by Jodi Picoult
My mother looks flustered. “Yes. I mean, of course not.” She hesitates. “I just don’t want you to fall asleep. Steve says that’s the worst thing possible after a concussion.”
Steve? “Mom,” I say, “when’s the last time you slept?”
“You don’t have to worry about me,” she says, squeezing my hand.
“I may not have to,” I tell her. “But I do.”
She smiles, but she doesn’t move.
“Mom?” I say. “If I promise you I’m not going to conk out, can I eat in privacy?”
She’s reluctant, but she stands up. “Call me when you’re done,” she says.
The headache she promised is emerging. I know that Oliver expects me to open the book and finish our conversation, but there’s something I have to do first. I get out of bed and gingerly walk to my desk, where my laptop sits. Opening a search engine, I type in Jessamyn Jacobs. All the websites connected to her are listed. I click the first one, and a photo of the woman in Oliver’s vision fills the screen. I start to read the text below it:
Jessamyn Jacobs was born in New York in 1965. After graduating from NYU, she got a job as an editor at HorrorFest magazine. But she realized quickly that she didn’t want to correct other people’s words—she wanted to write her own. Her first thriller was published when she was only twenty-six years old, and she wrote ten consecutive bestsellers. However, after writing one children’s book, the author retreated into anonymity. She has not published since 2002, choosing to live quietly in Wellfleet, Massachusetts.
After writing one children’s book, the author retreated into anonymity.
My whole life, and its current obsession, has been reduced to a throwaway sentence in the biography of a famous thriller writer, who hasn’t been writing for years.
But at least I know where to find her.
I unplug my cell phone from its charger and text Jules.
I’m a jerk, I write.
I count all the way to sixty-two before there is an answering beep.
I know, Jules has replied.
My thumbs work furiously over the tiny keyboard. Ur Aunt Agnes is Voldemort in drag. If I could I would hide u in my closet 4 the summer. In fact, why don’t we try? Might work.
Another beep: I’m closetrophobic.
I grin. Jules, I text. I know I have no right 2 ask, and you can tell me 2 go jump in a lake if u want, but I need ur help. Have 2 get to MA ASAP. I hesitate. Will explain when I see u.
This time it takes Jules even longer to respond. I can be at ur house in 5 mins. Dad’s car is in the garage.
You don’t have a license, I text back.
There is another beep. That doesn’t mean I can’t drive, Jules writes.
* * *
The hardest part is leaving my mother again—just moments after I’ve returned. I consider reasoning with her, but what excuse can I make that would convince her to take an impromptu trip to Cape Cod, particularly when I am still fresh from a concussion? If I insist, she’ll probably take me for a neurological exam. No, the only way to do this is to leave her out of it.
The one immediate challenge to that strategy is that in order to leave the house, I have to walk downstairs, right past her.
I’m not the most graceful person—okay, I’m a bona fide klutz—but again, desperate times call for desperate measures. If I think it’s unlikely that my mother will agree to a four-hour car ride, it’s even more unlikely that she’d let me go with the unlicensed Jules as my chauffeur. So I throw open the sash of my bedroom window, eyeing a tree with branches close enough for me to reach.
I used to have romantic fantasies about a guy throwing pebbles at the window, climbing up to my room, kissing me in the moonlight, stealing me away.
Wrong fairy tale, I think wryly. I’m the one who’s going to save the prince.
I grab the notepad on my desk and rip off a sheet of paper. I write:
Be back soon. Don’t worry.
I’m fine.
Really.
Love,
Delilah. xoxo
My mother is going to worry anyway—but at least when she finds me missing, Dr. Ducharme will be there. And maybe he can keep her calm long enough for me to explain why I had to do this. After all, if it works, Oliver will be here—alive and three-dimensional and very, very real—and he’ll confirm this whole crazy story.
I dig around in my underwear drawer for the small jewelry box I use to store my allowance and the money I have from babysitting: three hundred and twenty-two dollars. It’s not a fortune, but I tuck it into my backpack, then grab the book and stuff it inside too. I look around my room to make sure I haven’t forgotten anything and catch sight of myself in the mirror. I look like I’ve lost a fight. If I show up at Jessamyn Jacobs’s house like this, she will probably run away screaming. In my closet, I find a knit winter hat that covers my forehead perfectly. It’s a little warm for the season, but maybe I can pull it off as a new fashion trend.
I open the window and stretch a leg out. I swear the tree has moved. Like, three feet away.
Taking a deep breath, I jump from the windowsill, and to my great shock wind up hugging the trunk tightly. I shimmy down, thinking of Oliver, who has to climb a cliff wall every day.
With a thump I hit the ground and tiptoe down the block, to the cul-de-sac where Jules is parked and waiting, just like we’d arranged. She looks weird sitting behind the steering wheel of a car. When she sees me, she grins and lowers the power window. “You owe me big-time,” she says.
I never would have guessed it based on her personality, but Jules drives like an old lady. She putts along ten miles below the speed limit and puts on her turn signal miles before she actually veers off the exit. “So,” she says, when we have been driving for ten minutes on the highway, “when are you going to tell me where we’re going?”
“Wellfleet,” I say. “On Cape Cod.”
Jules nods, flexing her hands on the steering wheel. “Okay,” she says. “Why are we going?”
I take a deep breath. “What I’m about to tell you isn’t going to make a lot of sense,” I say. “But I need you to listen to the whole story and not judge me, okay?”
Wordlessly, Jules holds up her right hand for a pinkie swear.
I start, well, at the very beginning. I tell her how I got a shock the first time I touched the spine of the fairy tale, and how even though it was a kids’ book, I couldn’t manage to put it down. I tell her about Oliver, the prince who grew up without a dad, like me. I explain how, one day, the illustrations changed before my eyes, and how without even trying, I could hear Oliver speaking to me—words that weren’t written for him but that came from the heart.
I tell her about the spider and how the book caught fire and how I wound up getting sucked into it and then ejected.
I tell her that I might just be in love with Oliver.
When I’m done, Jules keeps staring straight at the road, completely silent.
“So?” I say.
Jules doesn’t respond.
“You think I’m crazy.”
Jules shrugs. “No.”
“That’s it?” I ask, incredulous. “You believe me?”
“Well,” she responds, “I believe you believe it. And I’m your best friend. So that’s good enough.”
For the next few hours, everything seems almost normal. My best friend is my friend again; I don’t have to pretend that this book means nothing to me. It’s like old times. Jules and I play I Spy and eat a whole bag of Cheetos that she’s brought along from home. Finally, the GPS tells us we have arrived at our destination. Jules pulls over on the side of the main street of Wellfleet, Massachusetts, hitting the curb with her tires.
“You just failed your driver’s test,” I joke.
“But think of how many hours of practice driving I’ve got under my belt now,” Jules says. She looks into the rearview mirror. “So where are we going?”
Well. I haven’t quite figured that part out yet. I don’t hav
e a street address for Jessamyn Jacobs, just the town in which she lives. But this much I know—I have to go by myself. Jules has already done enough for me; I’m not going to drag her into this mess. “Not we,” I say. “Me.”
“I’m not leaving you down here by yourself.”
I shake my head. “Jules, your parents are already going to kill you for stealing your father’s car.”
She laughs. “That’s my master plan. I’d rather be in reform school over the summer than with Aunt Agnes.”
She unhooks her seat belt and gets out of the car as I grab my backpack. “Are you okay driving home by yourself?” I ask. “It’ll be dark soon.”
“Piece of cake,” Jules says.
I give her a tight hug. “Thank you,” I whisper, and I watch her get into the car and put on her signal in preparation for pulling out of the parking spot.
Before she does, though, she unrolls her window. “I hope you find him,” Jules says with a smile. “Your prince.”
* * *
There’s a tiny coffee shop in the center of town. A bell rings when I walk through the door, and a waitress looks up at me. “Is there a restroom I could use?” I ask.
“Sure.” She points down the hall, and I lock myself into the small room and pull the book out of my backpack. I suppose I could have talked to Oliver in the car, but it was nice to spend some time with just Jules. I’ve missed that.
As soon as I open to page 43, Oliver starts yelling. “Where have you been? You left me hanging in the middle of a very important conversation. This Jessamyn Jacobs woman—”
“Lives here,” I interrupt.
I see Oliver peeking over my shoulder, taking in the scenery behind me. “Where are you?”
“Well, in a bathroom. She doesn’t live here. But I’m in her town, and I’m going to figure out how to get to her house. If anyone knows how to get you out of the story, it’s going to be the woman who wrote it.”
Oliver scowls. “You can’t very well walk up to her and say, ‘I’ve fallen head over heels for one of your characters.’”
I smile. “Oh yes, that Socks is a sexy beast.”
He laughs. “I’ll tell him you said so.”
“I don’t know when I’ll be back,” I tell him. “And I don’t really have a plan yet.”
“And that’s supposed to inspire confidence?” Oliver says.
“No,” I tell him. “It’s supposed to inspire trust.”
I start to close the book, but I’m stopped by the sound of Oliver’s voice. “Delilah?” he says. “I never really got a chance to say thank you. For everything you’re doing to help me.”
I look at the hope written across his face, as clear as any of the words on the page. “Don’t thank me yet,” I answer.
After I return the book to my backpack, I flush the toilet and wash my hands, so as not to seem too suspicious. The waitress is still wiping off the counter when I walk back into the coffee shop. “Party of one?” she asks.
“Actually, I’m just looking for directions,” I say. “This is totally embarrassing, but I’m here to surprise my aunt for her birthday—I came in on the bus—and I can’t remember how to get to her house.” I offer my brightest I’m-not-a-psychopath smile. “Jessamyn Jacobs? Do you know her?”
The waitress looks at me uneasily. “She doesn’t much like visitors.”
“Visitors!” I say. “I’m family.”
The girl frowns. “Well, she’s the last house on Wilson Street. It’s the purple Cape that overlooks a cliff.”
“Right!” I slap my hand against my forehead. “Duh. Wilson Street.”
The waitress goes back to work.
“Can I ask just one more question?” I say, and I wait till she looks up. “How do I get to Wilson Street?”
* * *
Jessamyn Jacobs’s house perches on the edge of a cliff overlooking the water, like a swimmer afraid to jump in. It’s painted the color of a plum, and all the windows have curtains drawn down to their black trim. For a long moment I stand on the porch, running through possible introduction scenarios in my head.
Hi! I’m selling Girl Scout cookies—
No, too eager.
I’m doing a voter survey…
Nope. I don’t look old enough to work for a political action committee.
I’ve lost my pet cat. Have you seen him?
No. What are the odds it would be hiding in her house?
Well. Maybe there’s something to be said for brilliance under pressure. Before I can stop myself, I ring the doorbell.
But there’s no answer.
I ring it again, as if that might change the outcome. No one is home. Never in my wildest imagination did I picture finally reaching Jessamyn Jacobs’s house only to find her absent.
All of a sudden the garage door beside me magically opens, making me jump a foot. A moment later, a car comes around the corner and pulls into the driveway. It is a red minivan, like the kind we had when I was younger. A woman gets out of the driver’s seat, carrying a bag of groceries. “Hi,” she says. “Can I help you?”
I know it’s Jessamyn Jacobs because I recognize the red hair and the features from her author photo on the book. Except this version of Jessamyn Jacobs doesn’t look nearly as glamorous. She’s dressed, well, like a mom.
“I, um, I’m Delilah McPhee. I’m a student,” I stammer. “I’m doing an author project, and I was wondering if I could interview you.”
She smiles a little sadly. “I haven’t been an author in a very long time,” she says. “You probably want to talk to someone else.”
“No!” I cry. “It has to be you!”
She looks at me, a little alarmed by my outburst. “I’m afraid I can’t help you, Delilah. That part of my life is over.” Careful to put a good amount of distance between us, she opens her front door and walks inside.
I can’t let it end like this. Not when I’m so close.
“Please,” I beg. “Your book meant a lot to me.” I reach into my backpack and pull out the fairy tale, and to my surprise, Jessamyn Jacobs stops in her tracks.
She reaches one hand toward the cover, stroking it the way you’d touch something precious. “It meant a lot to me too,” she murmurs. Then she smiles at me. “Would you like to come inside?”
* * *
“Most people who still write me fan mail are much older than you, and collect chain saws and instruments of torture,” Jessamyn says, setting down a plate of cookies. “If I’m remembered for anything, it’s my murder mysteries. Very few of my readers even know I wrote a fairy tale.”
She is staring at the book, which sits on the coffee table between us. “It’s my favorite story,” I tell her. “I’ve memorized every single word.”
Jessamyn smiles. “It was a one-of-a-kind book,” she says. “And it inadvertently got placed in a box of toys and clothes that were being donated to a charity’s yard sale. I always wondered what had become of it.”
Behind her are the bookshelves and the fireplace that Oliver saw in the vision of his future in Orville’s cottage. It is strange, seeing them again—seeing them for real—and knowing Oliver still isn’t here.
My gaze settles on the view from the big picture window that overlooks the ocean. I am almost 100 percent sure I have seen this view before, but that doesn’t make sense—I’ve never been here in my life. Then it hits me—page 59. When Oliver fights with Rapscullio and pushes him out the tower window. This is the illustration we see as the villain falls to the rocks below.
Jessamyn follows my glance. “Page fifty-nine,” she confirms. “When I was painting the illustrations, I used all sorts of familiar places. The castle dining room is an exact image of the estate where I got married. Everafter Beach looks like the island where I went on my honeymoon.” She gazes down at her lap. “I wrote the story after my husband died of cancer. He fought so hard for a year, but ultimately, he lost the battle. The fairy tale was my way of getting through that. And helping my son get through it too.”<
br />
Suddenly I feel uncomfortable. Whatever the book has meant to me, it’s meant so much more to Jessamyn. “I’m really sorry,” I say.
“Don’t be. It was a long time ago. It’s why, in a way, having the book out of my house was a relief. As if it meant that part of my life—the sad part—was finished.” She reaches for the book. “It’s been a while since I read this,” she says, and opens to page 43.
Oliver looks up, expecting me as the Reader. But then he notices Jessamyn. I see his eyes widen—he recognizes her as the woman in the vision.
Jessamyn touches her finger to the crown of Oliver’s head. I feel an actual ache in my gut, remembering what his hair felt like—the texture, the thickness. “Amazing,” she breathes. “He looks exactly the way I imagined he would.”
This doesn’t make sense to me—since she was the one who drew Oliver in the first place. Obviously he’d look the way she imagined.
Jessamyn glances up at me. “You’re not really here to do an interview for school, are you.” It is not a question, but a statement.
“No,” I admit. I take a deep breath. “I came to ask you if you’d ever consider rewriting the ending.”
She smiles faintly. “Are you a writer, Delilah?” she asks.
“I’m more of a reader.”
“Ah,” Jessamyn replies. “Then I can see why you wouldn’t understand.”
“Understand what?”
“That the story isn’t mine to change anymore. Maybe it belonged to me at first, but now it belongs to you. And to everyone else who’s ever read it. The act of reading is a partnership. The author builds a house, but the reader makes it a home.”
“But if you created it, you have to be the one to change it.”
“Why should it be changed?”
“Because,” I say, “it’s not a happy ending. I can’t explain why.”
“Try me.”
“One of the characters told me.” I shut my eyes, certain that Jessamyn Jacobs officially thinks I’ve gone crazy. But to my surprise, when I open my eyes again, she just nods.