Jodi Picoult: Sing You Home

© 2011

1. Sing You Home (4:39)

2. The House on Hope Street (3:56)

3. Refugee (3:06)

4. The Last (3:25)

5. Marry Me (2:59)

6. Faith (4:01)

7. The Mermaid (3:26)

8. Ordinary Life (3:04)

9. Where You Are (3:22)

10. Sammy’s Song (3:48)

The mark of intelligence is being able to surround yourself with people who know more than you do. For this reason, I have many people to thank who all had a hand in helping me create this novel. I am grateful to my brilliant medical and legal minds: Judy Stern, Ph.D., Dr. Karen George, Dr. Paul Manganiello, Dr. Michelle Lauria; Corporal Claire Demarais, Judge Jennifer Sargent, and the attorneys Susan Apel, Lise Iwon, Janet Gilligan, and Maureen McBrien. Thanks to the music therapists who allowed me to pick their brains and to tag along and share some remarkable moments: Suzanne Hanser, Annette Whitehead Pleau, Karen Wacks, Kathleen Howland, Julie Buras Zigo, Emily Pellegrino, Samantha Hale, Bronwyn Bird, Brenda Ross, and Emily Hoffman. I’m also indebted to Sarah Croitoru, Rebecca Linder, Lisa Bodager, Jon Picoult, Sindy Buzzell, Focus on the Family’s Melissa Fryrear, and the Box Turtle Bulletin’s Jim Burroway.

I always thank my mom, Jane Picoult, for being an early reader, but this time I’d also like to thank my grandmother Bess Friend. We should all be so open-minded in our nineties.

Thanks to Atria Books: Carolyn Reidy, Judith Curr, Mellony Torres, Jessica Purcell, Sarah Branham, Kate Cetrulo, Chris Lloreda, Jeanne Lee, Gary Urda, Lisa Keim, Rachel Zugschwert, Michael Selleck, and the dozens of others without whom my career would never have reached the heights it has. And David Brown-it is really nice to have you back on Team Jodi. I am so grateful that (when I announced we’d be publishing this book with original music) your first reaction was a wild buzz of excitement-not utter panic.

To Laura Gross-remember how you told me about the dead guy on the train? And remember how I said one day I was going to use that? Here it is. I knew you’d be a wonderful agent, but I think I underestimated what a good friend you would become.

To Emily Bestler-I just don’t think there are very many editors who can move seamlessly in a discussion with their authors from why the SATs are a tool of torture to how to fix the ending of a novel. Or in other words, I really hit the jackpot. We’ve been together so long now I think we’ll have to be surgically removed from each other’s hips.

My publicists, Camille McDuffie and Kathleen Carter, are the best cheerleaders an author could ask for. Over the past thirteen years, you’ve taken me from “Jodi who?” to having fans spot me in the grocery store and ask for autographs on their shopping lists.

There is something pretty remarkable about this book-it’s musical. When I knew I was writing in part about gay rights, I wanted my readers to literally hear the voice of my main character; to take this from a political arena to a personal one-and so you get to hear Zoe pouring out her heart and soul to you through her songs. To that end I have to thank Bob Merrill of Sweet Spot Digital, who produced the CD; Ed Dauphinais and Tim Gilmore, who played mandolin and drums respectively; and Toby Mountain of Northeastern Digital, who mastered the CD. But most of all I have to thank Ellen Wilber, who agreed to be the voice of Zoe-and the creator of her music. Ellen is one of my dearest friends, and we’ve written over a hundred songs together for original children’s musicals that are performed to raise funds for charity. She has more musical talent in her pinkie finger than I could hope to have in a lifetime, and she has the biggest heart. She wrote the songs you’ll hear; I wrote the lyrics-and it’s her crystalline voice you’re listening to on the CD. There aren’t enough words for me to use to thank her-for thinking that this project would be something fun to do… and, more important, for our friendship.

Finally, as always, thanks to Tim, Kyle, Jake, and Sammy. You guys are the soundtrack of my life.

For Ellen Wilber-Your music has completely enriched my life; your friendship has meant so much to me and my entire family. I’m not sure I can remember which one of us is supposed to be Louise and which one is supposed to be Thelma, but I don’t think it matters as long as we’re on the road together.

And for Kyle van Leer-From the moment you were born in a hurricane I knew you were going to be one of a kind. I don’t think I could possibly be any more proud of you if I tried-not just for who you’ve become but for the individual you have always been.

Somehow, I know you two won’t mind sharing a dedication page.

The CD that accompanies this book was created to bring the character of Zoe to life for the reader by giving her a real voice. There is no “right” or “wrong” way to mix the music with the novel, but while Ellen Wilber and I were writing the songs and lyrics, we envisioned each track paired with a chapter. You’ll see section breaks between the chapters that identify where we placed each song, just in case you’d like to play them in the places where they correspond to what Zoe is feeling and thinking at that moment. Enjoy!

To listen, visit www.SimonandSchuster.com/SingYouHome.

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Sing You Home (4:39)

One sunny, crisp Saturday in September when I was seven years old, I watched my father drop dead. I was playing with my favorite doll on the stone wall that bordered our driveway while he mowed the lawn. One minute he was mowing, and the next, he was facefirst in the grass as the mower propelled itself in slow motion down the hill of our backyard.

I thought at first he was sleeping, or playing a game. But when I crouched beside him on the lawn, his eyes were still open. Damp cut grass stuck to his forehead.

I don’t remember calling for my mother, but I must have.

When I think about that day, it is in slow motion. The mower, walking alone. The carton of milk my mother was carrying when she ran outside, which dropped to the tarred driveway. The sound of round vowels as my mother screamed into the phone to give our address to the ambulance.

My mother left me at the neighbor’s house while she went to the hospital. The neighbor was an old woman whose couch smelled like pee. She offered me chocolate-covered peppermints that were so old the chocolate had turned white at the edges. When her telephone rang I wandered into the backyard and crawled behind a row of hedges. In the soft mulch, I buried my doll and walked away.

My mother never noticed that it was gone-but then, it barely seemed that she acknowledged my father being gone, either. She never cried. She stood stiff-backed through my father’s funeral. She sat across from me at the kitchen table that I still sometimes set with a third place for my father, as we gradually ate our way through chipped beef casserole and mac-and-cheese-and-franks, sympathy platters from my father’s colleagues and neighbors who hoped food could make up for the fact that they didn’t know what to say. When a robust, healthy forty-two-year-old dies of a massive heart attack, the grieving family is suddenly contagious. Come too close, and you might catch our bad luck.