Jodi Picoult - Handle with Care

Two hours later, Emma and I were running through the juniors’ section. Even though most of the styles seemed to have been made by Skanky Ho Enterprises, with V-necks that reached down to the belly button and pants so low-rise they could have been kneesocks, it was exciting to shop in an area that wasn’t the kids’ section. Across the aisle, Piper was pushing your wheelchair, navigating aisles that were completely not made for disabled people. Meanwhile, my mother-whose mood had deteriorated, if possible-kept kneeling down to try shoes on your feet. “Did you know those plastic thingies on the ends of the shoelaces are called aglets?” you asked.

“As a matter of fact I did,” she said, exasperated, “because you told me the last time we did this.”

I watched Emma reach up on her tiptoes to take down a blouse that would, as my mother would say, show the entire world your business. “Emma!” I said. “You’ve got to be kidding!”

“You wear it with a camisole, ” she said, and I pretended I had known that all along. The truth is that Emma could probably put that on and look like she was sixteen, because she was already five-five, and tall and thin like her mother. I didn’t wear camisoles. It was just too depressing to know that the roll at my belly stuck out farther than my boobs.

I slipped my hand into the pocket of my sweatshirt. Inside was a plastic Ziploc bag. I’d been carrying them around for the past week. Twice now I’d made myself sick in places that weren’t bathrooms-once behind the gym at school, once in Emma’s kitchen, when she was upstairs looking for a CD. I’d do it when it got to the point where it was all I could think about- Would I be found out? Would it stop the ache in my belly? -and the only way to make it go away was to just give in and do it already, except after it happened, I hated myself for not holding out.

“This would look good on you,” Emma said, holding up a pair of sweatpants big enough for an elephant.

“I don’t like yellow,” I said, and I wandered across the aisle.

Piper and my mother were in the middle of a conversation. Well, that’s not really accurate. Piper was in the middle of a conversation and my mother was physically present in the same general space. She was zoned out, nodding at the right times but not really listening. She thought she could fool people, but she wasn’t that great an actress. Take you, for example. How many fights had she had with Dad about whether or not to hire a lawyer, while you were sitting in the next room? And then, when you asked why they were arguing, she’d insist they weren’t. Did she really think you were so incredibly involved in Drake & Josh episodes that you weren’t hanging on every word?

I wished she’d listen. I wished she could hear the things you asked me when we were lying in bed at night, before we fell asleep: Amelia, will we all live here forever? Amelia, will you help me brush my teeth, so I don’t have to ask Mom to do it? Amelia, can your parents ever send you back to the place you came from?

Was it any wonder that I found myself staring in the mirror at my disgusting face and even more disgusting body? My mother was going to a lawyer to sue over a kid who had turned out less than perfect.

“Where’s Emma?” Piper asked.

“In the juniors’ section, scoping out tops.”

“Decent ones, or the tight kind that look like ads for porn?” Piper asked. “Some of the clothing they make for kids your age must be illegal.”

I laughed. “Emma could always hire a lawyer. We know a good one.”

“Amelia!” my mother cried out. “Look what you made me do!” But she said this before she managed to knock over the entire display of blouses.

“Oh, shoot,” Piper said, hurrying to fix the racks. Over her head, my mother gave me a tight-lipped shake of her head.

She was angry at me, and I didn’t even know why. I slipped through the forest of girls’ clothing, my hands spread to brush against the vines of pant legs and sleeves. I ducked my head as I passed by Emma again. What had I done wrong?

Then again, what didn’t I do wrong?

It was almost like she was mad I had brought up the lawyer in front of Piper. But Piper was her best friend. This legal thing was front and center in our house, like a dinosaur at the dinner table that we all pretended wasn’t sticking its big, slimy face into the mashed potatoes. She couldn’t have forgotten to mention it to Piper, could she?

Unless…she very intentionally hadn’t .

Was this why she hadn’t wanted to go shopping with Piper? Why we hadn’t recently dropped by Piper’s house when we were in the neighborhood, the way we used to? When my mother talked about damages and getting enough money to really take care of you the way that would help you the most, I hadn’t really given much thought to the person who’d be on the receiving end of the lawsuit.

If it was the doctor she had been seeing when she was pregnant…well, that was Piper.

Suddenly I wasn’t the only person in my mother’s life who had turned out to be a disappointment. But instead of feeling let off the hook, I just felt sick.

I stood up, turning corners blindly, until I found myself standing in the lingerie section. I was crying by then, and just my luck, the only Target employee who was on the floor instead of the cash registers happened to be standing right in front of me. “Hon?” she asked. “Are you okay? Are you lost?”

As if I were five years old and had been separated from my mother. Which, actually, was not all that far off the mark.

“I’m fine,” I said, ducking my head. “Thanks.” I pushed past her, heading through the bras, even as one got caught on my sleeve. It was pink and silky, with brown polka dots. It looked like the kind of thing Emma would wear.

Instead of putting it back on its hanger, I stuffed it into my pocket, next to my Ziploc bags. I curled my fingers around it and checked to see whether the employee had been watching. The satin was cold between my fingers. I could swear it was pulsing, a secret heartbeat.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” the woman asked again.

“Yes,” I said, the lie coming easily, reminding me that, even as much as I hated her right now, I was my mother’s daughter.

September 2007

I’ve always said that the best part of my job is that I don’t do the work: that’s up to the prospective mother, and I basically monitor what’s going on and keep it running smoothly.

“Okay, Lila,” I said, removing my hand from between her legs. “We’re at ten centimeters. Almost there. You’ve got to push for me now.”

She shook her head. “You do it,” she muttered.

She’d been in labor for nineteen hours; I completely understood why she wanted to pass the buck. “You are so beautiful,” her husband crooned, holding up her shoulders.

“You are so full of shit,” Lila snarled, but as a contraction settled over her like a net, she bore down and pushed. I could see the fetal head swelling closer, and I held up my hand to keep it from popping out too fast and tearing the perineum. “Again,” I urged. This time, the fetal head rushed forward like a tide, and as the mouth and nose broke the seal of Lila’s skin, I suctioned them. The rest of the head was delivered, and I slipped the cord over it, supporting it as I turned the baby to control the shoulders. Five seconds later, the baby was balanced in the scale of my hands. “It’s a boy,” I said, as he announced, with a healthy cry, his own presence.

The cord was clamped, and Lila’s husband cut it. “Oh, baby,” he said, kissing her on the mouth.

“Oh, baby,” Lila echoed, as her newborn son was settled in her arms by the labor nurse.