Handle With Care

by Jodi Picoult

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Also by Jodi Picoult

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  Part One

  Amelia

  Sean

  Charlotte

  Sean

  Marin

  Piper

  Charlotte

  Part Two

  Charlotte

  Piper

  Amelia

  Marin

  Sean

  Charlotte

  Sean

  Amelia

  Marin

  Piper

  Sean

  Amelia

  Piper

  Charlotte

  Marin

  Amelia

  Charlotte

  Amelia

  Part Three

  Charlotte

  Sean

  Marin

  Sean

  Amelia

  Piper

  Marin

  Charlotte

  Sean

  Amelia

  Charlotte

  Marin

  Sean

  Amelia

  Charlotte

  Amelia

  Piper

  Marin

  Charlotte

  Part Four

  Marin

  Charlotte

  Piper

  Marin

  Sean

  Charlotte

  Amelia

  Sean

  Marin

  Piper

  Charlotte

  Amelia

  Sean

  Charlotte

  Amelia

  Charlotte

  Amelia

  Piper

  Sean

  Amelia

  Charlotte

  Piper

  Charlotte

  Marin

  Amelia

  Sean

  Amelia

  Marin

  Amelia

  Charlotte

  Piper

  Charlotte

  Willow

  Author's Note

  Reading Guide

  ALSO BY JODI PICOULT

  Songs of the Humpback Whale

  Mercy

  The Pact

  Keeping Faith

  Plain Truth

  Salem Falls

  Perfect Match

  Second Glance

  My Sister's Keeper

  Vanishing Acts

  The Tenth Circle

  Nineteen Minutes

  Change of Heart

  COMING SOON

  Picture Perfect

  Harvesting the Heart

  HANDLE WITH CARE

  Jodi Picoult

  www.hodder.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain in 2009 by Hodder & Stoughton

  An Hachette UK company

  First published in America in 2009 by Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  Copyright (c) Jodi Picoult 2009

  The right of Jodi Picoult to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

  Epub ISBN 978 1 84894 452 7

  Book ISBN 978 0 340 97901 3

  Hodder & Stoughton Ltd

  A division of Hodder Headline

  338 Euston Road

  London NW1 3BH

  www.hodder.co.uk

  For Marjorie Rose, Who makes flowers bloom onstage, Provides me with goss half a world away, And knows you're never fully dressed without a green bag

  BFFAA

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  It may be a cliche to say I didn't do this alone, but it's also true. First and foremost, I want to thank the parents of kids with OI who invited me into their lives for a little while - and the kids themselves, who made me laugh and reminded me daily that strength is far more than a physical measure of stamina: Laurie Blaisdell and Rachel, Taryn Macliver and Matthew, Tony and Stacey Moss and Hope, Amy Phelps and Jonathan. Thanks to my cracker-jack medical team: Mark Brezinski, David Toub, John Femino, E. Rebecca Schirrer, Emily Baker, Michele Lauria, Karen George, Steve Sargent; and my legal eagles: Jen Sternick, Lise Iwon, Chris Keating, Jennifer Sargent. I owe Debbie Bernstein for sharing her story about being adopted (and letting me steal huge parts of it). I am likewise indebted to Donna Branca, for revisiting memories that are painful and for being gracious and honest when I asked questions. Thanks to Jeff Fleury, Nick Giaccone, and Frank Moran for helping me create Sean's life as a police officer. For other expertise in their fields, thanks to Michael Goldman (who also let me use his fantastic T-shirt slogan), Steve Alspach, Stefanie Ryan, Kathy Hemenway, Jan Scheiner, Fonsaca Malyan, Kevin Lavigne, Ellen Wilber, Sindy Buzzell, and Fred Clow. It would be a gross oversight not to highlight the involvement that Atria Books has in making my books such successes; I am grateful to Carolyn Reidy, Judith Curr, David Brown, Kathleen Schmidt, Mellony Torres, Sarah Branham, Laura Stern, Gary Urda, Lisa Keim, Christine Duplessis, Michael Selleck, the whole of the fabulous sales force, and everyone else who has worked so hard to make my books leap off the shelves into the arms and hearts of readers. A special thanks goes to Camille McDuffie, my secret weapon/publicist extraordinaire. To Emily Bestler, who always makes me feel like a star (and makes sure everyone else seems to think I'm one, too). To Laura Gross, with whom I celebrated my twentieth anniversary this year - and who is the other half of a partnership I rank right up there with my marriage. To Jane Picoult, my mom, who believed I could do this long before anyone else, and who laughs and cries in all the right places.

  In the interests of accuracy, I should state that, although there was an OI convention in Omaha, I've changed the date. Also, I've slightly amended the way juries are picked in New Hampshire - it's not by individual, as I've written, but it's a lot more interesting to read that way!

  I have two special thank-yous. The first is to Katie Desmond, the sister I never had, who created the recipes I've attributed here to Charlotte O'Keefe. If you're ever lucky enough to be invited to her house for dinner, don't walk, run. The second is to Kara Sheridan, who is one of the most inspirational women I've ever met: she's a scholar studying body image and self-esteem for disabled teens. She's an athlete - a swimmer who's broken records. She's about to get married to a wonderful, adorable guy. And - oh, by the way, she also has Type III osteogenesis imperfecta. Thanks, Kara, for showing the world that barriers were meant to be broken, that no one can be defined by a disability, and that nothing's ever impossible.

  Finally, I have to thank once again Kyle, Jake, and Sammy, for giving me something wonderful to come home to; and Tim, who is my happy ending.

  And did you get what

  you wanted from this life, even so?

  I did.

  And what did you want?

  To call myself beloved, to feel myself beloved on the earth.

  - Raymond Carver, 'Late Fragment'

  PROLOGUE

  Charlotte

  February 14, 2002

  T

  hings break all the time. Glass, and dishes, and fingernails. Cars and contracts and potato chips. You can break a record, a horse, a dollar. You can break t
he ice. There are coffee breaks and lunch breaks and prison breaks. Day breaks, waves break, voices break. Chains can be broken. So can silence, and fever.

  For the last two months of my pregnancy, I made lists of these things, in the hopes that it would make your birth easier.

  Promises break.

  Hearts break.

  On the night before you were born, I sat up in bed with something to add to my list. I rummaged in my nightstand for a pencil and paper, but Sean put his warm hand on my leg. Charlotte? he asked. Is everything okay?

  Before I could answer, he pulled me into his arms, flush against him, and I fell asleep feeling safe, forgetting to write down what I had dreamed.

  It wasn't until weeks later, when you were here, that I remembered what had awakened me that night: fault lines. These are the places where the earth breaks apart. These are the spots where earthquakes originate, where volcanoes are born. Or in other words: the world is crumbling under us; it's the solid ground beneath our feet that's an illusion.

  You arrived during a storm that nobody had predicted. A nor'easter, the weathermen said later, a blizzard that was supposed to blow north into Canada instead of working its way into a frenzy and battering the coast of New England. The news broadcasts tossed aside their features on high school sweethearts who met up again in a nursing home and got remarried, on the celebrated history behind the candy heart, and instead began to run constant weather bulletins about the strength of the storm and the communities where ice had knocked out the power. Amelia was sitting at the kitchen table, cutting folded paper into valentines as I watched the snow blow in six-foot drifts against the glass slider. The television showed footage of cars sliding off the roads.

  I squinted at the screen, at the flashing blues of the police cruiser that had pulled in behind the overturned vehicle, trying to see whether the officer in the driver's seat was Sean.

  A sharp rap on the slider made me jump. 'Mommy!' Amelia cried, startled, too.

  I turned just in time to see a volley of hail strike a second time, creating a crack in the plate glass no bigger than my fingernail. As we watched, it spread into a web of splintered glass as big as my fist. 'Daddy will fix it later,' I said.

  That was the moment when my water broke.

  Amelia glanced down between my feet. 'You had an accident.'

  I waddled to the phone, and when Sean didn't answer his cell, I called Dispatch. 'This is Sean O'Keefe's wife,' I said. 'I'm in labor.' The dispatcher said that he could send out an ambulance, but that it would probably take a while - they were maxed out with motor vehicle accidents.

  'That's okay,' I said, remembering the long labor I'd had with your sister. 'I've probably got a while.'

  Suddenly I doubled over with a contraction so strong that the phone fell out of my hand. I saw Amelia watching, her eyes wide. 'I'm fine,' I lied, smiling until my cheeks hurt. 'The phone slipped.' I reached for the receiver, and this time I called Piper, whom I trusted more than anyone in the world to rescue me.

  'You can't be in labor,' she said, even though she knew better - she was not only my best friend but also my initial obstetrician. 'The C-section's scheduled for Monday.'

  'I don't think the baby got the memo,' I gasped, and I gritted my teeth against another contraction.

  She didn't say what we were both thinking: that I could not have you naturally. 'Where's Sean?'

  'I . . . don't . . . kno--oh, Piper!'

  'Breathe,' Piper said automatically, and I started to pant, ha-ha-hee-hee, the way she'd taught me. 'I'll call Gianna and tell her we're on our way.'

  Gianna was Dr Del Sol, the maternal-fetal-medicine OB who had stepped in just eight weeks ago at Piper's request. 'We?'

  'Were you planning on driving yourself?'

  Fifteen minutes later, I had bribed away your sister's questions by settling her on the couch and turning on Blue's Clues. I sat next to her, wearing your father's winter coat, the only one that fit me now.

  The first time I had gone into labor, I'd had a bag packed and waiting at the door. I'd had a birthing plan and a mix tape of music to play in the delivery room. I knew it would hurt, but the reward was this incredible prize: the child I'd waited months to meet. The first time I had gone into labor, I'd been so excited.

  This time, I was petrified. You were safer inside me than you would be once you were out.

  Just then the door burst open and Piper filled all the space with her assured voice and her bright pink parka. Her husband, Rob, trailed behind, carrying Emma, who was carrying a snowball. 'Blue's Clues?' he said, settling down next to your sister. 'You know, that's my absolute favorite show . . . after Jerry Springer.'

  Amelia. I hadn't even thought about who would watch her while I was at the hospital having you.

  'How far apart?' Piper asked.

  My contractions were coming every seven minutes. As another one rolled over me like a riptide, I grabbed the arm of the couch and counted to twenty. I focused on that crack in the glass door.

  Trails of frost spiraled outward from its point of origin. It was beautiful and terrifying all at once.

  Piper sat down beside me and held my hand. 'Charlotte, it's going to be okay,' she promised, and because I was a fool, I believed her.

  The emergency room was thick with people who'd been injured in motor vehicle accidents during the storm. Young men held bloody towels to their scalps; children mewed on stretchers. I was whisked past them all by Piper, up to the birthing center, where Dr Del Sol was already pacing the corridor. Within ten minutes, I was being given an epidural and wheeled to the operating room for a C-section.

  I played games with myself: if there are an even number of fluorescent lights on the ceiling of this corridor, then Sean will arrive in time. If there are more men than women in the elevator, everything the doctors told me will turn out to be a mistake. Without me even having to ask, Piper had put on scrubs, so that she could fill in for Sean as my labor coach. 'He'll be here,' she said, looking down at me.

  The operating room was clinical, metallic. A nurse with green eyes - that was all I could see above her mask and below her cap - lifted my gown and swabbed my belly with Betadine. I started to panic as they hung the sterile drape in place. What if I didn't have enough anesthesia running through the lower half of my body and I felt the scalpel slicing me? What if, in spite of all I'd hoped for, you were born and did not survive?

  Suddenly the door flew open. Sean blew into the room on a cold streak of winter, holding a mask up to his face, his scrub shirt haphazardly tucked in. 'Wait,' he cried. He came to the head of the stretcher and touched my cheek. 'Baby,' he said. 'I'm sorry. I came as soon as I heard--'

  Piper patted Sean on the arm. 'Three's a crowd,' she said, backing away from me, but not before she squeezed my hand one last time.

  And then, Sean was beside me, the heat of his palms on my shoulders, the hymn of his voice distracting me as Dr Del Sol lifted the scalpel. 'You scared the hell out of me,' he said. 'What were you and Piper thinking, driving yourselves?'

  'That we didn't want to have the baby on the kitchen floor?'

  Sean shook his head. 'Something awful could have happened.'

  I felt a tug below the white drape and sucked in my breath, turning my head to the side. That was when I saw it: the enlarged twenty-seven-week sonogram with your seven broken bones, your fiddlehead limbs bowed inward. Something awful already has happened, I thought.

  And then you were crying, even though they lifted you as if you were made out of spun sugar. You were crying, but not the hitched, simple cry of a newborn. You were screaming as if you'd been torn apart. 'Easy,' Dr Del Sol said to the OR nurse. 'You need to support the whole--'

  There was a pop, like a burst bubble, and although I had not thought it possible, you screamed even louder. 'Oh, God,' the nurse said, her voice a cone of hysteria. 'Was that a break? Did I do that?' I tried to see you, but I could only make out a slash of a mouth, the ruby furor of your cheeks.

  The team of
doctors and nurses gathered around you couldn't stop your sobbing. I think, until the moment I heard you cry, a part of me had believed that all the sonograms and tests and doctors had been wrong. Until the moment I heard you cry, I had been worried that I wouldn't know how to love you.

  Sean peered over their shoulders. 'She's perfect,' he said, turning to me, but the words curled up at the end like a puppy's tail, looking for approval.

  Perfect babies didn't sob so hard that you could feel your own heart tearing down the center. Perfect babies looked that way on the outside, and were that way on the inside.

  'Don't lift her arm,' a nurse murmured.

  And another: 'How am I supposed to swaddle her if I can't touch her?'

  And through it all you screamed, a note I'd never heard before.

  Willow, I whispered, the name that your father and I had agreed on. I had had to convince him. I won't call her that, he said. They weep. But I wanted to give you a prophecy to carry with you, the name of a tree that bends instead of breaking.

  Willow, I whispered again, and somehow through the cacophony of the medical staff and the whir of machinery and the fever pitch of your pain, you heard me.

  Willow, I said out loud, and you turned toward the sound as if the word was my arms around you. Willow, I said, and just like that, you stopped crying.

  When I was five months pregnant, I got a call from the restaurant where I used to work. The pastry chef's mother had broken her hip, and they had a food critic coming in that night from the Boston Globe, and even though it was incredibly presumptuous and surely not a good time for me, could I possibly come in and just whip up my chocolate mille-feuille, the one with the spiced chocolate ice cream, avocado, and bananas brulee?

  I admit, I was being selfish. I felt logy and fat, and I wanted to remind myself that I had once been good for something other than playing Go Fish with your sister and separating the laundry into whites and darks. I left Amelia with a teenage sitter and drove to Capers.

  The kitchen hadn't changed in the years since I'd been there, although the new head chef had moved around the items in the pantries. I immediately cleared off my work space and set about making my phyllo. Somewhere in the middle of it all, I dropped a stick of butter, and I reached down to pick it up before someone slipped and fell. But this time, when I bent forward, I was acutely aware of the fact that I could not jackknife at the waist anymore. I felt you steal my breath, as I stole yours. 'Sorry, baby,' I said out loud, and I straightened up again.

  Now I wonder: Is that when those seven breaks happened? When I kept someone else from getting hurt, did I hurt you?