Jodi Picoult - Between the lines

Well. Maybe there’s something to be said for brilliance under pressure. Before I can stop myself, I ring the doorbell.

But there’s no answer.

I ring it again, as if that might change the outcome. No one is home. Never in my wildest imagination did I picture finally reaching Jessamyn Jacobs’s house only to find her absent.

All of a sudden the garage door beside me magically opens, making me jump a foot. A moment later, a car comes around the corner and pulls into the driveway. It is a red minivan, like the kind we had when I was younger. A woman gets out of the driver’s seat, carrying a bag of groceries. “Hi,” she says. “Can I help you?”

I know it’s Jessamyn Jacobs because I recognize the red hair and the features from her author photo on the book. Except this version of Jessamyn Jacobs doesn’t look nearly as glamorous. She’s dressed, well, like a mom.

“I, um, I’m Delilah McPhee. I’m a student,” I stammer. “I’m doing an author project, and I was wondering if I could interview you.”

She smiles a little sadly. “I haven’t been an author in a very long time,” she says. “You probably want to talk to someone else.”

“No!” I cry. “It has to be you!”

She looks at me, a little alarmed by my outburst. “I’m afraid I can’t help you, Delilah. That part of my life is over.” Careful to put a good amount of distance between us, she opens her front door and walks inside.

I can’t let it end like this. Not when I’m so close.

“Please,” I beg. “Your book meant a lot to me.” I reach into my backpack and pull out the fairy tale, and to my surprise, Jessamyn Jacobs stops in her tracks.

She reaches one hand toward the cover, stroking it the way you’d touch something precious. “It meant a lot to me too,” she murmurs. Then she smiles at me. “Would you like to come inside?”

“Most people who still write me fan mail are much older than you, and collect chain saws and instruments of torture,” Jessamyn says, setting down a plate of cookies. “If I’m remembered for anything, it’s my murder mysteries. Very few of my readers even know I wrote a fairy tale.”

She is staring at the book, which sits on the coffee table between us. “It’s my favorite story,” I tell her. “I’ve memorized every single word.”

Jessamyn smiles. “It was a one-of-a-kind book,” she says. “And it inadvertently got placed in a box of toys and clothes that were being donated to a charity’s yard sale. I always wondered what had become of it.”

Behind her are the bookshelves and the fireplace that Oliver saw in the vision of his future in Orville’s cottage. It is strange, seeing them again-seeing them for real- and knowing Oliver still isn’t here.

My gaze settles on the view from the big picture window that overlooks the ocean. I am almost 100 percent sure I have seen this view before, but that doesn’t make sense-I’ve never been here in my life. Then it hits me-page 59. When Oliver fights with Rapscullio and pushes him out the tower window. This is the illustration we see as the villain falls to the rocks below.

Jessamyn follows my glance. “Page fifty-nine,” she confirms. “When I was painting the illustrations, I used all sorts of familiar places. The castle dining room is an exact image of the estate where I got married. Everafter Beach looks like the island where I went on my honeymoon.” She gazes down at her lap. “I wrote the story after my husband died of cancer. He fought so hard for a year, but ultimately, he lost the battle. The fairy tale was my way of getting through that. And helping my son get through it too.”

Suddenly I feel uncomfortable. Whatever the book has meant to me, it’s meant so much more to Jessamyn. “I’m really sorry,” I say.

“Don’t be. It was a long time ago. It’s why, in a way, having the book out of my house was a relief. As if it meant that part of my life-the sad part-was finished.” She reaches for the book. “It’s been a while since I read this,” she says, and opens to page 43.

Oliver looks up, expecting me as the Reader. But then he notices Jessamyn. I see his eyes widen-he recognizes her as the woman in the vision.

Jessamyn touches her finger to the crown of Oliver’s head. I feel an actual ache in my gut, remembering what his hair felt like-the texture, the thickness. “Amazing,” she breathes. “He looks exactly the way I imagined he would.”

This doesn’t make sense to me-since she was the one who drew Oliver in the first place. Obviously he’d look the way she imagined.

Jessamyn glances up at me. “You’re not really here to do an interview for school, are you.” It is not a question, but a statement.

“No,” I admit. I take a deep breath. “I came to ask you if you’d ever consider rewriting the ending.”

She smiles faintly. “Are you a writer, Delilah?” she asks.

“I’m more of a reader.”

“Ah,” Jessamyn replies. “Then I can see why you wouldn’t understand.”

“Understand what?”

“That the story isn’t mine to change anymore. Maybe it belonged to me at first, but now it belongs to you. And to everyone else who’s ever read it. The act of reading is a partnership. The author builds a house, but the reader makes it a home.”

“But if you created it, you have to be the one to change it.”

“Why should it be changed?”

“Because,” I say, “it’s not a happy ending. I can’t explain why.”

“Try me.”

“One of the characters told me.” I shut my eyes, certain that Jessamyn Jacobs officially thinks I’ve gone crazy. But to my surprise, when I open my eyes again, she just nods.

“The characters used to talk to me too,” Jessamyn agrees. “I think any writer would say the same thing. But Delilah, even if I changed the ending, the story already exists in the world in the memories of all of its readers. Once a story is told to someone, it can’t be erased.”

What she’s telling me is that I’ve hit a dead end. And I can’t let that be true. “But you have to try!” I burst out.

She hesitates. “How would you have ended the book?”

Embarrassed, I mumble, “Oliver gets to leave the story.”

She raises her eyebrows. “Ah. I think I’m starting to understand. He is quite good-looking. I used to develop crushes on characters. There was one detective in my murder series who had the dreamiest smile-”

Tears fill my eyes. “It’s not a crush,” I tell her. “He’s alive, to me.”

“And he always will be,” Jessamyn says kindly. “Every time you open the book. That’s the beauty of reading, isn’t it?”

If I can’t make the author understand, then surely I have run out of options. I’m certain she thinks I’m nuts-some delusional girl who shows up unannounced, talking about a fictional character as if he might be sitting in the room sipping tea.

But how will I break this news to Oliver?

Suddenly, it’s just too much. I thought if anyone was ever going to understand the things I felt for this story, it would be the author herself, and yet here she is telling me-like everyone else-that I’m wrong. That what’s between me and Oliver is impossible.

I start sobbing. I get to my feet, embarrassed, suddenly intent on leaving as quickly as possible. I’ve been an idiot to think that real life could have a happy ending.

“Delilah! Are you all right?” Concerned (and who wouldn’t be if a crazy girl was hysterical in the living room?), Jessamyn puts her hand on my arm. “Is there someone I can call for you? Your mother, maybe?”