Jodi Picoult - Between the lines

At the mention of my mother, a cloud passes over my features.

Oliver touches my cheek gently. “Is there anything I can do to make you happy?”

“You can hold me,” I say, and in that instant, I am pulled into his arms again. I can feel his heart beating against mine, and the heat of skin. I can feel his fingers spread across the small of my back. He is every bit as real as I am. “Oliver,” I repeat slowly, the magic of this miracle truly sinking in. “You can hold me.”

“That’s not all I can do,” Oliver says. He frames my face with his hands and gently, tenderly, presses his lips to mine.

This is so not like Leonard Uberhardt, the first boy who kissed me, or rather swallowed half my face. This is sweet and soft. It’s like there is a whole story Oliver is telling me without words, as if what he’s feeling can’t be described, and has to be experienced instead.

When we break apart, I am breathing hard, and I cannot take my eyes off his.

“You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to do that,” Oliver says.

I wind my arms around his neck. “Let’s do it again,” I suggest.

He puts his hands on my wrists and pulls me away. “I should think you, of all people, would realize we’ve got other things we need to do first.”

He’s right, of course. I want to go home. But that doesn’t mean I’m not disappointed, just a little.

Oliver seems to notice, for the first time, what I’m wearing. “What happened to you?”

“Mermaids,” I explain.

“I’m surprised they didn’t try to convince you to stay away from me,” he says. “They’re generally not too fond of men.”

“So what’s your plan? How do we get back home?” I ask.

“Well,” Oliver says, his face flushing. “I’m still trying to figure it out.”

“But you always know what to do. No matter what situation you’re thrown into, or whatever scrape you wind up in, you figure a way out.”

“That’s just the way I’m written,” Oliver confesses. “If I were truly clever, I’d be out of this book by now.”

“But in the book you always-”

“In the book I also fall in love with Seraphima every time,” Oliver interrupts. “And believe me, that’s an act.”

I feel chilled all of a sudden. The enormity of my situation is becoming more clear. I’m stuck in a fairy tale that may never be opened again. After reading the story so many times, I’ve confused bits of the true Oliver and the fictional Oliver. I’m just not sure anymore what’s real.

I don’t realize I’ve said it aloud until Oliver reaches for my hand. “ We are,” he says. “ This is.”

By now the sun has slipped lower in the sky and has painted the horizon a vivid orange. “We’d best be getting home,” Oliver says, and I sit up a little straighter. “And by home, ” he says, wincing, “I meant the palace.”

He tugs me to my feet and leads me down a beaten path through the field. I can feel the warmth of his shoulder against mine, and I can smell the scent of pine, which clings to his tunic. In front of us, fairies dance like fireflies, writing our initials in the dusky violet sky. I find myself smiling at their acrobatics, amazed to see the tiny creatures right before my eyes. As much as I want to leave this world, it’s breathtaking.

I am so wrapped up in the moment, in fact, that I don’t even see Seraphima until she is three feet in front of us. She stands with her eyes wide, her pale blond hair cascading down her back, her perfect features frowning in confusion. “Oliver?” she asks.

“Oh, um, hi, Seraphima,” he says. “Have you met… my cousin Delilah?” Oliver turns to me, whispering. “It’s not her fault she’s clueless. I don’t want to hurt her. Just go along with me.”

Seraphima bestows the sweetest smile upon me. “Delilah!” she says, grasping my hands in her own. “I just know you and I are going to be the best of friends!”

I muster a smile in response. “I bet,” I manage.

“It’s getting late, and my mother’s expecting us,” Oliver says.

“Of course!” Seraphima replies. She gives me an impromptu hug. “Maybe we can go shopping tomorrow in the village square?”

“Um…”

“Delilah’s got a full schedule tomorrow,” Oliver interjects. “But maybe the day after.” He tugs me away and starts walking down the path.

“Oliver!” she calls out. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

He stops, turns toward her again. “I don’t think so…” he says, grinning through clenched teeth.

Seraphima runs the short distance between them and throws her arms around his neck, kissing him full on the mouth. Pulling away, she bats her eyelashes. “Dream about me,” she says shyly.

The minute we turn a hairpin bend in the road I elbow Oliver in the ribs. “Your cousin ?” I say.

“It was the first thing I could come up with,” he says. “I feel bad for her, okay?”

“Still, you didn’t have to kiss her!”

“She kissed me !” Oliver argues.

“You didn’t exactly fight her off,” I point out.

Oliver beams. “Someone’s a bit jealous.”

I toss my hair. “You wish.”

He twines his fingers with mine. “I did,” he says. “It came true.”

By the time we reach the castle, night has fallen. There are torches lining the drawbridge that leads to the doors, and the knights that stand at attention on either side like statues bow as Oliver walks by. “I can see how you might wind up with an inflated ego,” I murmur.

“I prefer to call it confidence,” Oliver says.

When we walk inside, we are in a huge stone hall. Tapestries line the walls, woven with pictures of princesses and knights from the past. A crystal candelabrum ringed with burning candles hangs overhead, casting long shadows on the floor. A footman approaches, dressed in dark blue velvet, with the royal crest embroidered over his chest. “Your Highness,” he says. “Queen Maureen has retired with an ache of the head, but she wishes your guest to know she’s welcome to stay in the north turret. The chamber’s been prepared.”

“Thank you,” Oliver says. “I’ll see Lady Delilah there myself.”

“As you wish,” the footman says, and he offers the candle he’s holding to Oliver.

My stomach rumbles. “Is there any chance I could just make a quick peanut butter and jelly sandwich before we go upstairs?” I whisper.

“What’s a sandwich?” Oliver asks.

“A snack,” I correct. “I’m sort of hungry.”

He grins. “If I know Queen Maureen, you won’t have to worry about that.” The footman has vanished, leaving us alone in the Great Hall. I follow Oliver, holding on to his hand so that he can guide me through the dark. As we start up a spiral stone staircase, the candlelight jumps on the walls, revealing our silhouettes.

We climb seven stories. Finally, Oliver pulls me onto the landing and stops in front of a heavy wooden door. “I know it’s not home, but I hope this will do,” he says, and he pushes it open.

The chamber has high, vaulted ceilings and an ornately carved four-poster bed draped with gauze netting. A fire blazes in the hearth. Two red velvet chairs are arranged in front of the fireplace, and on a low wooden table nearby is a feast: a roast chicken, a bowl of fresh fruit, a platter of tiered cakes, two loaves of bread, and dishes piled high with vegetables. “Oliver,” I say, “how much does she think I eat?”