The Jodi Picoult Collection #2 Read online

  To occupy myself, sometimes I cook. I have made penne alla rigata, coq au vin, potstickers. I choose dishes from foreign places, anywhere but here. Today, though, I am cleaning the house. I have already emptied the coat closet and the kitchen pantry, restocked their items in order of frequency of use. Up in the bedroom, I’ve tossed out shoes I forgot I ever bought, and have aligned my suits in a rainbow, from palest pink to deepest plum to chocolate.

  I am just weeding through Caleb’s dresser when he comes in, stripping off a filthy shirt. “Do you know,” I say, “that in the hall closet is a brand-new pair of cleats fives sizes bigger than Nathaniel’s foot?”

  “Got them at a garage sale. Nathaniel’ll grow into them.”

  After all this, doesn’t he understand that the future doesn’t necessarily follow in a straight, unbroken line?

  “What are you doing?”

  “Your drawers.”

  “I like my drawers.” Caleb takes a torn shirt I’ve put aside and stuffs it back in all wrinkled. “Why don’t you take a nap? Read, or something?”

  “That would be a waste of time.” I find three socks, all without mates.

  “Why is just taking time a waste of it?” Caleb asks, shrugging into another shirt. He grabs the socks I’ve segregated and puts them into his underwear drawer again.

  “Caleb. You’re ruining it.”

  “How? It was fine to start with!” He jams his shirt into the waist of his jeans, tightens his belt again. “I like my socks the way they are,” Caleb says firmly. For a moment he looks as if he is going to add to that, but then shakes his head and runs down the stairs. Shortly afterward, I see him through the window, walking in the bright, cold sun.

  I open the drawer and remove the orphan socks. Then the torn shirt. It will take him weeks to notice the changes, and one day he will thank me.

  • • •

  “Oh, my God,” I cry, glancing out the window at the unfamiliar car that pulls up to the curb. A woman gets out—pixie-small, with a dark cap of hair and her arms wrapped tight against the cold.

  “What?” Caleb runs into the room at my exclamation. “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing. Absolutely nothing!” I throw open the door and smile widely at Marcella. “I can’t believe you’re here!”

  “Surprise,” she says, and hugs me. “How are you doing?” She tries not to look, but I see it—the way her eyes dart down to try and find my electronic bracelet.

  “I’m . . . well, I’m great right now. I certainly never expected you to bring me my report in person.”

  Marcella shrugs. “I figured you might enjoy the company. And I hadn’t been back home for a while. I missed it.”

  “Liar,” I laugh, pulling her into the house, where Caleb and Nathaniel are watching with curiosity. “This is Marcella Wentworth. She used to work at the state lab, before she bailed on us to join the private sector.”

  I’m positively beaming. It’s not that Marcella and I are so very close; it’s just that these days, I don’t get to see that many people. Patrick comes, from time to time. And there’s my family, of course. But most of my friends are colleagues, and after the revocation hearing, they’re keeping their distance.

  “You up here on business or pleasure?” Caleb asks.

  Marcella glances at me, unsure of what she should say.

  “I asked Marcella to take a look at the DNA test.”

  Caleb’s smile fades just the slightest bit, so that only if you know him as well as I do would you even catch the dimming. “You know what? Why don’t I take Nathaniel out, so that you two can catch up?”

  After they leave, I lead Marcella into the kitchen. We talk about the temperature in Virginia at this time of year, and when we had our first frost. I make us iced tea. Then, when I can stand it no longer, I sit down across from her. “It’s good news, isn’t it? The DNA, it’s a match?”

  “Nina, did you notice anything when you read the medical file?”

  “I didn’t bother, actually.”

  Marcella draws a circle on the table with her finger. “Father Szyszynski had chronic myeloid leukemia.”

  “Good,” I say flatly. “I hope he was suffering. I hope he puked his insides out every time he got chemotherapy.”

  “He wasn’t getting chemo. He had a bone marrow transplant about seven years ago. His leukemia was in remission. For all intents and purposes, he was cured.”

  I stiffen a little. “Is this your way of telling me I ought to feel guilty for killing a man who was a cancer survivor?”

  “No. It’s . . . well, there’s something about the treatment of leukemia that factors into DNA analysis. Basically, to cure it, you need to get new blood. And the way that’s done is via bone marrow transplant, since bone marrow is what makes blood. After a few months, your old bone marrow has been replaced completely by the donor’s bone marrow. Your old blood is gone, and the leukemia with it.” Marcella looks up at me. “You follow?”

  “So far.”

  “Your body can use this new blood, because it’s healthy. But it’s not your blood, and at the DNA level, it doesn’t look like your blood used to. Your skin cells, your saliva, your semen—the DNA in those will be what you were born with, but the DNA in your new blood comes from your donor.” Marcella puts her hand on top of mine. “Nina, the lab results were accurate. The DNA in Father Szyszynski’s blood sample matched the semen in your son’s underwear. But the DNA in Father Szyszynski’s blood isn’t really his.”

  “No,” I say. “No, this isn’t the way it works. I was just explaining it the other day to Caleb. You can get DNA from any cell in your body. That’s why you can use a blood sample to match a semen sample.”

  “Ninety-nine point nine percent of the time, yes. But this is a very, very specific exception.” She shakes her head. “I’m sorry, Nina.”

  My head swings up. “You mean . . . he’s still alive?”

  She doesn’t have to answer.

  I have killed the wrong man.

  • • •

  After Marcella leaves, I pace like a lion in a cage of my own making. My hands are shaking; I can’t seem to get warm. What have I done? I killed a man who was innocent. A priest. A person who came to comfort me when my world cracked apart; who loved children, Nathaniel included. I killed a man who fought cancer and won, who deserved a long life. I committed murder and I can no longer even justify my actions to myself.

  I have always believed there is a special place in Hell for the worst ones—the serial killers, the rapists who target kids, the sociopaths who would just as soon lie as cut your throat for the ten dollars in your wallet. And even when I have not secured convictions for them, I tell myself that eventually, they will get what’s coming to them.

  So will I.

  And the reason I know this is because even though I cannot find the strength to stand up; even though I want to scratch at myself until this part of me has been cut away in ribbons, there is another part of me that is thinking: He is still out there.

  I pick up the phone to call Fisher. But then I hang it up. He needs to hear this; he could very well find out by himself. But I don’t know how it will play in my trial, yet. It could make the prosecution more sympathetic, since their victim is a true victim. Then again, an insanity defense is an insanity defense. It doesn’t matter if I killed Father Szyszynski or the judge or every spectator in that courtroom—if I were insane at the time, I still wouldn’t be guilty.

  In fact, this might make me look crazier.

  I sit down at the kitchen table and bury my face in my hands. The doorbell rings and suddenly Patrick is in the kitchen, too big for it, frantic from the message I’ve left on his beeper. “What?” he demands, absorbing in a single glance my position, and the quiet of the household. “Did something happen to Nathaniel?”

  It is such a loaded question, that I can’t help it—I start to laugh. I laugh until my stomach cramps, until I cannot catch my breath, until tears stream from my eyes and I realize I am s