The Jodi Picoult Collection #4 Read online

  “Mom?” I touch her shoulder, but she doesn’t move. It scares me to death, and it’s eerily familiar.

  It takes me a second to place it—the way she’s staring off into space, the way she won’t respond: this is how Jacob looked last week, when we couldn’t get him to come back to us.

  “Come on, Mom.” I slip an arm around her waist and lift her. She feels like a bag of bones. I guide her upstairs, wondering why the hell Jacob is in jail. Aren’t you supposed to be guaranteed the right to a speedy trial? Could it have been that speedy? If only I’d done my Civitas homework, maybe I’d understand what had happened, but this much I know: I am not about to ask my mother.

  I sit her down on the bed and then I kneel and take off her shoes. “Just lie down,” I suggest, which seems like something she’d say if the tables were turned. “I’ll get you a cup of tea, okay?”

  In the kitchen I set the kettle to boil and have a tsunami of déjà vu: the last time I did this—boil a kettle, take out a tea bag, and hook its paper tag over the edge of a mug—I was in Jess Ogilvy’s house. It’s really just a matter of luck that Jacob’s the one sitting in jail right now, and I’m here. It could easily have been the other way around.

  Part of me is relieved about that, which makes me feel like total crap.

  I wonder what the detective said to Jacob. Why my mother brought him down there in the first place. Maybe that’s why she’s so messed up now: not grief but guilt. That much, I understand. If I’d gone to the cops and told them I had seen Jess alive and naked earlier that day, would it have made matters worse for Jacob, or better?

  I don’t really know how my mother takes her tea, so I put in milk and sugar and carry it upstairs. She is sitting up now, the pillows piled behind her. When she sees me, she tears up. “My boy,” she says, as I sit down beside her. She cups her hand around my cheek. “My beautiful boy.”

  She might be talking about me, and she might be talking about Jacob. I decide it doesn’t really matter.

  “Mom,” I ask. “What’s going on?”

  “Jacob has to stay in jail . . . for two weeks. Then they’ll take him to court again to see if he’s competent to stand trial.”

  Okay, I may not be a rocket scientist, but sticking someone who may not be able to handle a trial in jail doesn’t seem like the best way to see if they’re able to handle a trial. I mean, if you can’t handle a trial, how the hell could you handle jail?

  “But . . . he hasn’t done anything wrong,” I say, and I look carefully at my mother, to see if she knows more than I do.

  If she does, she’s not showing it. “That doesn’t seem to matter.”

  Today in Civitas we talked about the cornerstone of our country’s legal system: that you’re innocent until proven guilty. Locking someone up in jail while you try to figure out what to do next doesn’t seem like you’re giving him the benefit of the doubt. It sounds like you’re already assuming he’s screwed, so he might as well get comfortable in his future living quarters.

  My mother tells me how Jacob got suckered into talking to the detective. How she ran to find him a lawyer. How Jacob was arrested in front of her. How he decked the bailiffs when they tried to grab his arms.

  I don’t understand why this lawyer wasn’t able to get Jacob released and back home. I read enough Grisham novels to know that happens all the time, especially for people who don’t have a previous record.

  “So what happens now?” I ask.

  I don’t just mean for Jacob, either. I mean for us. All those years I wished Jacob didn’t exist, and now that he’s not in the house, it’s like there’s an elephant in the room. How am I supposed to make a can of soup for dinner, knowing that my brother is in a cell somewhere? How am I supposed to get up in the morning, go to school, pretend that this is life as usual?

  “Oliver—that’s the lawyer—says that people get unarrested all the time. The police get some new evidence, and they let the original suspect go.”

  She is holding on to this like it’s a lucky charm, a rabbit’s foot, an amulet. Jacob will be unarrested, and we can all go back to the way we were. Never mind that the way we were wasn’t that terrific, or that unarrested doesn’t mean the slate is wiped entirely clear so you forget what happened. Imagine spending twenty years in prison for a crime you never committed before you’re acquitted thanks to DNA evidence. Sure, you’re free now, but you don’t get back those twenty years. You don’t ever stop being “that guy who used to be in prison.”

  Because I don’t know how to say this to her—and I’m sure she wouldn’t want to hear it, anyway—I reach for the remote control on her nightstand and turn on the TV that’s sitting on the dresser across the room. The news is on, the weatherman predicting a storm sometime next week. “Thanks, Norm,” the anchorwoman says. “Breaking news in the case of the murder of Jessica Ogilvy . . . Police have arrested eighteen-year-old Jacob Hunt of Townsend, Vermont, in connection with the crime.”

  Beside me, my mother freezes. Jacob’s school photo fills the screen. In it, he is wearing a striped blue shirt and, as usual, not staring at the camera. “Jacob is a senior at Townsend Regional High School and was tutored by the victim.”

  Holy shit.

  “We’ll have more on this story as it develops,” the anchor promises.

  My mother lifts the remote control. I figure she is going to turn off the television, but instead, she hurls it at the screen. The remote breaks apart, and the TV screen cracks. She rolls onto her side.

  “I’ll get the broom,” I say.

  * * *

  In the middle of the night, I hear noises in the kitchen. I creep downstairs to find my mother, rummaging through a drawer to find the phone book. Her hair is loose, her feet are bare, and there’s a toothpaste stain on her shirt. “Why isn’t it listed under ‘Government,’ ” she mutters.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I have to call the jail,” she says. “He doesn’t like it when it’s dark. I could bring him a night-light. I want them to know that I can bring him a night-light, if that helps.”

  “Mom,” I say.

  She picks up the telephone.

  “Mom . . . you need to go to bed.”

  “No,” she corrects. “I need to call the jail—”

  “It’s three in the morning. They’re asleep.” I look at her. “Jacob’s asleep.”

  She turns her face to mine. “Do you really think so?”

  “Yeah,” I say, but the word has to squeeze itself out around the knot in my throat. “Yeah, I do.”

  Here are the things I am afraid of:

  That the subject Jacob loves the most has stopped being an interest and has started to become an obsession.

  That this is why he’s in jail in the first place.

  That when he was last with Jess, something made him feel scared, or cornered, which is what makes him snap.

  That you can love someone and hate him at the same time.

  That age has nothing to do with who is the older brother.

  * * *

  If you think having a brother who’s got Asperger’s makes me a pariah, imagine having one who’s in jail. The next day I am in school—yes, more on that later—and everywhere I go, I hear the whispers.

  I heard he cut off her finger with a knife and kept it.

  I heard he hit her with a baseball bat.

  I always thought he was creepy.

  The reason I’m taking up space in my classes today—and believe me, that’s all I’m doing, since my brain is too busy blocking the gossip I overhear—is that my mother thought it was the best plan. “I have to go to the jail,” she said, which I had figured would happen. “You can’t stay home for two weeks. You have to go back sometime.”

  I knew she was right, but didn’t she also realize that people were going to ask about Jacob? Make assumptions? And not just the kids. Teachers would come up to me full of fake sympathy when what they really wanted was some dirt they could take back to the teachers’ lounge.