on the trail with Willie, and her body was all mixed up with jet lag. She remembered how every year when it was time to turn the clocks back, her father would insist that he was going to stay on daylight saving time and keep the extra hour, so that he’d get more work done. The problem was, when he took the additional minutes every morning, he’d conk out in front of the television earlier at night. Finally he’d give in and live on the same schedule as the rest of the world.

  She wished her father was here right now.

  “I’ve missed you,” he answered, and Trixie whirled around in the dark classroom. Her heart was pounding, but she couldn’t see anyone there.

  She looked down at Joseph. He had the broad, chiseled features of a Yup’ik and white hair that was matted down in whorls. His beard stubble glinted silver in the moonlight. His hands were folded over his chest, and Trixie thought they couldn’t have looked more different from her father’s—Joseph’s were blunt and calloused, the tools of a laborer; her father’s were smooth and long fingered and ink stained, an artist’s.

  “Aw, Nettie,” he murmured, opening his eyes. “I came back.”

  “I’m not Nettie,” Trixie said, moving away.

  Joseph blinked. “Where am I?”

  “Tuluksak. You nearly froze to death.” Trixie hesitated. “You got really drunk and passed out on the K300 trail, and a musher quit the race to bring you in here. He saved your life.”

  “Shouldn’t have bothered,” Joseph muttered.

  There was something about Joseph that seemed familiar to Trixie, something that made her want to take a second look at the lines around his eyes and the way his eyebrows arched. “You one of those juveniles for Jesus?”

  “They’re Jesuit Volunteers,” Trixie corrected. “And no. I’m not.”

  “Then who are you?”

  Well, wasn’t that the $64,000 question. Trixie couldn’t have answered that if Joseph had held a gun to her head. It wasn’t even a matter of giving her name, because that didn’t explain anything. She could remember who she used to be—that picture was like an image sealed into a snow globe, one that went fuzzy when she shook it too hard but then, if she held her breath, might see clearly. She could look down at herself now and tell you how surprised she was that she had come this distance, how strange it was to discover that lying came as easily as breathing. What she couldn’t put into words was what had happened in between to change her from one person into the other.

  Her father used to tell her the story of how, when she was eight, she’d awakened in the middle of the night with her arms and legs burning, as if they’d been tugged from their sockets. It’s growing pains, he’d told her sympathetically, and she’d burst into tears, certain that when she woke up in the morning, she’d be as big as him.

  The amazing thing was, it did happen that quickly. All those mornings in middle school she’d spent scrutinizing her chest to see if it had budded the slightest bit, all the practice kisses she’d given her bathroom mirror to make sure her nose didn’t get in the way on D-day; all the waiting for a boy to notice her—and as it turned out, growing up was just as she’d feared. One day when your alarm clock rang, you got up and realized you had someone else’s thoughts in your head . . . or maybe just your old ones, minus the hope.

  “Are you sure you’re not Nettie?” Joseph said when Trixie didn’t answer.

  It was the name he’d called her before. “Who is she?”

  “Well.” He turned his face to the wall. “She’s dead.”

  “Then chances are pretty good I’m not her.”

  Joseph seemed su
rprised. “Didn’t you ever hear about the girl who came back from the dead?”

  Trixie rolled her eyes. “You’re still trashed.”

  “A young girl died,” Joseph replied, as if she hadn’t spoken at all, “but she didn’t know it. All she knew is that she went on a journey and reached a village. Her grandmother was at the village, too, and they lived together there. Every now and then, they went to another village, where the girl’s father would give her fur parkas. What she didn’t know was that he was really giving them to her namesake, the girl who’d been born just after his daughter had died.”

  Joseph sat up gingerly, sending a potent wave of alcohol fumes toward Trixie. “One day, they were going home from that other village, and the girl’s grandmother said she’d forgotten some things. She asked the girl to go get them. She told her that if she came to a fallen evergreen tree, even though it might look like she could go under it or around it, she had to go over it instead.”

  Trixie folded her arms, listening in spite of her best intentions.

  “The girl backtracked to the village, and sure enough, she came to a fallen tree. She tried to do what her grandmother had told her, but when she climbed over it she tripped, and that was the last thing she remembered. She couldn’t figure out the way back to her grandmother, and she started to cry. Just then, a man from the village came out of the qasgiq and heard weeping. He followed the noise and saw the girl who had died years ago. He tried to grab on to her, but it was like holding only air.”

  Of course, Trixie thought. Because the more you changed, the less of you there was.

  “The man rubbed his arms with food, and then he could grab her, even when the girl fought him. He carried her into the qasgiq, but they kept rising off the floorboards. An elder rubbed the girl with drippings from a seal oil lamp, and then she was able to stand without floating away. They all saw that this girl was the same one who had died. She was wearing the parkas her father had given to her namesake, all those years. And wouldn’t you know it, after she came back, her namesake died not long after that.” Joseph pulled the blanket up to his chest. “She lived to be an old woman,” he said. “She told people what it had been like in Pamaalirugmiut—the place back there, obscured from their view.”

  “Oh really,” Trixie said, not buying a word of the story. “Let me guess: There was a white light and harp music?”

  Joseph looked at her, puzzled. “No, she used to say it was dry. People who die are always thirsty. That’s why we send the dead on their way with fresh water. And why, maybe, I’m always looking for a little something to wet my throat.”

  Trixie drew her knees into her chest, shivering as she thought of Jason. “You’re not dead.”

  Joseph sank back down on the mat. “You’d be surprised,” he said.

  • • •

  “It’s not too cold to keep me from going for a walk,” Aurora Johnson said to Laura in perfect, unaccented English, and she stood there, waiting for Laura to respond, as if she’d asked her a question.

  Maybe Aurora wanted someone to talk to and didn’t know how to ask. Laura could understand that. She got to her feet and reached for her coat. “Do you mind company?”

  Aurora smiled and pulled on a jacket that fell to her knees but managed to zip up over her swollen belly. She stepped into boots with soles as thick as a fireman’s and headed outside.

  Laura fell into step beside her, moving briskly against the cold. It had been two hours since Daniel had left, and the afternoon was pitch-dark now—there were no streetlamps lighting their way, no glow from a distant highway. From time to time the green cast of a television set inside a house would rise like a spirit in the window, but for the most part, the sky was an unbroken navy velvet, the stars so thick you could cut through them with a sweep of your arm.

  Aurora’s hair was brown, streaked with orange. Long tendrils blew out from the edges of her parka’s hood. She was only three years older than Trixie, yet she was on the verge of giving birth. “When are you due?” Laura asked.

  “My BIB date is January tenth.”

  “BIB date?”

  “Be-in-Bethel,” Aurora explained. “If you live in the villages and you’re pregnant, you have to move into the prematernal home in the city six weeks or so before you’re due. That way, the docs have you where they need you. Otherwise, if there’s some kind of complication, the medical center has to get the anguyagta to fly in a Blackhawk. It costs the National Guard ten thousand bucks a pop.” She glanced at Laura. “Do you just have the one? Baby, I mean?”

  Laura nodded, bowing her head as she thought of Trixie. She hoped that wherever Trixie was now, it was warm. That someone had given her a bite to eat, or a blanket. She hoped that Trixie was leaving markers the way she had learned ages ago in Girl Scouts—a twig broken here, a cairn of rocks there.

  “Minnie’s my second mom, you know,” Aurora said. “I was adopted out. Families are like that here. If a baby dies, your sister or aunt might give you her own. After Cane died, I was born and my mom sent me to be Minnie’s daughter too.” She shrugged. “I’m adopting out this baby to my biological mom’s cousin.”

  “You’re just going to give it away?” Laura said, shocked.

  “I’m not giving her away. I’m making it so she’ll have both of us.”

  “What about the father?” Laura asked. “Are you still involved with him?”

  “I see him about once a week,” Aurora said.

  Laura stopped walking. She was talking to a Yup’ik girl who was heavily pregnant, but she was seeing Trixie’s face and hearing Trixie’s voice. What if Laura had been around when Trixie had met Jason, instead of having her own affair? Would Trixie have ever dated him? Would she have been as crushed when they broke up? Would she have been at Zephyr’s house the night of the party? Would she have gotten raped?

  For every action, there was an opposite reaction. But maybe you could undo your wrongs by keeping someone else from making the same mistakes of misjudgment. “Aurora,” Laura said slowly, “I’d love to meet him. Your boyfriend.”

  The Yup’ik girl beamed. “Really? Now?”

  “That would be great.”

  Aurora grabbed her hand and dragged her through the streets of Akiak. When they reached a long, low gray building, Aurora clattered up the wooden ramp. “I just need to stop off at the school for a sec,” she said.

  The doors were unlocked, but there was nobody inside. Aurora flipped on a light switch and hurried into an adjoining room. Laura unzipped her jacket and glanced toward the gymnasium on the right, its polished wooden floors gleaming. If she looked closely, would she still see Cane’s blood? Could she retrace the steps Daniel had taken all those years ago, when he ran away and into her own life?

  Laura was distracted by the sound of . . . well, it couldn’t be a toilet flushing, could it? She pushed through the door that Aurora had entered, marked Nas’ak. Aurora was standing in front of a serviceable white porcelain sink with running water. “That one’s sitting on my bladder,” Aurora said, smiling.

  “There’s plumbing here?” Laura glanced around. On the upper lip of the bathroom stall, various items of clothing had been draped: bras and panties, long-sleeved T-shirts, socks.

  “Just in the school,” Aurora said. “On any given day, the line’ll be out the door with girls waiting to wash their hair. This is the only place it won’t freeze solid.”

  She gave Laura a chance to use the facilities—use wasn’t really the word as much as relish or give thanks for—and then they struck outside again. “Does your boyfriend live far away?” Laura asked, wondering what might happen if Daniel returned to find her missing.

  “He’s just over that hill,” Aurora said, but as they crested the rise, Laura didn’t see any homes at all. She followed Aurora inside a picket fence, careful to stay on the trodden path instead of hiking through the drifts that were hip-high. In the dark, it took her a moment to realize that they were walking to the far end of a tiny cemetery, one scattered w
ith white wooden crosses that were almost entirely buried in snow.

  Aurora stopped at a cleared grave. A name was engraved on the wooden cross: ARTHUR M. PETERSON, June 5, 1982–March 30, 2005. “He was mushing, but it was the end of March, and he went through the ice. His lead dog chewed through the lead and came to our house. I knew the minute I saw the dog that something was wrong, but by the time we got to the river, Art and the sled had both gone under.” She faced Laura. “Three days later I found out I was pregnant.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t be,” Aurora said, matter-of-fact. “He was probably drinking when he went out on the trail, like usual.” As she spoke, though, she leaned down and gently swept the cross clean of its most recent dusting of snow.

  Laura turned away to give Aurora privacy and saw one other grave that had been carefully cleared. In front of the marker was a collection of ivory—full mammoth tusks and partial ones, some nearly as tall as the wooden cross. On each tusk, numerous flowers had been carved in exquisite detail: roses and orchids and peonies, lupine and forget-me-nots and lady’s slippers. It was a garden that had been bleached of its color and none of its beauty, flowers that would never die, flowers that could bloom even in the most inhospitable climate.

  She imagined the artist who’d crafted these, walking through sleet and hail and ice storms to plant this endless garden. It was exactly the sort of romance and passion she would have expected of Seth, who had tucked poems into the flustered leaves of her date book and the prim mouth of her change purse.

  Wistfully, Laura let herself imagine what it was like to be loved that deeply. She envisioned a wooden cross labeled with her own name. She saw someone fighting the elements to bring gifts to her grave. But when she pictured the man weeping over what he’d lost, it wasn’t Seth.

  It was Daniel.

  Laura brushed the snow off the marker, wanting to know the identity of the woman who had inspired such devotion.

  “Oh, I was going to show you that one,” Aurora said, just as Laura read the name: ANNETTE STONE. Daniel’s mother.