and lemon and mauve and peach: the edges of the world as I know it run muddy together. “I was wrong about you,” Nicholas is saying. “Whatever happens, Max belongs with you.”
Nicholas looks at me. “I don’t know,” he says. “I honestly don’t know.”
I nod, as though this is an answer I can accept, and turn away to look out my window as Nicholas backs out of the driveway. It is going to be a cold, crisp fall day, but memories of the night before are everywhere: eggshells scattered through the streets, shaving cream on residential windows, toilet paper festooned through the trees. I wonder how long it will take to come clean.
At the hospital, Nicholas asks about Max and is told that he’s been moved to pediatrics. “That’s a good start,” he murmurs, although he is not really speaking to me. He walks to a yellow elevator bank, and I follow close behind. The doors open, smelling of antiseptic and fresh linen, and we step inside.
An image comes to me quickly: I am in that Cambridge graveyard with Max, who is about three. He runs between the headstones and peeks from behind the monuments. It is my day off from classes; finally, I’m getting my bachelor’s degree. Simmons College, not Harvard-and that doesn’t matter. I am sitting while Max runs his fingers over the old grave markers, fascinated by the chips and gulleys of aging stone. “Max,” I call, and he comes over, sliding to his knees and getting grass stains on his overalls. I motion to the pad I’ve been drawing on, and we lay it across the flat marker of a revolutionary soldier. “You pick,” I say. I offer him an array of crayons. He takes the melon and the forest green and the violet; I choose the orange-yellow and the mulberry. He puts the green crayon in his hand and starts to color in the image of a pony I’ve done for him, a Shetland he’ll ride that summer at my mother’s. I cover his chubby hand with mine and guide his fingers gently over lines I have drawn for him. I feel my own blood running beneath his flushed skin.
The doors of the elevator hiss open, but Nicholas stands frozen. I wait for him to take charge, but nothing happens. I turn my head to look at him-he’s never like this. Nicholas, coolheaded and unflappable, is scared to face what’s coming. Two nurses pass. They peer into the elevator and whisper to each other. I can imagine what they are saying about me and about Nicholas, and it doesn’t affect me at all. Another mark for my accomplishment list: I can stand on my own in a world that is falling apart. I can stand so well, I realize, that I can support someone else. “Nicholas?” I whisper, and I can tell by the flicker of his eyes that he has forgotten I am there but he’s relieved to see me just the same. “It’s going to be fine,” I tell him, and I smile for what seems like the first time in months.
The jaws of the elevator start to close again, but I brace them with my strength. “It’s only going to get easier,” I say with confidence, and I reach across the distance to squeeze Nicholas’s hand. He squeezes mine right back. We step off the elevator together and take those first steps down the hall. At Max’s door, we stop and see him pink and quiet and breathing. Nicholas and I stand calmly at the threshold. We have all the time in the world to wait for our son to come around.
Jodi Picoult
Jodi Picoult grew up in Nesconset, New York. She received her A.B. in Creative Writing from Princeton University and her M.Ed. from Harvard University.
