Jodi Picoult - House Rules

Well, still, a little voice in my head said, you never signed on for this.

Then I realized: Neither did my mother, but it didn’t make her love Jacob any less.

So here’s the deal: I know that, down the road, Jacob will be my responsibility. When I find a girl I want to marry, I’m going to have to propose with this contingency-that Jacob and me, we’re a package deal. When I least expect it, I might have to make excuses for him, or talk him down from his freak-out session, like my mom does now.

(I am not saying this out loud, but there is a part of me that’s been thinking if Jacob is convicted of murder-if he’s imprisoned for life-well, mine gets a little bit easier.)

I hate myself for even thinking that, but I’m not going to lie to you.

And I guess it doesn’t matter if it’s guilt that gets me to take care of Jacob in the future, or love, because I’ll do it.

It just would have been nice to be asked, you know?

Mama Spatakopoulous is standing at my office-apartment door with the day’s offering. “We had a little extra rigatoni,” she says. “And you’re working so hard, you look skinnier every day.”

I laugh and take the container out of her hands. It smells incredible, and Thor starts jumping around my ankles to make sure I don’t forget to give him his cut of the bounty. “Thanks, Mrs. S.,” I say, and as she turns to leave, I call her back. “Hey-what food do you know that’s yellow?” I’ve been thinking about how Emma feeds Jacob, according to his color scheme. Hell, I’ve been thinking about Emma, period.

“You mean like a scrambled egg?”

I snap my fingers. “Right,” I say. “Omelets, with Swiss cheese.”

She frowns. “You want me to make you an omelet?”

“Hell no, I’m sticking to the rigatoni.” Before I can explain the rest, my office phone starts to ring. Excusing myself, I hurry back inside and pick it up. “Oliver Bond’s office,” I say.

“Note to self,” Helen Sharp replies. “That line’s a little more effective when you hire someone else to deliver it.”

“My, uh, secretary just stepped out to use the restroom.”

She snorts. “Yeah, and I’m Miss America.”

“Congratulations,” I say, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “What’s your talent? Juggling the heads of defense attorneys?”

She ignores me. “I’m calling about the suppression hearing. You subpoenaed Rich Matson?”

“The detective? Well… yeah.” Who else was I supposed to subpoena, after all, in a motion that would try to suppress Jacob’s confession at the police station?

“You don’t have to subpoena him. I have to have Matson there, and I go first.”

“What do you mean you go first? It’s my motion.”

“I know, but this is one of those weird cases where, even though it’s your motion, the State has the burden of proof, and we have to put on all the evidence to prove the confession is good.”

For practically every other motion, it’s the other way around-if I want a ruling, I have to work my ass off to prove why I deserve it. How on earth was I supposed to know the exception to this rule?

I’m glad Helen’s not in the room with me, because my face is bright red. “Well, jeez, ” I say, feigning nonchalance. “I know that. I was just seeing if you were on your toes.”

“While I have you on the phone, Oliver, I have to tell you. I don’t think you can play this case both ways.”

“What do you mean?”

“You can’t claim your client’s insane and that he didn’t understand his Miranda rights. He recited them from memory, for God’s sake.”

“Where’s the conflict?” I ask. “Who the hell memorizes Miranda verbatim?” Thor starts to bite my ankles, and I spill a little rigatoni into his dog dish. “Look, Helen. Jacob couldn’t do three days in jail. He certainly can’t do thirty-five years. I’m going to negotiate this case any way I can to make sure he doesn’t get locked up again.” I hesitate. “I don’t suppose you would consider letting Jacob just live with his mom? You know, put him on probation for the long haul?”

“Sure. Let me get right back to you on that, after my lunch with the Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy, and Santa,” Helen says. “This is murder, or have you forgotten that? You may have a client with autism, but I’ve got a dead body, and grieving parents, and that trumps everything. Maybe you can toss the special needs label around to get funding in schools or special accommodations, but it doesn’t preclude guilt. See you in court, Oliver.”

I slam down the phone and look down to find Thor lying on his side in a happy pasta coma. When the phone rings again, I grab it. “What?” I demand. “Was there some other legal procedure I’ve managed to screw up? Did you want to tell me you’re going to tattle to the judge?”

“No,” Emma says hesitantly. “But what legal procedure did you screw up?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I thought you were… someone else.”

“Apparently.” There is a beat of silence. “Is everything okay with Jacob’s case?”

“Couldn’t be better,” I tell her. “The prosecution’s even doing my homework for me.” I want to change the topic as quickly as possible, so I ask after Jacob. “How are things in the Hunt household today?”

“Well, that’s sort of why I’m calling. Do you think you could do me a favor?”

A dozen favors run through my mind, most of which would greatly benefit me and my current lack of a love life. “What is it?”

“I need someone to stay with Jacob while I run out to do an errand.”

“What errand?”

“That’s sort of personal.” She draws in her breath. “Please?”

There has to be some neighbor or relative better suited to the task than I am. But then again, maybe Emma doesn’t have anyone else she can ask. From what I’ve seen these past few days, that’s one hell of a lonely household. Still, I can’t resist asking, “Why me?”

“The judge said someone over twenty-five.”

I grin. “So all of a sudden I am old enough for you?”

“Forget I even asked,” Emma snaps.

“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” I say.

Asking for help doesn’t come easily to me, so you’d better believe that, if I actually do make a request, I’ve exhausted all other options. Which is why I don’t feel great about making myself even more beholden to Oliver Bond by asking him to stay with Jacob while I run out of the house for this appointment. Even worse is scheduling the appointment, which feels like the physical manifestation of conceding defeat.

The bank is quiet on a Wednesday. There are a few retirees meticulously filling out deposit slips, and one of the tellers is talking to another about why Cabo is a better vacation destination than Cancún. I stand in the center of the bank, eyeing the banner advertising twelve-month CDs and a small table filled with logo paraphernalia-a stadium blanket, a mug, an umbrella-that can be mine if I open a new checking account.

“Can I help you?” a woman asks.

“I have an appointment,” I say. “To see Abigail LeGris?”

“You can take a seat,” she says, and she points to a bank of chairs outside a cubicle. “I’ll let her know you’re here.”

I’ve never been rich, and I’ve never needed to be. Somehow, the boys and I have cobbled along on my writing and editing income, and the checks that Henry faithfully sends each month. We don’t need much. We live in a modest house; we don’t go out on the town very often or take vacations. I shop at Marshalls and a local thrift store that has recently become trendy for teenagers. The bulk of my expenses involve Jacob-his supplements and his therapies, which aren’t covered by insurance. I think I got so used to making those accommodations fiscally that I stopped seeing them as accommodations and instead view them as the norm. But that said, sometimes I have lain awake at night and wondered what would happen if, God forbid, there was a car accident and we had medical bills that skyrocketed. If some remarkable therapy became available to Jacob that required a payout we could not afford.