The Jodi Picoult Collection #4 Read online

  This was home, and these were my parents.

  It was dark out by now, nearly nine p.m. My mother would be wearing a fuzzy robe and slipper socks, and eating her nightly dish of ice cream. My father would be surfing the channels of the television, arguing that Antiques Roadshow was far more of a reality show than The Amazing Race. I let myself in through the side door, which we’d never locked the whole time I was growing up. “Hi,” I called out, so that they wouldn’t be alarmed. “It’s just me.”

  My mother stood up when I came into the living room. “Marin!” she said, hugging me. “What are you doing here?”

  “I was in the neighborhood.” This was a lie. I’d driven sixty miles to get here.

  “But I thought you were wrapping up that big trial,” my father said. “We’ve been watching you on CNN. Nancy Grace, eat your heart out . . .”

  I smiled a little. “I just . . . I felt like seeing you guys.”

  “Are you hungry?” my mother asked. It had taken her thirty seconds; surely that was a record.

  “Not really.”

  “Then I’ll get you a little ice cream,” my mother said, as if I hadn’t spoken. “Everyone can use a little ice cream.”

  My father patted the spot on the couch beside him, and I stripped off my coat and sank down into the cushions. They were not the ones I’d grown up with. I had jumped on those so often that they’d been rendered flat as pancakes; several years ago my mother had had the furniture reupholstered. These pillows were softer, more forgiving. “You think you’re going to win?” my father asked.

  “I don’t know. It’s not over till it’s over.”

  “What’s she like?”

  “Who?”

  “That O’Keefe woman?”

  I thought hard before I spoke. “She’s doing what she thinks is right,” I said. “I don’t think you can blame her for that.” Although I have, I thought. Although I was doing the same thing.

  Maybe you had to leave in order to really miss a place; maybe you had to travel to figure out how beloved your starting point was. My mother sat down beside me on the couch and passed over a bowl of ice cream. “I’m on a mint-chocolate-chip kick,” she said, and in unison, we lifted our spoons, so synchronized that we might have been twins.

  Parents aren’t the people you come from. They’re the people you want to be, when you grow up.

  I sat between my mother and my father, watching strangers on TV carry in Shaker rockers and dusty paintings and ancient beer tankards and cranberry glass dishes; people and their hidden treasures, who had to be told by experts that they’d taken something incredibly precious for granted.

  Amelia

  I tried looking it up on the Internet, but there’s nothing that tells you what you’re supposed to wear to court if you’re a witness. I figured, though, that I definitely wanted the jury to remember me. I mean, they’d had a parade of really boring doctors for the most part; compared to them, I planned to stand out.

  So I spiked my hair, which made it look even darker blue. I wore a bright red sweater and my purple high-top Converses, and my lucky jeans, the ones with the hole in the knee, because I wasn’t leaving anything to chance.

  It was pretty ironic, but even last night, my parents hadn’t slept in the same bed. Mom was overnight with you at the hospital; Dad and I were back home. Although Guy Booker had said he’d pick me up to go to court, I figured I could hitch a ride with my father and still make it look like I was unhappy to be dragged there. Guy and I had both decided that the longer we could keep my testimony a secret, the better.

  My father, who had already testified, was now allowed to be in the courtroom gallery, which left me alone in the lobby, which was perfect. Shaking, I stood next to a bailiff. “You okay?” she asked.

  I nodded. “Butterflies,” I said, and then I heard Guy Booker’s voice:

  “The defense calls Amelia O’Keefe.”

  I was led inside, but all hell had broken loose. Marin and Guy were up at the bench, arguing; my mother was in tears; my father was standing up, craning his neck around to locate me.

  “You can’t call Amelia,” Marin argued.

  Booker shrugged. “Why not? You’re the one who put her on the witness list.”

  “Is there a reason for calling this witness,” Judge Gellar asked, “beyond simply rubbing the opposing counsel’s face in the fact that you can?”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” Booker said. “Miss O’Keefe has information that this court needs to hear, given the implications of a wrongful birth lawsuit.”

  “All right,” the judge said. “Bring her in.”

  As I walked toward the front of the courtroom, I could feel everyone’s eyes on me. It felt like they were poking holes, and all my confidence was quickly leaking out. As I passed by my mother, I heard her whispering to Marin. “You promised,” she said. “You told me it was just a precaution . . .”

  “I had no idea he’d do this,” Marin whispered back. “Do you have any clue what she’s going to say?”

  Then I was in the little wooden cage, like I was a specimen for the jury to scrutinize under a microscope. They brought a Bible over to me and made me swear on it. Guy Booker smiled at me. “Can you tell us who you are, for the record?”

  “Amelia,” I said, and I had to lick my lips because they were so dry. “Amelia O’Keefe.”

  “Amelia, where do you live?”

  “Forty-six Stryker Lane in Bankton, New Hampshire.” Could he hear my heart? Because, God, it was like a bongo drum in my chest.

  “How old are you?”

  “Thirteen.”

  “And who are your parents, Amelia?”

  “Charlotte and Sean O’Keefe,” I said. “Willow’s my sister.”

  “Amelia, in your own words, can you explain to the court what this lawsuit is about?”

  I couldn’t look at my mother. I pulled my sleeves down, because my scars were burning. “My mom thinks that Piper should have known earlier that there was going to be a problem with Willow, and should have told her. Because then, she would have had an abortion.”

  “Do you think your mother’s telling the truth?”

  “Objection!” Marin shot up so fast it made me jump in the chair.

  “No, I’ll allow this,” the judge said. “You can give your answer, Amelia.”

  I shook my head. “I know she’s not.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because,” I said, making the words as neat and small as I could, “I heard her say so.”

  • • •

  I shouldn’t have eavesdropped, but sometimes, that’s the only way to find out the truth. And—although I certainly wouldn’t admit this out loud—I was feeling sort of protective toward you. You had seemed so down after this latest break and surgery, and when you said Mom wants to get rid of me, it pretty much made me feel like my insides had gone to jelly. We all protected you, in our own ways. Dad blustered around, angry at anything that made life harder for you. Mom, well, she was apparently stupid enough to gamble everything in order to get more for you in the long run. And me, I guess I just lacquered a shell around myself, so that when you got hurt, it was easier to pretend I didn’t feel it, too.

  No one’s throwing you away, my mother had said, but you were already crying.

  I’m sorry about my leg. I thought if I didn’t break anything for a long time, you’d think I was just like any other kid—

  Accidents happen, Willow. Nobody is blaming you.

  You do. You wish you’d never had me. I heard you say it.

  I had held my breath. My mother could tell herself whatever she wanted to help herself get to sleep at night, but she wasn’t fooling anyone—especially you.

  Willow, my mother had replied, you listen to me. Everyone makes mistakes . . . including me. We say and we do things we wish we hadn’t. But you, you were never a mistake. I would not, in a thousand years—in a million years—have missed out on having you.

  I felt as if I’d been nailed