The Jodi Picoult Collection #4 Read online

  He doesn’t mean it. What he really wishes is that he was capable of being there for Jacob, but my mother seems to understand this, and whatever money he’s given her helps, too. She gives him a quick goodbye hug. Me, I hold out my hand. I don’t make the same mistake twice.

  We don’t talk in the departure lounge, or as we’re boarding, or during takeoff. It isn’t until the pilot gets on the loudspeaker to mumble about our cruising altitude that I turn to my mother and tell her I’m sorry.

  She is flipping through an in-flight magazine. “I know,” she says.

  “Really sorry.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Like, about stealing your credit card number. And all of that.”

  “Which is why you’re paying me back for these tickets—return trips, too—even if it takes you till you’re fifty-six,” she says.

  The flight attendant walks by, asking if anyone would like to purchase a beverage. My mother holds up her hand. “What do you want?” she asks me, and I say tomato juice. “And I’ll have a gin and tonic,” she tells the flight attendant.

  “Really?” I am impressed. I didn’t know my mother drank gin.

  She sighs. “Desperate times call for desperate measures, Theo.” Then she looks up at me, her brow wrinkled in thought. “When was the last time you and I were alone like this?”

  “Um,” I say. “Never?”

  “Huh,” my mother says, considering this.

  The flight attendant returns with our drinks. “Here you go,” she chirps. “You two getting off in L.A. or continuing on to Hawaii?”

  “I wish,” my mother says, and when she twists the bottle top of the gin, it makes a sighing sound.

  “Don’t we all?” The flight attendant laughs, and she moves down the aisle.

  The page my mother has stopped at in her magazine is a tourism spread of Hawaii, actually, or at least something equally tropical. “Maybe we should just stay on the plane and go there,” I say.

  She laughs. “Squatters’ rights. Sorry, sir, we’re not vacating seats Fifteen A and B.”

  “By dinnertime, we could be sitting on a beach.”

  “Getting tan,” my mother muses.

  “Drinking piña coladas,” I suggest.

  My mother raises a brow. “Virgin for you.”

  There is a pause, as we both imagine a life that will never be ours.

  “Maybe,” I say after another moment, “we should bring Jacob along. He loves coconut.”

  This will never happen. My brother won’t get on a plane; he’d have the Mother of all Meltdowns before that happened. And you can’t exactly row a boat to Hawaii. Not to mention the fact that we are categorically broke. But still.

  My mother lays her head on my shoulder. It feels weird, like I’m the one taking care of her, instead of the other way around. Already, though, I’m taller than her, and still growing. “Let’s do that,” my mother agrees, as if we have a prayer.

  Jacob

  I have a joke:

  Two muffins are in an oven.

  One muffin says, “Wow, it’s really hot in here.”

  The other one jumps and says, “Yikes! A talking muffin.”

  This is funny because

  1. Muffins don’t talk.

  2. I am sane enough to know that. In spite of what my mother and Oliver and practically every psychiatrist in Vermont seem to think, I have never struck up a conversation with a muffin in my entire life.

  3. That would just be plain corny.

  4. You got that joke, too, right?

  My mother said that she would be talking to Dr. Newcomb for a half hour, yet it has been forty-two minutes and she still has not come back into the waiting room.

  We are here because Oliver said we have to be. Even though he managed to get all those concessions at court for me, and even though all of those help him prove his insanity defense to the jury (although don’t ask me how—insanity is not equivalent to disability, or even quirkiness), apparently we also have to meet with a shrink he’s found whose job it will be to tell the jury that they should let me go because I have Asperger’s.

  Finally, when it has been sixteen minutes longer than my mother said it would be—when I have started to sweat a little and my mouth has gone dry, because I’m thinking maybe my mother forgot about me and I will be stuck in this little waiting room forever—Dr. Newcomb opens the door. “Jacob?” she says, smiling. “Why don’t you come in?”

  She is a very tall woman with an even taller tower of hair and skin as smooth and rich as dark chocolate. Her teeth gleam like headlights, and I find myself staring at them. My mother is nowhere in the room. I feel a hum rise in my throat.

  “Where’s my mom?” I ask. “She said she’d be back in a half hour, and now it’s forty-seven minutes.”

  “We took a little longer than I expected. Your mom went out the back way and is waiting for you just outside,” Dr. Newcomb says, as if she can read my mind. “Now, Jacob, I’ve had a lovely talk with your mom. And Dr. Murano.” She sits down and offers me the seat across from her. It’s upholstered in zebra stripes, which I don’t really like. Patterns in general make me uneasy. Every time I look at a zebra, I can’t figure out whether it’s black with white stripes or white with black stripes, and that frustrates me.

  “It’s my job to examine you,” Dr. Newcomb says. “I have to give a report back to the court, so what you say here isn’t confidential. Do you understand what that means?”

  “Intended to be kept secret,” I say, rattling off the definition and frowning. “But you’re a doctor?”

  “Yes. A psychiatrist, just like Dr. Murano.”

  “Then what I tell you is privileged,” I say. “There’s doctor-patient confidentiality.”

  “No, this is a special circumstance where I’m going to tell people what you say, because of the court case.”

  This whole procedure is starting to sound even worse—not only do I have to speak to a psychiatrist I don’t know, but she plans to blab about the session. “Then I’d rather talk to Dr. Moon. She doesn’t tell anyone my secrets.”

  “I’m afraid that’s not an option,” Dr. Newcomb says, and then she looks at me. “Do you have secrets?”

  “Everyone has secrets.”

  “Does having secrets sometimes make you feel bad?”

  I sit very upright on the chair, so that my back doesn’t have to touch the crazy zigzagged fabric. “Sometimes, I guess.”

  She crosses her legs. They are really long, like a giraffe’s. Giraffes and zebras. And I am the elephant, who cannot forget.

  “Do you understand that what you did, Jacob, was wrong in the eyes of the law?”

  “The law doesn’t have eyes,” I tell her. “It has courts and judges and witnesses and juries, but no eyes.” I wonder where Oliver dug this one up. I mean, honestly.

  “Do you understand that what you did was wrong?”

  I shake my head. “I did the right thing.”

  “Why was it right?”

  “I was following the rules.”

  “What rules?”

  I could tell her more, but she is going to tell other people, and that means that I will not be the only one who gets into trouble. But I know she wants me to explain; I can tell by the way she leans forward. I shrink back in the chair. It means touching the zebra print, but it’s the lesser of two evils.

  “I see dead people.” Dr. Newcomb just stares at me. “It’s from The Sixth Sense,” I tell her.

  “Yes, I know,” she says, and she tilts her head. “Do you believe in God, Jacob?”

  “We don’t go to church. My mom says religion is the root of all evil.”

  “I didn’t ask what your mom thinks about religion. I asked what you think about it.”

  “I don’t think about it.”

  “Those rules you mentioned,” Dr. Newcomb says.

  Didn’t we get off this topic?

  “Do you know that there’s a rule against killing people?”

  “Yes