by Jodi Picoult
NOW
Mid to Late November 1997
In the days after Emily's death, Melanie found herself riveted by the most ordinary things: the whorl of the wood of the dining room table; the mechanism of a Ziploc baggie; the pamphlet on toxic shock syndrome in the tampon box. For hours at a time she could stare at these things as if she had not seen them a million times before, as if she had never known what she was missing. She felt a call to detail that was obsessive, but necessary. What if, tomorrow morning, one of these things turned up missing? What if her only knowledge of these items came from memory? She knew now that, at any time, she might be tested.
Melanie had spent the morning tearing off the pages of a small notepad and throwing them into the trash can. She watched the white pages pile up, a tiny blizzard. When the trash bag was half full, she yanked it from the can to carry it outside. It had started to snow, the first snow of the season. Mesmerized, she dropped the trash bag, oblivious to the cold or the fact that she was shivering without her coat, and held out her hand. As a snowflake landed on her palm, she brought it close to examine, and watched it melt before she'd had the chance.
The telephone startled her, its harsh jangle wrangling through the open kitchen door. Melanie turned and ran inside, breathlessly reaching for the receiver on the wall. "Hello?"
"Yes," a floating voice said. "I'd like to speak with Emily Gold."
Me, too, Melanie thought, and she silently hung up the phone.
CHRIS STOOD UNCOMFORTABLY in the office of Dr. Emanuel Feinstein, pretending to look at the photographs of covered bridges decorating the walls and glancing surreptitiously instead at the secretary who was typing so fast her fingers were a blue blur. Suddenly there was a buzz on the intercom. The secretary smiled at Chris. "You can go in now," she said.
Chris nodded and walked through the adjoining door, wondering why he'd been cooling his heels for the past half hour if there wasn't another patient in there. The psychiatrist stood up, walked around his desk. "Come on in, Chris. I'm Dr. Feinstein. It's nice to meet you."
He nodded to a chair--not a couch, Chris noticed--and Chris sank into it. Dr. Emanuel Feinstein was not the old geezer he'd conjured up in his head based on that name, but a guy who would have looked just as comfortable hauling wood as a lumberjack or manning an oil rig. He had thick blond hair that brushed his shoulders, and he stood a good half foot taller than Chris. His office was decorated much like Chris's dad's study--dark wood and tartan plaids and leather books.
"So," the psychiatrist said, taking the wing chair across from Chris, "how are you feeling?"
Chris shrugged, and the doctor leaned forward to pick up the tape recorder on the coffee table between them. He played back the snippet, hearing his own question, and then shook the device. "Funny thing about these," Dr. Feinstein said. "They don't pick up nonverbal clues. There's only one rule in here, Chris. Your answers have to actually emit a sound frequency."
Chris cleared his throat. Any begrudged liking he'd started to have for this shrink vanished again. "Okay," he said gruffly.
"Okay what?"
"I'm feeling okay," Chris muttered.
"Are you sleeping all right? Eating?"
Chris nodded, then stared at the tape recorder. "Yes," he said pointedly. "I've been eating okay. But sometimes I can't sleep."
"Was this something you had a problem with before?"
Before, like with a capital B. Chris shook his head, and then his eyes filled with tears. It was an emotion he was getting used to; it happened whenever he thought about Emily.
"How are things at home?"
"Weird," Chris admitted. "My father acts like nothing ever happened, my mom talks to me like I'm a six-year-old."
"Why do you think your parents are treating you the way they are?"
"I guess it's because they're scared," Chris answered. "I would be."
What could it be like to find out, in a matter of minutes, that the kid you believed the sun rose and set on was not the person you'd thought? Suddenly, he frowned at the psychiatrist. "Do you tell my parents what I say here?"
Dr. Feinstein shook his head. "I'm here for you. I'm your advocate. What you say here, stays here."
Chris eyed him warily. Like that was supposed to make him feel better. He didn't know Feinstein from a hole in the wall.
"Do you still think about killing yourself?" the psychiatrist asked.
Chris picked at a hole in his jeans. "Sometimes," he murmured.
"Do you have a plan?"
"No."
"Do you think Friday night might have changed your mind?"
Chris looked up sharply. "I don't understand you," he said.
"Well, why don't you tell me what it was like for you. Seeing your friend shoot herself."
"She wasn't my friend," Chris corrected. "She was the girl I loved."
"That must have made it even more difficult," Dr. Feinstein said.
"Yes," Chris said, watching it all over again, Emily's head snapping to the left as if an invisible hand had slapped her, the blood that ran through his fingers. He glanced at the psychiatrist, wondering what the man expected him to say.
After prolonged silence, the doctor tried again. "You must be very upset."
"I pretty much cry at the drop of a hat."
"Well," the psychiatrist said, "that's perfectly normal."
"Oh, right." Chris snorted. "Perfectly normal. I spent Friday night getting seventy stitches. My girlfriend is dead. I've been locked up in a psycho ward for three days and now I'm here, where I'm supposed to tell someone I don't even know everything that's on my mind. Yeah, I'm a perfectly normal seventeen-year-old."
"You know," Dr. Feinstein said evenly, "the mind is a remarkable thing. Just because you can't see the wound doesn't mean it isn't hurting. It scars all the time, but it heals." He leaned forward. "You don't want to be here," he said. "So where would you like to be?"
"With Emily," Chris said unhesitatingly.
"Dead."
"No. Yes." Chris averted his gaze. He found himself looking at a second door, one he hadn't noticed, one that did not lead back to the waiting room through which he'd entered. It would be, Chris realized, the door through which he'd exit. A way out so that no one would ever have to know he'd been inside.
He looked at Dr. Feinstein and decided that someone who protected your privacy could not be all that bad. "Where I'd like to be," Chris said softly, "is a few months back."
THE MOMENT THE ELEVATOR DOORS OPENED, Gus was fluttering all over her son, slipping her arm about his waist and falling into step and chattering as she whisked him out of the medical building where Dr. Feinstein's office was located. "So," Gus said, the moment they settled into the car. "How did it go?"
There was no answer. Chris's head was turned away from her. "For starters," she said, "did you like him?"
"Was this a blind date?" Chris muttered.
Gus pulled the car out of the lot, silently making excuses for him. "Is he a good psychiatrist?" she pressed.
Chris stared out the window. "As opposed to what?" he asked.
"Well ... do you feel better?"
He turned to her slowly, pinned her with his eyes. "As opposed," he repeated, "to what?"
JAMES HAD BEEN RAISED by a set of Boston Brahmin parents who had elevated New England stoicism to an art form. In the eighteen years he'd lived in their household, he'd seen them kiss publicly only once, and that was so fleeting that he came to believe he'd surely imagined it. Admitting to pain, to grief, or to ecstasy was frowned upon: The one time James, as a teenager, had cried over the death of a pet dog, his parents acted as if he'd committed hara-kiri on the marble tiles of the foyer. Their strategy for dealing with things unpleasant or emotional was to push past the mortifying situation and get on with their life as if it had never happened.
By the time James had met Gus, he'd fully mastered the technique--and had rejected it out of hand. But that night, alone in the basement, he tried desperately to recapture
that blessed, intentional blindness once again.
He was standing in front of the gun cabinet. The keys were still in the lock; he'd mistakenly believed his children were old enough to dispense with the excessive caution he'd used years ago. He twisted the keys and let the door swing open, revealing the rifles and shotguns lined up like matchsticks. Conspicuously absent was the Colt pistol, still impounded by the police.
James touched the barrel of the .22, the first gun he'd ever given Chris to shoot.
Was this his fault?
If James hadn't been a hunter, if the guns were not accessible, would any of this have happened? Would there have been pills or carbon monoxide poisoning, would the results have been less catastrophic?
He shook off the thought. This sort of obsessing would get him nowhere. He needed to move on, to get going, to look forward.
As if he'd suddenly discovered the secret of the universe, James pounded up the cellar stairs. He found Gus and Chris sitting in the living room together. They both looked up when he burst into the doorway. "I think," he announced breathlessly, "that Chris should go back to school on Monday."
"What?" Gus said, coming to her feet. "Are you crazy?"
"No," James said. "But neither is Chris."
Chris stared at him. "You think," he said slowly, "that going back to school, where everyone's going to look at me like I'm some kind of head case, is going to make me feel better?"
"This is ludicrous," Gus said. "I'll call Dr. Feinstein. It's too soon."
"What does Feinstein know? He's met Chris once. We've known him forever, Gus." James crossed the room and stood in front of his son. "You'll see. You'll get back in with your own crowd, and you'll be yourself in no time."
Chris snorted, and turned away.
"He's not going to school," Gus insisted.
"You're being selfish."
"I'm being selfish?" Gus laughed and folded her arms over her chest. "James, he isn't even sleeping at night. And he--"
"I'll go," Chris interrupted softly.
James beamed, clapped Chris hard on the shoulder. "Excellent," he said triumphantly. "You'll get swimming again, and excited about college. Once you're busy, things are going to look a hell of a lot better." He turned to his wife. "He just needs to get out, Gus. You coddle him, and he's got nothing better to do than think."
James rocked back on his heels, certain that the air in the house was circulating lighter and more freely with this small shift of focus. Disgusted, Gus pivoted and walked out the room. He frowned at her retreating back. "Chris is fine," he called out, for good measure. "There's nothing wrong with him."
It was a few moments before he felt the heavy burden of his son's gaze. Chris's head was tipped to the side, as if he was not angry at James, but truly confounded. "Do you really think that?" he whispered, and left his father standing alone.
THE TELEPHONE WOKE MELANIE with a start, causing her to sit up disoriented in her own bed. When she'd lay down for a nap, the sun had been shining. Now, she could not even see her hand in front of her.
She fumbled along the nightstand. "Yes," she said. "Hello."
"Is Emily there?"
"Stop," Melanie whispered, and let the receiver drop while she buried herself once again beneath the covers.
MELANIE WENT GROCERY SHOPPING every Sunday morning at eight-thirty, when the rest of the world was still relaxing in bed with the paper and a cup of coffee. Last Sunday, of course, she hadn't. And with the exception of food left over from sitting shiva, there was nothing in the house to eat. As she tugged on her coat and struggled with the zipper, Michael watched her. "You know," he said awkwardly, "I can do this for you."
"Do what?" Melanie said, stuffing her hands into mittens.
"Go shopping. Run errands. Whatever." Seeing Melanie's pinched face made Michael think he was going about grieving all wrong. He was dying on the inside because of Emily, but not on the outside, and somehow it didn't seem as potent a sorrow as his wife's. He cleared his throat, forcing himself to look at her. "I can go if you don't feel up to it yet."
Melanie laughed. Even to her own ears, it sounded wrong, like a melody for a flute being played on a honky-tonk piano. "Of course I'm up to it," she said. "What else do I have to do today?"
"Well," Michael said, making a spur-of-the-moment decision, "why don't we go together?"
For the slightest moment, Melanie's brows drew together. Then she shrugged. "Suit yourself," she said, already leaving.
Michael grabbed his coat and ran outside, where Melanie was in the car. The engine was running, the exhaust creating a cloud around the vehicle. "So. Where are we going?"
"Market Basket," Melanie said, turning the car around. "We need milk."
"We're going all the way there for milk? We could get that at--"
"Are you going to be pleasant company," Melanie said, her lips twitching, "or are you going to be a backseat driver?"
Michael laughed. For a moment, it had been easy. In the past week he could count on one hand the number of moments like that.
Melanie pulled out of the driveway and turned onto Wood Hollow Road, accelerating. Although he tried to keep his eye from straying there, Michael instinctively glanced toward the Hartes' house. A figure was walking along the edge of the driveway, setting out the trash can at the lip of the road. As the car drew closer Michael made out Chris's face.
He was wearing a hat and gloves, but no coat. His eyes lifted at the sound of the approaching car, and--as Michael had experienced--instinct kicked in when he realized it was the Golds. Probably before he even realized what he was doing, Chris had lifted his hand in greeting.
Michael felt the car pull toward the right, toward Chris, as if the boy had magnetized not only the direction of their thoughts but also the vehicle's tracks. He shifted in his seat and waited for Melanie to realign the car.
Instead, it swerved so far to the right that she went off the blacktop. Michael felt the car jolt forward as she pressed down on the gas pedal, barreling toward Chris. Chris's mouth rounded into an O; his hands twitched on the handle of the garbage can as his feet remained rooted to the driveway. Melanie's hands shifted, cutting the car even closer; and just as Michael snapped out of his stupefied paralysis to wrench the steering wheel from her grasp, she turned it herself, nicking the trash can. Chris safely bolted several feet back down the driveway as the barrel bounced into the street and spilled garbage across Wood Hollow Road.
Michael's heart was pounding so heavily in his chest that he could not even gain the composure to look at his wife until they were all the way down Wood Hollow, waiting at the stop sign to take a left toward town. He put his hand on Melanie's wrist, still speechless.
She turned to him, unruffled, guileless. "What?" she said.
CHRIS REMEMBERED BEING a little kid, pretending along with Em that he had the power to make himself invisible. They'd put on some goofy baseball hats or cheap dime-store rings and, bam, just like that, no one would be able to see them sneak into the pantry for an Oreo or empty the bottle of bubble bath into the toilet. It was a handy thing, the suspension of disbelief. And it was apparently something you outgrew pretty fast, because no matter what Chris did to imagine that no one could see him as he walked down the dull, narrow halls of the high school, he could not convince himself that this was truly the case.
He kept his eyes trained straight ahead as he maneuvered around the salmon flow of kids between classes, couples making out against the lockers, and surly underclassmen spoiling for a fight. In class, he could just sit with his head ducked and zone out like he usually did. In the hallways, though, it was brutal. Was everyone in the whole school staring at him? Because it sure as hell felt that way. Nobody had tried to talk to him about what happened; instead they all whispered behind their hands. One or two guys he knew said it was good that he was back at school and all that, but they made sure not to come too close while they talked, in case unhappiness was contagious.
You always knew, after shitty thing
s happened, who your friends really were. It was perfectly clear to Chris that his one real friend had been Emily.
Fifth period he had AP English with Bertrand. He liked the class; he'd always done all right in it. Mrs. Bertrand was after him to major in English in college. When the bell rang, Chris didn't hear it at first. He was still sitting slumped in his chair when Mrs. Bertrand touched his arm. "Chris?" she said softly. "Are you all right?"
He blinked up at her. "Yeah," he said, clearing his throat. "Yeah, sure." He made a big production of gathering his books into his backpack.
"I just wanted you to know that if you want someone to talk to, I'm here." She sat down at the desk in front of his. "You may want to write about your feelings," she suggested. "Sometimes it's easier than speaking them out loud."
Chris nodded, wanting nothing more than to get away from Mrs. Bertrand.
"Well," she said, clasping her hands. "I'm glad you're all right." She stood up and walked back to her desk. "The faculty is planning a memorial assembly for Emily," she said, and she looked at Chris, waiting for a response.
"She'd like that," Chris murmured, and he dashed from the frying pan into the fire, where a hundred pairs of curious eyes stood their distance.
THE IRONY OF THE RELIEF that swept over Chris as he entered Dr. Feinstein's office did not escape him. This had been the last place in the world he'd wanted to be, but that trophy now belonged to Bainbridge High School. He sat with his elbows resting on his knees, his feet anxiously tapping.
Dr. Feinstein himself opened the door to the waiting room. "Chris," he said. "It's good to see you again." When Chris chose to pace in front of the bookshelves, he shrugged and came to stand beside him. "You seem a little restless today," Dr. Feinstein said.
"I went back to school," Chris answered. "It sucked."
"Why?"
"Because I was a freak. No one came up to me and God forbid they should touch me ... " He exhaled, disgusted. "It's like I have AIDS. No, scratch that. They'd probably be more accepting."
"What do you think sets you apart from them?"
"I don't know. I have no idea how much they know about what happened. And I couldn't get close enough to people to hear the rumors." He rubbed his temples. "Everyone knows Em died. Everyone knows I was there. They're filling in the blanks." He leaned against the back of the wing chair, skimming his thumb over the row of leatherbound books closest to him. "Half of them probably think I'm gonna slit my wrists in the cafeteria."