Jodi Picoult - House Rules

I listened to the testimony today. And yes, as Oliver has said, it’s not our turn yet. But I watched the faces of the jury as they stared at Jacob, and I saw the same expression I’ve seen a thousand times before. That mental distancing, that subtle acknowledgment that there is something wrong with that boy.

Because he doesn’t interact the way they do.

Because he doesn’t grieve the way they do.

Because he doesn’t move or speak the way they do.

I fought so hard to have Jacob mainstreamed at school-not just so that he could see the way other kids behaved but because other kids needed to see him, and to learn that different isn’t synonymous with bad. But I cannot say, honestly, that his classmates ever learned that lesson. They gave Jacob enough rope to hang himself in social situations, and then set the blame squarely on his shoulders.

And now, after all that work to shoehorn him into an ordinary school setting, he is in a courtroom peppered with accommodations for his special needs. His only chance at acquittal hinges on his diagnosis on the spectrum. To insist that he is just like anyone else, at this moment, would be a sure prison sentence.

After years of refusing to make excuses for Jacob’s Asperger’s, this is the only chance he has.

And suddenly, I am running, as if my life depends on it.

It’s after 2:00 A.M. and the pizza parlor is dark, the Closed sign flipped on the door, but in the tiny window above, a light is burning. I open the door to the narrow staircase that leads to the law office, climb the steps, knock.

Oliver answers, dressed in sweats and a T-shirt that has an old, faded picture of a man with furry, ursine arms. SUPPORT THE SECOND AMENDMENT, it reads. His eyes are bloodshot, and he has ink stains on his hands. “Emma,” he says. “Is everything okay?”

“No,” I say, pushing past him. There are take-out containers on the floor, and an empty two-liter jug of Mountain Dew lies on its side. Thor, the dog, is asleep with his chin notched over the green plastic bottle. “No, everything’s not okay.” I face him again, my voice catching. “It’s two in the morning. I’m in my pajamas. I just ran here-”

“You ran here?”

“-and my son’s going to prison. So no, Oliver, everything is not okay.”

“Jacob’s going to get acquitted-”

“Oliver,” I say. “Tell me the truth.”

He moves a stack of papers off the couch and sits down heavily. “You know why I’m awake at two in the morning? I’m trying to write my opening statement. Want to hear what I’ve got so far?” He lifts up the paper he’s holding. “Ladies and gentlemen, Jacob Hunt is…” He stops.

“Is what?”

“I don’t know,” Oliver says. He crumples it into a ball, and I know he’s thinking of Jacob’s meltdown, just like I am. “I don’t fucking know. Jacob Hunt is saddled with an attorney who should have stayed a farrier, that’s what. I shouldn’t have said yes to you. I shouldn’t have gone to the police station. I should have given you the name of some guy who can do criminal law in his sleep, instead of pretending a novice like me might have half a chance of pulling this off.”

“If this is your way of trying to make me feel better, you’re doing a really lousy job,” I tell him.

“I told you I suck at this.”

“Well. At least now you’re being honest.” I sit down beside him on the couch.

“You want honest?” Oliver says. “I have no idea if that jury is going to buy the defense. I’m scared. Of losing, of the judge laughing me out of court as a total sham.”

“I’m scared all the time,” I admit. “Everyone thinks I’m the mother who never gives up; that I’d drag Jacob back from the edge of hell a hundred times if I had to. But some mornings I just want to pull the covers over my head and stay in bed.”

“ Most mornings I want to do that,” Oliver says, and I swallow a smile.

We are leaning against the back of the couch. The blue light from the streetlamps outside turns us both into ghosts. We aren’t in this world anymore, just haunting its edges.

“You want to hear something really sad?” I whisper. “You’re my best friend.”

“You’re right. That is really sad.” Oliver grins.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Are we still playing True Confessions?” he asks.

“Is that what we’re doing?”

He reaches toward me and rubs a strand of my hair between his fingers. “I think you’re beautiful,” Oliver says. “Inside and out.”

He leans forward the tiniest bit and breathes in, closing his eyes, before he lets the hair fall back against my cheek. I feel it inside me, as if I’ve been shocked.

I don’t pull away.

I don’t want to pull away.

“I… I don’t know what to say,” I stammer.

Oliver’s eyes light up. “Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine,” he quotes. He moves slowly, so that I know what’s coming, and kisses me.

I should be with Jacob, by court order. I am already breaking rules. What’s one more?

His teeth catch my lip. He tastes like sugar. “Jelly beans,” he murmurs against my ear. “My biggest vice. After this.”

I tangle my hands in his hair. It’s thick and golden, wild. “Oliver,” I gasp, as he slides his hands under my camisole. His fingers span my ribs. “I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to sleep with your clients.”

“You’re not my client,” he says. “And I’m not nearly as attracted to Jacob.” He peels back the cardigan I’m wearing; my skin burns. I cannot remember the last time someone treated me as if I were the hallowed museum piece that he had received permission to touch.

Somehow we have inched ourselves down onto the couch. My head falls to the side, along with my best intentions, when his mouth closes over my breast. I find myself staring directly into Thor’s eyes. “The dog…”

Oliver lifts his head. “Jesus,” he says, and he stands up, grabbing Thor like a football in one arm. “You’ve got lousy timing.” He opens a closet and tosses a handful of Milk-Bones on a pillow inside, then sets Thor down and closes the door.

When he turns around again, I draw in my breath. Somehow, his T-shirt has gotten lost between the cushions. His shoulders are wide and strong, his waist tapered, his sweats riding low. He has the easy beauty of someone young enough to dismiss how lucky he is to look like that without trying.

Me, on the other hand: I’m lying on a ratty couch in a cramped room with a jealous dog in the nearby closet, with freckles and wrinkles and fifteen more pounds than I ought to have and-

“Don’t,” Oliver says softly, as I pull the edges of my cardigan together again. He sits down on the edge of the couch beside me. “Or I will have to kill Thor.”

“Oliver, you could have any girl you want. Any girl your age.”

“You know what young wine is? Grape juice. There are some things worth the wait.”

“That argument would have been much more convincing coming from someone who hadn’t just finished off a trough of Mountain Dew-”

He kisses me again. “Shut the hell up, Emma,” he says amiably, and he puts his hands over mine where they rest on the edges of my sweater.

“It’s been forever.” The words are quiet, hidden against his shoulder.

“That’s because,” Oliver says, “you were waiting for me.” He slips aside the sweater again and kisses my collarbone. “Emma. Is everything okay?” he asks, for the second time this night.

Except this time, I say yes.

I should have gotten rid of the king-size bed. There is something horribly depressing about only having to tuck in half the sheets each morning, because the other side always remains pristine. I never cross the Mason-Dixon Line of my marriage and sleep, every now and then, on Henry’s side. I’ve left it for him, for whoever might take his place.