The Jodi Picoult Collection #4 Read online

  “No,” Emma says hesitantly. “But what legal procedure did you screw up?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I thought you were . . . someone else.”

  “Apparently.” There is a beat of silence. “Is everything okay with Jacob’s case?”

  “Couldn’t be better,” I tell her. “The prosecution’s even doing my homework for me.” I want to change the topic as quickly as possible, so I ask after Jacob. “How are things in the Hunt household today?”

  “Well, that’s sort of why I’m calling. Do you think you could do me a favor?”

  A dozen favors run through my mind, most of which would greatly benefit me and my current lack of a love life. “What is it?”

  “I need someone to stay with Jacob while I run out to do an errand.”

  “What errand?”

  “That’s sort of personal.” She draws in her breath. “Please?”

  There has to be some neighbor or relative better suited to the task than I am. But then again, maybe Emma doesn’t have anyone else she can ask. From what I’ve seen these past few days, that’s one hell of a lonely household. Still, I can’t resist asking, “Why me?”

  “The judge said someone over twenty-five.”

  I grin. “So all of a sudden I am old enough for you?”

  “Forget I even asked,” Emma snaps.

  “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” I say.

  Emma

  Asking for help doesn’t come easily to me, so you’d better believe that, if I actually do make a request, I’ve exhausted all other options. Which is why I don’t feel great about making myself even more beholden to Oliver Bond by asking him to stay with Jacob while I run out of the house for this appointment. Even worse is scheduling the appointment, which feels like the physical manifestation of conceding defeat.

  The bank is quiet on a Wednesday. There are a few retirees meticulously filling out deposit slips, and one of the tellers is talking to another about why Cabo is a better vacation destination than Cancún. I stand in the center of the bank, eyeing the banner advertising twelve-month CDs and a small table filled with logo paraphernalia—a stadium blanket, a mug, an umbrella—that can be mine if I open a new checking account.

  “Can I help you?” a woman asks.

  “I have an appointment,” I say. “To see Abigail LeGris?”

  “You can take a seat,” she says, and she points to a bank of chairs outside a cubicle. “I’ll let her know you’re here.”

  I’ve never been rich, and I’ve never needed to be. Somehow, the boys and I have cobbled along on my writing and editing income, and the checks that Henry faithfully sends each month. We don’t need much. We live in a modest house; we don’t go out on the town very often or take vacations. I shop at Marshalls and a local thrift store that has recently become trendy for teenagers. The bulk of my expenses involve Jacob—his supplements and his therapies, which aren’t covered by insurance. I think I got so used to making those accommodations fiscally that I stopped seeing them as accommodations and instead view them as the norm. But that said, sometimes I have lain awake at night and wondered what would happen if, God forbid, there was a car accident and we had medical bills that skyrocketed. If some remarkable therapy became available to Jacob that required a payout we could not afford.

  In my laundry list of contingencies, I never thought to include the legal fees incurred when your son is accused of murder.

  A woman with dyed jet-black hair and a suit that’s wearing her instead of the other way around steps out of the cubicle. She has a very tiny nose stud and doesn’t look much older than twenty. Maybe this is what happens to snowboard chicks whose knees get arthritic, to Goth girls whose eyeliner aggravates dry-eye syndrome—they are forced to grow up like the rest of us. “I’m Abby LeGris,” she says.

  When she shakes my hand, her collared shirt gaps a little, and I can see the edge of a Celtic tattoo on her neck.

  She leads me into her cubicle and gestures for me to take a seat. “So,” she says. “How can I help you today?”

  “I was hoping to talk about a second mortgage. I, well, I need a little extra cash.” As I say the words, I’m wondering if she can ask me what I’ll use that cash for. If it’s illegal to lie to a bank about that sort of thing.

  “So basically you’re looking for a line of credit,” Abigail says. “That means you only pay us back for the portion you use.”

  Well, that sounds reasonable.

  “How long have you lived in your home?” she asks.

  “Nineteen years.”

  “Do you know how much you owe currently on your mortgage?”

  “Not exactly,” I say. “But we got the loan here.”

  “Let’s look you up,” Abigail says, and she asks me to spell my name so that she can find me on her computer system. “Your home’s worth $300,000, and your first mortgage was for $220,000. Does that sound right?”

  I can’t remember. All I can see is the night Henry and I danced through the house that was ours, our bare feet echoing on the wood floor.

  “The way it works, banks lend a portion of the equity of a home, around eighty percent. So that’s $240,000. Then we subtract the amount of the first mortgage loan and . . .” She looks up from her calculator. “You’re talking about a $20,000 line of credit.”

  I stare at her. “That’s all?”

  “In today’s market, it’s important for the client to have a vested interest in the house. Makes them less likely to default on the loan.” She smiles at me. “Why don’t we fill in some of the other blanks here,” Abigail says. “Starting with your employer?”

  I’ve read statistics that say references aren’t checked more than fifty percent of the time, but surely a bank must fall in the other half. And once they call Tanya and realize I’ve quit, they’ll be wondering how I’m going to pay one mortgage, much less two. Saying I am picking up the slack with self-employment won’t help, either. I’ve been a freelance editor long enough to know that, for institutions like banks and future employers, self-employed translates to “nearly jobless but scraping by.”

  “I’m currently unemployed,” I say softly.

  Abigail leans back in her chair. “Well,” she says. “Do you have other sources of income? Rental property? Dividends?”

  “Child support,” I manage.

  “I’m going to be totally honest with you,” she says. “It’s not likely you’ll get a loan without another source of income.”

  I cannot even look at her. “I really, really need the money.”

  “There are other credit sources,” Abigail says. “Car title loans, loan predators, credit cards—but the interest will kill you in the long run. You’re better off asking someone close to you. Is there a family member who might be able to help?”

  But my parents are both gone, and it is a family member I’m trying to help. I’m the one—I’m always the one—who takes care of Jacob when things are falling apart.

  “I wish there was something I could do,” Abigail says. “Maybe once you get another job . . .”

  I mumble my thanks and leave her cubicle while she is still speaking. In the parking lot, I sit in my car for a moment. My breath hangs in the cold air, like thought balloons of all the things I wish I could explain to Abigail LeGris. “I wish there was something I could do, too,” I say out loud.

  * * *

  It isn’t fair to Jacob or to Oliver, but I don’t go right home. Instead, I drive past the elementary school. It’s been a long time since I’ve had reason to go there—after all, my boys are grown now—but in the winter, they flood a front field into an ice rink, and kids bring their skates. During recess, little girls spin in circles on the ice; boys chase hockey pucks from one end to the other.

  I pull over across the street, where I can watch. The kids who are playing outside are tiny—I’d say first or second graders—and it seems impossible that Jacob was ever that small. When he’d been a student here, his aide had taken him onto the ice rink with a pair