Jodi Picoult - Handle with Care

“Lights out,” I said, and Amelia buried herself under the covers, the iPod buds still in her ears. The screen glowed beneath the sheets. You rolled onto your side, your face already wreathed in dreams. “I love it here,” you said. “I want to stay here forever.”

I smiled. “Well, it won’t be much fun when all your OI friends go back home.”

“Can we come again?”

“I hope so, Wills.”

“Next time, can Dad come with us?”

I stared at the digital alarm clock as one number bled into the next. “I hope so,” I repeated.

This is how we wound up coming to the convention:

One morning, when you and Amelia were at school, I was baking. It was what I did when you were gone now; there was a Zen rhythm to beating together the sugar and the shortening, to folding in the egg whites, to scalding the milk. My kitchen steamed with the smells of vanilla and caramel, cinnamon and anise. I’d whisk royal icing; I’d roll out perfect pie crusts; I’d punch down dough. The more my hands moved, the less likely I was to let my mind wander.

Back then, it had been March-two months since Sean opted out of the lawsuit. For a few weeks after our row in the middle of the highway, I’d left the pillows and bedding on the fireplace hearth, a just-in-case, as close as I could come to an apology. He came to the house every now and then to see you girls, but when he did, I felt like I was intruding. I would balance my checkbook, I would clean the bathroom, while listening to your laughter downstairs.

This is what I wish I’d had the guts to say to him: I made a mistake, but so did you. Aren’t we even now?

Sometimes I missed Sean viscerally. Sometimes I was angry at him. Sometimes I just wanted to turn back time, to go back to the moment he had asked, What do you think about a vacation to Disney World? But mostly I wondered why the head could move so swiftly while the heart dragged its feet. Even when I felt sure of myself and confident, even when I started to think that you girls and I would be fine on our own, I still loved him. It felt like anything else permanent that has gone missing: a lost tooth, a severed leg. You might know better, but that doesn’t keep your tongue from poking at the hole in your gum, or your phantom limb from aching.

So every morning I baked to forget, until the windows steamed and just breathing felt like sitting down at the finest table. I baked until my hands were red and raw and my nails were caked with flour. I baked until I stopped wondering why a lawsuit could move so exceedingly slowly. I baked until I didn’t wonder where next month’s mortgage payment would come from. I baked until it grew so hot in the kitchen that I wore only a tank top and jogging shorts under my apron, until I imagined myself under the golden dome of a flaky crust of my own making, wondering if Sean would break through before I suffocated.

Which is why I was stunned when the doorbell rang in the middle of a fleet of beignets. I was not expecting anyone-I had nothing to expect anymore, period. On the porch stood a stranger, making me even more aware of the fact that I was only half dressed and my hair was grayed with confectioners’ sugar.

“Are you Ms. Syllabub?” the man asked.

He was short and round, with a double chin and a matching curve to his receding hairline. He was holding a plastic bag full of my shortbread, tied with a green ribbon.

“That’s just a name,” I said. “But it’s not mine.”

“But-” He glanced at my attire. “You’re the baker?”

“Yes,” I said. “I’m the baker.” Not the gold digger, not the bitch, not even the mother. Something separate and apart, an identity as bright and clear as stainless steel. I held out my hand. “Charlotte O’Keefe.”

He planted his feet squarely on the doormat. “I’d like to buy your pastries.”

“Oh, you didn’t need to come up here for that,” I said. “You can just leave a couple of dollars in the honesty box.”

“No, you don’t understand. I want to buy all of them.” He handed me a card, the kind with raised lettering. “My name’s Henry DeVille. I run a chain of Gas-n-Get convenience stores in New Hampshire, and I’d like to feature your baked goods.” He flushed. “Mostly because I can’t stop eating them.”

“Really?” I said, a slow smile breaking over my face.

“I was visiting my sister one day last month-she lives two roads up from here, but I had gotten lost, and I was starving. And since then I’ve made eight two-hour treks just to get whatever it is you’re selling on a particular day. I may not be the best judge of business, but I’m pretty much a Ph.D. when it comes to good desserts.”

It had taken me a week to agree. I didn’t have the time or the inclination to drive all over New Hampshire delivering muffins in the morning; I didn’t know how much I could promise to produce. For every caveat I raised, Henry had a solution, and within a week I had run a draft contract past Marin that was sweet enough to get me to agree. To celebrate, I baked Henry an almond-blueberry coffeecake. He sat at my kitchen table, drinking coffee, eating cake with a newly minted businesswoman. “I’ve tried to pinpoint it,” he mused, watching me sign the contract. “There’s a certain something in your cooking that’s like nothing I’ve ever tasted. It’s addictive, really.”

I smiled at him as best I could and pushed the paper across the table before he could change his mind. Because Henry DeVille was correct-there was an ingredient in my baking more concentrated than any extract, more pungent than any spice; an ingredient that everyone would recognize and no one was able to name: it was regret, and it rose when one least expected.

The next morning, as part of the Be Fit! campaign that headed this year’s festival, you and I headed down to the exercise course, where participants could wheel or walk a quarter or a half mile. When you finished, clutching a certificate close to your chest, we had a quick breakfast before the day’s small group sessions. Amelia was sleeping in, but I was planning to attend a workshop on body image for young girls with OI.

As soon as you were welcomed back to the Kids’ Zone-the nurse who gave you a high five, I noticed, had gotten you to lift your right arm higher than any physical therapist in the past four months-I headed to the ladies’ room to wash my hands before the session began. Like every thing else at the hotel, the restrooms were OI-friendly: the outer door was propped open for easy access; a low table held extra soap and towels.

As I ran the faucet, another woman entered, carrying a glass of milk-it was being served as part of the overall theme of keeping healthy; the problem with OI is a deficiency in collagen, not calcium. “I love this,” she said, grinning. “It’s got to be the only conference that serves milk between the sessions instead of coffee and juice.”

“It was probably cheaper than shots of pamidronate,” I said, and she laughed.

“I don’t think we’ve met yet. I’m Kelly Clough, mother of David, Type V.”

“Willow, Type III. I’m Charlotte O’Keefe.”

“Is Willow having fun?”

“Willow’s in heaven,” I said. “She can barely wait to go to the zoo tonight.” The Henry Doorly Zoo was opening their facility after hours for the convention participants tonight; during breakfast, you had made a list of what animals you wanted to see.

“For David it’s all about swimming.” She glanced at me in the mirror. “There’s something about you that’s really familiar.”

“Well, I’ve never been to a convention before,” I said.

“No, your name…”

There was a flush, and a moment later, a woman our age came out of a room stall. She positioned her walker in front of the handicap-accessible sink and turned on the water. “Do you read Tiny Tim’s blog?” she asked.