The Jodi Picoult Collection #2 Read online

  Forgive me Father, for I have sinned.

  But have I? Does Fate ever play by the rules? There is a gulf as wide as an ocean between should and want, and I am drowning in it.

  The doorbell rings, and I jump up from the couch, hurriedly wiping my eyes. Patrick, maybe back with coffee, or bagels. If he makes the choice to return, I’m absolved of blame. Even if it was what I was wishing for all along.

  But when I open the door, Caleb is standing on the porch, with Nathaniel in front of him. My son’s smile is brighter than the dazzle of snow on the driveway, and for one panicked moment I peer over Caleb’s shoulder to see whether the tracks made by Patrick’s police cruiser have been covered over by the storm. Can you smell transgression, like a perfume deep in the skin? “Mommy!” Nathaniel shouts.

  I lift him high, revel in the straight weight of him. My heart beats like a hummingbird in my throat. “Caleb.”

  He will not look at me. “I’m not staying.”

  This is a mercy visit, then. In minutes, Nathaniel will be gone. I hug him closer.

  “Merry Christmas, Nina,” Caleb says. “I’ll pick him up tomorrow.” He nods at me, then walks off the porch. Nathaniel chatters, his excitement wrapping us tighter as the truck pulls away. I study the footprints Caleb has left in the snowy driveway as if they are clues, the unlikely proof of a ghost that comes and goes.

  III

  Our virtues are most frequently but vices disguised.

  —François, Duc de La Rochefoucauld

  Today in school Miss Lydia gave us a special snack.

  First, we had a piece of lettuce with a raisin on it. This was an egg.

  Then we had a string cheese caterpillar.

  Next came a chrysalis, a grape.

  The last part was a piece of cinnamon bread, cookie-cuttered into the body of a butterfly.

  After, we went outside and set free the monarchs that had been born in our classroom. One landed on my wrist. It looked different now, but I just knew this was the same caterpillar I found a week before and gave to Miss Lydia. Then it flew into the sun.

  Sometimes things change so fast it makes my throat hurt from the inside out.

  SEVEN

  When I was four I found a caterpillar on my bedroom windowsill and decided to save its life. I made my mother take me to the library so that I could look it up in a Field guide. I punched pinholes in the top of a jar; I gave it grass and leaves and a tiny thimbleful of water. My mother said that if I didn’t let the caterpillar go, it would die, but I was convinced I knew better. Out in the world, it could be run over by a truck. It could be scorched by the sun. My protection would stack the odds.

  I changed its food and water religiously. I sang to it when the sun went down. And on the third day, in spite of my best intentions, that caterpillar died.

  Years later, it is happening all over again.

  “No,” I tell Fisher. We have stopped walking; the cold January air is a cobra charmed up the folds of my coat. I thrust the paper back at him, as if holding my son’s name out of sight might keep it from being on the witness list at all.

  “Nina, it’s not your decision,” he says gently. “Nathaniel’s going to have to testify.”

  “Quentin Brown’s just doing this to get to me. He wants me to watch Nathaniel have a relapse in court so maybe I’ll snap again, this time in front of a judge and a jury.” Tears freeze on the tips of my eyelashes. I want it over, now. It was why I had murdered a man—because I thought that would stop this boulder from rolling on and on; because if the defendant was gone then my son would not have to sit on a witness stand and recount the worst thing that had ever happened to him. I wanted Nathaniel to be able to close this godawful chapter—and so, ironically, I didn’t.

  But even this great sacrifice—of the priest’s life, of my own future—has not done what it was supposed to.

  Nathaniel and Caleb have kept their distance since Christmas, but every few days Caleb brings him to the house to spend a few hours with me. I don’t know how Caleb has explained our living arrangements to Nathaniel. Maybe he says I am too sick to take care of a child, or too sad; and maybe either of these are true. One thing is certain—it is not in Nathaniel’s best interests to watch me plan for my own punishment. There is already too much he’s witnessed.

  I know the name of the motel where they are staying, and sometimes, when I feel particularly courageous, I call. But Caleb always answers the phone, and either we have nothing to say to each other, or there are so many words clogging the wires between us that none of them fall forward.

  Nathaniel, though, is doing well. When he comes to the house, he is smiling. He sings songs for me that Miss Lydia has taught the class. He no longer jumps when you come up behind him and touch his shoulder.

  All of this progress, and it will be erased at a competency hearing.

  In the park behind us, a toddler lies on his back making a snow angel. The problem with one of those is that you have to ruin it when you stand up. No matter what, there is always a footprint binding you to the ground. “Fisher,” I say simply, “I’m going to jail.”

  “You don’t—”

  “Fisher. Please.” I touch his arm. “I can handle that. I even believe that it’s what I deserve, because of what I did. But I killed a man for one reason and one reason only—to keep Nathaniel from being hurt any more. I don’t want him to think about what happened to him ever again. If Quentin wants to punish someone, he can punish me. But Nathaniel, he’s off limits.”

  He sighs. “Nina, I’ll do the best I can—”

  “You don’t understand,” I interrupt. “That’s not good enough.”

  • • •

  Because Judge Neal hails from Portland, he doesn’t have chambers at the Alfred Superior Court, so he’s been given another judge’s lair to borrow for the duration of my trial. Judge McIntyre, however, spends his free time hunting. To this end, the small room is decorated with the heads of moose and ten-point bucks, prey that has lost the battle. And me? I think. Will I be next?

  Fisher has filed a motion, and the resulting meeting is being held in private chambers to prevent the media from getting involved. “Judge, this is so outrageous,” he says, “that I can’t begin to express my absolute chagrin. The state has Father Szyszynski’s death on videotape. What possible need do they have for this child to testify to anything?”

  “Mr. Brown?” the judge prompts.

  “Your Honor, the alleged rationale for the murder was the boy’s psychiatric condition at the time, and the fact that the defendant believed her son had been the victim of molestation at the hands of Father Szyszynski. The state has learned that, in fact, this is not the truth. It’s important that the jury get to hear what Nathaniel actually told his mother before she went out and killed this man.”

  The judge shakes his head. “Mr. Carrington, it’s going to be very difficult for me to quash a subpoena if the state alleges they can make it relevant. Now, once we’re in trial, I may be able to rule that it’s not relevant at all—but as it stands now, this witness’s testimony goes to motive.”

  Fisher tries once again. “If the state will submit a written allegation of what they believe the child’s testimony to be, maybe we can stipulate to it, so that Nathaniel doesn’t have to take the stand.”

  “Mr. Brown, that seems reasonable,” the judge says.

  “I disagree. Having this witness, in the flesh, is critical to my case.”

  There is a moment of surprised silence. “Think twice, counselor,” Judge Neal urges.

  “I have, Your Honor, believe me.”

  Fisher looks at me, and I know exactly what he is about to do. His eyes are dark with sympathy, but he waits for me to nod before he turns to the judge again. “Judge, if the state is going to be this inflexible, then we need a competency hearing. We’re talking about a child who’s been rendered mute twice in the past six weeks.”

  The judge will leap at this compromise, I know. I also know that of all the d