Jodi Picoult - Harvesting the Heart

“And why’s that?”

“Because of what you have in common,” Paige said. “Me.”

Nicholas ran his hands around the edges of the steering wheel. “And your mother?” he said. “What did you learn from her?”

He remembered after he said it what Paige had told him about her mother at the diner. He remembered when it was too late, when the words, heavy and stupid, were hanging almost palpably in the space between them. For a moment Paige did not answer, did not move. He would have thought she hadn’t even heard him, but then she leaned forward and switched on the radio, blasting the music so loudly she could only have been trying to crowd out the question.

Ten minutes later, Nicholas parked in the shade of an oak tree. He got out of the car and walked around to Paige’s side to help her, but she was already standing and stretching.

“Which one is yours?” Paige asked, looking across the street at several pretty Victorians with white picket fences. Nicholas turned her by her elbow so that she would notice the house behind her, a tremendous brick colonial with ivy growing on its north side. “You’ve got to be kidding,” she said, shrinking back a little. “Are you a Kennedy?” she murmured.

“Absolutely not,” Nicholas said. “They’re all Democrats.” Hy"› Qmocrats.e walked her up the slate path to the front door, which, he thanked God, was opened not by the maid but by Astrid Prescott herself, wearing a wrinkled safari jacket, three cameras slung around her neck.

“Nich- olas , ” she breathed. She threw her arms around him. “I’ve just gotten back. Nepal. Amazing culture; can’t wait to see what I’ve got.” She patted her cameras, caressing the one on top as if it were alive. She pulled Nicholas through the doorway with the force of a hurricane, and then she took Paige’s small, cold hands in her own. “And you must be Paige.” She pulled Paige into a breathtaking mahogany-paneled hallway with a marble floor that reminded her of the Newport mansions she had seen when visiting RISD as a junior. “I’ve been back less than an hour, and all Robert’s told me about is this mysterious, magical Paige.”

Paige took a step back. Robert Prescott was a well-known doctor, but Astrid Prescott was a legend. Nicholas didn’t like to tell acquaintances he was related to “the Astrid Prescott,” which people said with the same reverent tone they’d used a hundred years before to murmur “the Mrs. Astor.” Everyone knew her story: the rich society girl had impetuously given up balls and garden parties to toy with photography, only to become one of the best in the field. And everyone knew Astrid Prescott’s photography, especially her graphic black-and-white portraits of endangered species, which-Paige noticed-were placed haphazardly throughout the hall. They were haunting photos, shadows and light, of giant sea turtles, bird-wing butterflies, mountain gorillas. In flight, a spotted owl; the split of a blue whale’s tail. Paige remembered a Newsweek article she’d read some years ago on Astrid Prescott, who was quoted as saying that she wished she’d been around when the dinosaurs died, because that would have been quite a scoop.

Paige looked from one photograph to another. Everyone had an Astrid Prescott calendar, or a small Astrid Prescott day diary, because her pictures were remarkable. She caught the terror and the pride. Next to this mythic woman, dwarfed by the monstrous house, Paige felt herself slipping away.

But Nicholas was more affected by his father. When Robert Prescott entered the room, the atmosphere changed, as if the air had become ionized. Nicholas stood straighter, put on his most winning smile, and watched Paige from the corner of his eye, wondering for the first time ever why he had to put on an act in front of his own parents. He and his father never touched, unless you counted shaking hands. It had something to do with showing affection, a forbidden thing among Prescotts, which left family members wondering at funerals why there were so many things that hadn’t been said to the deceased but that should have been.

Over cold fruit soup and pheasant with new potatoes, Nicholas told his parents about his rotations, especially the emergency ward, downplaying the horrors for the dinner table. His mother kept bringing the conversation back to her trip. “Everest,” she said. “You can’t even take it with a wide-angle.” She had removed her jacket for the dinner, revealing an old tank top and baggy khaki pants. “But damn if those Sherpas don’t know the mountain like the back of their hand.”

“Mother,” Nicholas said, “not everyone is interested in Nepal.”

“Well, not everyone is interested in orthopedic surgod Qopedic sery, either, darling, but we all listened very politely.” Astrid turned toward Paige, who was staring at the head of a tremendous buck poised above the door leading into the kitchen. “It’s awful, isn’t it?”

Paige swallowed. “It’s just that I can’t see you-”

“It’s Dad’s,” Nicholas interrupted, winking at her. “Dad’s a hunter. Don’t get them started,” he warned. “They don’t always see eye to eye.”

Astrid blew a kiss to the opposite end of the table, where Robert Prescott sat. “That awful thing got me my own darkroom in the house,” she said.

“Fair trade,” Robert called, saluting his wife with a fork-speared potato.

Paige turned her head from Nicholas’s mother to Nicholas’s father and then back again. She felt lost in the easy volley between them. She wondered how Nicholas had ever managed to get noticed while growing up. “Paige, dear,” Astrid said, “where did you meet Nicholas?”

Paige toyed with her silverware, seizing her salad fork; something only Nicholas noticed. “We met at work,” Paige said.

“So you’re a…” Astrid left the sentence hanging, waiting for Paige to fill in medical student, or registered nurse, or even lab technician.

“Waitress,” Paige said flatly.

“I see,” said Robert.

Paige watched Astrid Prescott’s warmth curl in around her, retreating like tentacles; she saw the hooded look Astrid passed to her husband: She’s not what we expected. “Actually,” Paige said, “I doubt you do.”

Nicholas, whose stomach had been in knots since they sat down to dinner, did something else forbidden to Prescotts: he laughed out loud. His mother and father looked at him, but he only turned to Paige and gave her a smile. “Paige is a fabulous artist,” he said.

“Oh?” Astrid said, leaning forward to offer Paige a second chance. “What an admirable hobby for a young lady. You know, that’s how it all began for me.” She snapped her fingers, and a maid appeared, whisking away her empty plate. Astrid leaned forward, placing her tanned elbows on the fine linen cloth. She smiled smoothly, but the light did not quite reach her eyes. “Where did you go to college, dear?”

“I didn’t,” Paige said evenly. “I was going to go to RISD, but something came up.” She pronounced the name of the school as an acronym, as it was known.

“Riz-dee,” Robert repeated coolly, staring at his wife. “Haven’t heard much about that one.”

“Nicholas,” Astrid said sharply, “how is Rachel?”

Nicholas saw Paige’s face fall at the mention of another woman, one whose name she’d never heard before. He crumpled his napkin into ae i Qpkin int ball and stood up. “Why do you care, Mother?” he said. “You never have before.” He moved to Paige’s chair and pulled it out, lifting her by her shoulders until she was standing. “I’m sorry,” Nicholas said, “but I’m afraid we have to go.”

In the car, they drove in circles. “What the hell was that all about?” Paige demanded when he’d finally reached a major highway. “Am I some kind of pawn or something?”