The Jodi Picoult Collection #2 Read online

  I wait until Nathaniel glances up, terrified by the faces in this foreign world—the clerk, the judge, the stenographer, and the prosecutor. “Nathaniel,” I tell him fiercely, drawing his attention. “You were the best witness I could have had.”

  Over his head, I catch Quentin Brown’s eye. And smile.

  • • •

  When Patrick met Nathaniel Frost, the child was six months old. Patrick’s first thought was that he looked just like Nina. His second thought was that, right here, in his arms, was the reason they would never be together.

  Patrick made an extra effort to get close to Nathaniel, even though sometimes it was painful enough to make him ache for days after a visit. He’d bring Weed little dolphins to float in the bathtub; Silly Putty; sparklers. For years Patrick had wanted to get under Nina’s skin; Nathaniel, who’d grown below her heart, surely had something to teach him. So he tagged along on hikes, swapping off with Caleb to carry Nathaniel when his legs got tired. He let Nathaniel spin in his desk chair at the station. He even baby-sat for a whole weekend, when Caleb and Nina went away for a relative’s wedding.

  And somewhere along the way, Patrick—who’d loved Nina forever—fell just as hard for her son.

  The clock hasn’t moved in two hours, Patrick would swear to that. Right now, Nathaniel is undergoing his competency hearing—a procedure Patrick couldn’t watch, even if he wanted to. And he doesn’t. Because Nina will be there too, and he hasn’t seen or spoken to her since Christmas Eve.

  It’s not that he doesn’t want to. God, he can’t seem to think of anything but Nina—the feel of her, the taste of her, the way her body relaxed against his in her sleep. But right now, the memory is crystallized for Patrick. Any words that come between them, aftershocks, are only going to take away from that. And it isn’t what Nina would say to him that worries Patrick—it’s what she wouldn’t say. That she loves him, that she needs him, that this meant as much to her as it did to him.

  He rests his head in his hands. Deep inside, there is a part of him that also knows this was a grave error. Patrick wants to get this off his chest, to confess his doubts to someone who would understand implicitly. But his confidante, his best friend, is Nina. If she cannot be that anymore . . . and she cannot be his . . . where does that leave them?

  With a deep sigh he grabs the phone from his desk and dials an out-of-state number. He wants resolution, a present to give to Nina before he has to take the stand and testify against her. Farnsworth McGee, the police chief in Belle Chasse, Louisiana, answers on the third ring. “Hello?” he drawls, extending the word an extra syllable.

  “It’s Detective-Lieutenant Ducharme, from Biddeford, Maine,” Patrick says. “What’s the latest on Gwynne?”

  Patrick can easily envision the chief, with whom he’d met before leaving Belle Chasse. Overweight by a good fifty pounds, with a shock of Elvis-black hair. A fishing rod propped up in the corner behind his desk; a bumper sticker tacked to the bulletin board: HELL, YES, MY NECK’S RED. “Y’all got to understand that we move carefully in our jurisdiction. Don’t want no hasty mishaps, if you understand my meaning.”

  Patrick grits his teeth. “Did you arrest him yet or not?”

  “Your authorities are still talkin’ to our authorities, Detective. Believe me, you’ll be the first to know when something happens.”

  He slams down the phone—angry at the idiot deputy, angry at Gwynne, angriest at himself for not taking matters into his own hands when he was in Louisiana. But he couldn’t make himself forget that he was a law enforcement officer, that he was obligated to uphold certain rules. That Nina had said no, even if it was what she really wanted.

  Patrick stares at the phone in its cradle. Then again, it is always possible to reinvent oneself. Particularly in the image of a hero.

  He’s seen Nina do it, after all.

  After a moment, Patrick grabs his jacket and walks out of the station, intent on effecting change, rather than waiting for it to steamroll him.

  • • •

  It has turned out to be the best day of my life. First, Nathaniel was ruled not competent. Then Caleb asked me to watch Nathaniel after the hearing, and overnight, because he is scheduled to do a job up near the Canadian border. “Do you mind?” he’d politely said, and I couldn’t even form an answer, I was so delighted. I have visions of Nathaniel standing beside me in the kitchen while we cook his favorite dinner; I imagine watching his Shrek video twice in a row with a bowl of popcorn bridged between us.

  But in the end, Nathaniel is exhausted from the events of the day. He falls asleep on the couch by six-thirty P.M. and doesn’t wake when I carry him upstairs. In his bed, his hand unfurls on the pillow, as if he is offering me a hidden gift.

  When Nathaniel was born, he waved tight fists in the air, as if he were angry at the world. They softened moment by moment, until I would nurse him and watch his fingers scrabble at my skin, clutching for purchase. I was mesmerized by that grasp, because of all its potential. Would Nathaniel grow up to wield a pencil or a gun? Would he heal with his touch? Create music? Would his palm be covered with calluses? Ink? Sometimes I would separate the tiny fingers and trace the lines of his palm, as if I could truly read his future.

  If Nathaniel had been difficult to conceive in the wake of my cyst surgery, he’d been a positively horrendous delivery. Thirty-six hours of labor rendered me trancelike. Caleb sat on the edge of the bed watching a Gilligan’s Island marathon on the hospital TV, something that seemed equally as painful as my contractions. “We’ll name her Ginger,” he vowed. “MaryAnn.”

  The vise inside me ratcheted tighter every hour, until agony became a black hole, each pain pulling in another. Over my head Gilligan voted for a chimp as beauty pageant queen, so that he wouldn’t offend any of the stranded ladies. Caleb got behind me, propping up my back when I couldn’t even find the energy to open my eyes. “I can’t,” I whispered. “It’s your turn.”

  So he rubbed my spine and he sang. “The weather started getting rough . . . the tiny ship was tossed . . . come on, Nina! If not for the courage of the fearless crew . . .”

  “Remind me,” I said, “to kill you later.”

  But I forgot, because minutes afterward Nathaniel was born. Caleb held him up, a being so small he curled like an inchworm in my husband’s hands. Not a Ginger or a MaryAnn, but a Little Buddy. In fact, that was what we called him for three days, before we decided on a name. Caleb wanted me to choose, since he refused to take credit for work that was nearly all mine. So I picked Nathaniel Patrick Frost, to honor my deceased father, and my oldest friend.

  Now, it is hard to believe that the boy sleeping in front of me was ever so tiny. I touch my hand to his hair, feel it slip through my fingers like time. I suffered once before, I think. And look at what I got in return.

  • • •

  Quentin, who will cross a black cat’s path without blinking and walk beneath ladders without breaking a sweat, is strangely superstitious about trials. On mornings that he’s set to go to court, he gets fully dressed, eats breakfast, and then takes off his shirt and tie to shave. It’s inefficient, of course, but it all goes back to his very first case, when he was so nervous he nearly walked out the door with a night’s beard.

  Would have, too, if Tanya hadn’t called him back in.

  He rubs the shaving lather on his cheeks and jaw, then drags the razor the length of his face. He’s not nervous today. In spite of the deluge of media that’s sure to flood the court, Quentin knows he has a strong case. Hell, he’s got the defendant committing the crime on videotape. Nothing she or Fisher Carrington do will be able to erase that action from the eyes of the jury.

  His first trial was a traffic ticket, which Quentin argued as if it were a capital murder. Tanya had brought Gideon; had been bouncing him on her hip in the back of the courtroom. Once he’d seen that, well, he had to put on a show.

  “Damn!” Quentin jumps as he nicks his jaw. The shaving cream burns in the cut, and he scowls a