The Jodi Picoult Collection #4 Read online

  I let her embrace me, because it seemed to be what she wanted to do. Behind Theo’s door, I could hear him starting to stir.

  What my mother had said was not technically inaccurate. What those doctors and books all say about how Aspies like me cannot feel anything on behalf of others—that’s total bullshit. We understand when someone else is in pain; it just affects us differently than it affects other humans. I see it as the next step of evolution: I cannot take away your sadness, so why should I acknowledge it?

  In addition, I hadn’t slept in front of Theo’s door because I wanted to protect him. I’d slept in front of his door because I was exhausted after a week of midnight crying, and I only wanted to get a good night’s rest. I was looking out for my own best interests.

  You could say, actually, that this was the impetus behind what happened with Jess, too.

  Oliver

  Emma wants to call US Airways and make them stop the plane from departing, but the entire system is automated. When we finally do reach a human employee, he’s in Charlotte, North Carolina, and has no way of contacting the Burlington gate. “Here’s the thing,” I tell her. “You can beat him there by flying direct to San Francisco. It’s almost the same distance to Palo Alto from the San Jose airport.” She looks over my shoulder at the computer screen, which has the flight I’ve found. “With the layover in Chicago that Theo’s going to make, you’ll still get in an hour before he does.”

  She leans forward, and I can smell the shampoo in her hair. Her eyes flicker over the flight information, hopeful—and then land on the bottom, and the price. “$1,080? That’s ridiculous!”

  “Same-day fares aren’t cheap.”

  “Well, that’s not in my budget,” Emma says.

  I click on the button to purchase the ticket. “It’s in mine,” I lie.

  “What are you doing! You can’t pay for that—”

  “Too late.” I shrug. The truth is, financially, I’m a little shaky now. I have one client, and she can’t afford to pay me, and worse, I’m okay with that. Surely I missed the Bloodsucking Your Client class in law school, since all evidence points to me being the poster boy for Financially Ruined Defense Attorneys. But at the same time, I’m thinking that I can sell my saddle—I have a beautiful English one that’s in storage below the pizza place. No use having it when I don’t have a horse anyway.

  “I’ll add it to the bill,” I say, but we both know I probably won’t.

  Emma closes her eyes for a moment. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Then just be quiet.”

  “You shouldn’t have to get involved in this mess.”

  “Lucky for you the only other thing I had to do today was organize my sock drawer,” I joke, but she’s not laughing.

  “I’m sorry,” Emma replies. “It’s just . . . I don’t have anyone else.”

  Very slowly, very deliberately, so that she will not startle or pull away, I thread my fingers through hers and squeeze her hand. “You have me,” I say.

  * * *

  If I were a better man, I wouldn’t have eavesdropped on Emma’s conversation with her ex-husband. Henry, she said. It’s Emma.

  No, actually, I can’t really call back later. It’s about Theo.

  He’s fine. I mean, I think he’s fine. He’s run away from home.

  Well, of course I know that. He’s on his way to your place.

  Yes, California. Unless you’ve moved lately.

  No, I’m sorry. That wasn’t an insult . . .

  I don’t know why. He just took off.

  He used my credit card. Look, can we just talk about this when I get there?

  Oh. Did I forget to mention that?

  If all goes well, I’ll land before Theo.

  Meeting us at the airport would be great. We’re both on US Airways.

  Then there is a hesitation.

  Jacob? she replies. No, he won’t be joining me.

  * * *

  It is decided that I will camp out for the night to be the over-twenty-five-year-old adult watching Jacob while Emma hauls Theo’s ass back across the country. At first, after she leaves, it seems like a piece of cake—we can play the Wii. We can watch TV. And, thank God, it’s Brown Thursday, which is relatively easy: I can cook Jacob a burger for dinner. It isn’t until an hour after she leaves that I remember my hearing tomorrow—the one I had not yet told Emma about, the one I will have to take Jacob to by myself.

  “Jacob,” I say, while he is engrossed in a television show about how Milky Way bars are made. “I have to talk to you for a second.”

  He doesn’t respond. His eyes don’t even flicker from the screen, so I step in front of it and turn it off.

  “I just want to have a little chat.” When Jacob doesn’t answer, I keep speaking. “Your trial starts in a month, you know.”

  “A month and six days.”

  “Right. Well, I’ve been thinking about how . . . hard it might be for you to be in court all day long, and I figured we need to do something about it.”

  “Oh,” Jacob says, shaking his head. “I can’t be in court all day. I have schoolwork to do. And I have to be home by four-thirty so that I can watch CrimeBusters.”

  “I don’t think you get it. It’s not your call. You go to court when the judge says you go to court, and you get to come home when he’s ready to let you go.”

  Jacob chews on this information. “That’s not going to work for me.”

  “Which is why you and I are going back to court tomorrow.”

  “But my mother’s not here.”

  “I know that, Jacob. I didn’t plan for her to be away. But the fact of the matter is, the whole reason we’re going is something you said to me.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes. Do you remember what you told me when you decided I could run an insanity defense?”

  Jacob nods. “That the Americans with Disabilities Act prohibits discrimination by the state or local governments, including the courts,” he says, “and that some people consider autism to be a disability, even if I don’t happen to be one of them.”

  “Right. But if you do consider Asperger’s syndrome to be a developmental disability, then under the ADA you’re also entitled to provisions in court that will make the experience easier for you.” I let a slow smile loose, like a card that’s been played close to the chest. “Tomorrow, we’re going to make sure you get them.”

  Emma

  From Auntie Em’s column archives:

  Dear Auntie Em,

  Recently I have been dreaming about my ex. Should I consider this a sign from a higher power and call him to say hi?

  Sleepless in Strafford

  Dear Sleepless,

  Yes, but I wouldn’t tell him you are calling because he’s starring in your dreams. Unless he happens to say, “Gosh, it’s so strange that you called today, because I dreamed about you last night.”

  Auntie Em

  I asked Henry out on our first date, because he didn’t seem to be picking up on hints that I was his for the taking. We saw the movie Ghost and went out to dinner afterward, where Henry told me that, scientifically, ghosts could simply not exist. “It’s basic physics and math,” he said. “Patrick Swayze couldn’t walk through walls and tag along behind Demi Moore. If ghosts can follow someone, that means their feet apply force to the floor. If they go through walls, though, they don’t have any substance. They could either be material or be unmaterial, but they can’t be both at the same time. It violates Newton’s rule.”

  He was wearing a T-shirt that said FULL FRONTAL NERDITY, and his corn silk hair kept falling into his eyes. “But don’t you wish it could be true?” I asked him. “Don’t you wish love was so strong it could come back to haunt you?”

  I told him the story of my mother, who one night had woken up at 3:14 A.M. with a mouth full of violet petals and the scent of roses so thick in the air that she could not breathe. An hour later she was roused by a phone call: her own mother, a florist by trade, had die