Jodi Picoult - Harvesting the Heart

Oakie Peterborough blots his meaty lips with his napkin and takes a deep breath. “Look,” he says, “I’m a lawyer, but I’m also your friend. You ought to know what you’re getting into.”

Nicholas stares him down. “Just tell me what I have to do.”

Oakie exhales, a sick sound like that of an overboiled kettle. “Well, Massachusetts is a state that permits fault in divorce cases. That means you don’t have to prove fault to get a divorce, but if you can, the property and assets will be divided accordingly.”

“She abandoned me,” Nicholas interrupts. “And she lied for eight years.”

Oakie rubs his hands together. “Was she gone for more than two years?” Nicholas shakes his head. “She wasn’t the primary breadwinner, was she?” Nicholas snorts and throws his napkin on the table. Oakie purses his lips. “Well, then it’s not desertion-at least not legally. And lying… I’m not sure about lying. Usually, just cause for fault is things like excessive drinking, beating, adultery.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Nicholas mutters.

Oakie does not hear him. “Fault would not include a change of religion, say, or moving out of the house.”

“She didn’t move,” Nicholas clarifies. “She left.” He stares up at Oakie. “How long is this going to take?”

“I can’t know yet,” he says. “It depends on whether we can find grounds. If not, you get a separation agreement, and a year later it can be finalized into a divorce.”

“A year,” Nicholas yells. “I can’t wait a year, Oakie. She’s going to do something crazy. She justtatÑ€† up and left three months ago, remember-she’s going to take my kid and run.”

“A kid,” Oakie says softly. “You didn’t say there was a kid.”

When Nicholas leaves the restaurant, he is seething. What he has learned is that although courts no longer assume that a woman should have custody, Max will go wherever his best interests lie. With Nich olas working so many hours a day, there is no guarantee of custody. He has learned that since Paige supported him through medical school, she is entitled to a portion of his future earnings. He has learned that this procedure will take much longer than he ever thought possible.

Oakie has tried to talk him out of it, but Nicholas is certain he has no choice. He cannot even think about Paige without feeling his spine stiffen or his fingers turn to ice. He cannot stand knowing that he has been played for a fool.

He walks into Mass General and ignores everyone who says hello to him. When he reaches his office, he shuts and locks the door behind him. With a sweep of his arm, he clears all the files off his desk. The one that lands on top of the pile on the floor is Hugo Albert’s. That morning’s surgery. It was also, he noted from the patient history, Hugo Albert’s golden wedding anniversary. When he told Esther Albert that her husband was doing well, she cried and thanked Nicholas over and over, said that he would always be in her prayers.

He puts his head down on the desk and closes his eyes. He wishes he had his father’s private practice, or that the association with surgical patients lasted as long as it does in internal medicine. It is too hard to deal with such intense relationships for such a short period of time and then move on to another patient. But Nicholas is starting to see that this is his lot in life.

With fierce self-control, he opens the top drawer and takes out a piece of the Mass General stationery that now bears his name. “Oakie wants a list,” he mutters, “I’ll give him a list.” He starts to write down all the things that he and Paige own. The house. The cars. The mountain bikes and the canoe. The barbecue and the patio furniture and the white leather couch and the king-size bed. It is the same bed they had in the old apartment; it had too much of a history to justify replacement. Nicholas and Paige had ordered the handcrafted bed on the understanding that it would be theirs by the end of the week. But it was delayed, and they slept on a mattress on the floor for months. The bed had been burned in a warehouse fire and had to be built all over again. “Do you think,” Paige said one night, curled against him, “God is trying to tell us this was all a mistake?”

When Nicholas runs out of possessions, he takes a blank sheet of paper and writes his name at the top left and Paige’s name at the top right. Then he makes a grid. DATE OF BIRTH. PLACE OF BIRTH. EDUCATION. LENGTH OF MARRIAGE. He can fill it all in easily, but he is shocked at how much space his own schooling takes up and how little is written in Paige’s column. He looks at the length of marriage and does not write anything.

If she had married that guy, would she have had the child?

Nicholas pushes away the papers, which suddenly feel heavy enough to thrertiÑ€†aten the balance of the desk. He leans his head back in the swivel chair and stares at the clouds manufactured by the hospital smokestacks, but all he sees are the lines of Paige’s wounded face. He blinks, but the image does not clear. He half expects that if he whispers her name, she will answer. He thinks he must be going crazy.

He wonders if she loved this other guy, and why the question, still unspoken, makes him feel as if he will be sick.

When he turns the chair around, his mother is standing in front of the desk. “Nicholas,” she says, “I’ve brought you a present.” She holds a large, flat, paper-wrapped square. Even before he pulls at the string, Nicholas knows it is a framed photograph. “It’s for your office,” she says. “I’ve been working on it for weeks.”

“It isn’t my office,” Nicholas says. “I can’t really hang anything up.” But even as he is speaking, he finds himself staring at the photograph. It is a pliant willow tree on the shore of a lake, bent into an inverted U by an angry wind. Everything in the background is one shade or another of purple; the tree itself is molten red, as if it is burning at the core.

Astrid comes to his side of the desk and stands at his shoulder. “Striking, isn’t it?” she says. “It’s all in the lighting.” She glances at the papers on Nicholas’s desk, pretending not to notice what they say.

Nicholas runs his fingers across his mother’s signature, carved at the bottom. “Very nice,” he says. “Thanks.”

Astrid sits on the edge of the desk. “I didn’t come just to give you the photograph, Nicholas; I’m here to tell you something you aren’t going to like,” she says. “Paige has moved in with us.”

Nicholas stares at her as if she has stated that his father was really a gypsy or that his medical diploma is a fraud. “You’ve got to be kidding,” he says. “You can’t do this to me.”

“As a matter of fact, Nicholas,” Astrid says, standing and pacing the room, “you have very little say as to what we do in our own house. Paige is a lovely girl-better to realize it late than never, I think-and she’s a charming guest. Imelda says she even makes her own bed. Imagine.”

Nicholas’s fingers itch; he has a savage urge to strike out or to strangle. “If she lays a hand on Max-”

“I’ve already taken care of it,” Astrid says. “She’s agreed to leave the house during the day while I’ve got Max. She only comes back to sleep, since a car or a front lawn isn’t really suitable.”

Nicholas thinks that maybe he will remember this moment forever: the wrinkled empty smile of his mother; the flickering track light overhead; the scrape of wheels as something is rolled by the door. This, he will say to himself in years to come, was the moment my life fell apart. “Paige isn’t what you think she is,” he says bitterly.