Jodi Picoult - Handle with Care

At first, it felt incredible, like a rocket was taking off under her skin every time she was out in public. But then, it got a little old. She didn’t want to give out her autograph when she bought a pack of gum at the gas station. She would wear a pink shirt, and by lunchtime, the rest of the school was wearing pink shirts, too. She got tired of smiling all the time in public.

She realized that things weren’t all that different on this side of the mirror. Nobody really cared about her here. The reason people copied her and fawned over her had very little to do with who she was, and far more to do with who they needed her to be, to make up for some gaping hole in their own lives.

She decided she wanted to go back to the other side. But she had to do it when no one was watching, or they’d follow her there. The only problem was, there was never no one watching. She had nightmares about the people who trailed after her, who would cut themselves to pieces on the broken glass as they crawled through the mirror after her; how they’d lie bleeding on the floor and how the look in their eyes would change when they saw her on this side, unpopular and ordinary.

When she couldn’t stand another minute, she started to run. She knew there were people following, but she couldn’t stop to think about them. She was going to fly through the space in the mirror, no matter what it took. But when she got there, she smacked her head against the glass-it had been repaired. It was whole and thick and impossible to break through. She flattened her palms against it. Where are you going? everyone asked. Can we come, too? She didn’t answer. She just stood there, looking at her old life, without her in it.

I was really careful when I sat down on your bed. “Hey,” I whispered, because you were still pretty much out of it and might have been asleep.

Your eyes slitted open. “Hey.”

You looked really tiny, even with the big splint on your leg. Apparently, with the new rod in your femur, a future break wouldn’t be as bad as this one had been. On a TV show once I’d seen an orthopedic surgeon with drills, saws, metal plates, you name it-it was like she was a construction worker, not a doctor, and the thought of all that hammering and banging going on inside you made me feel like I was going to pass out.

I couldn’t tell you why, too, this break had scared me the most. I guess maybe I was getting it confused with the other things that brushed up against it that were equally as terrifying: the letter about divorce, the phone call from Dad at the hospital telling me I’d have to stay home alone overnight. I hadn’t told anyone, because obviously Mom and Dad were completely wrapped up in what was hap pening to you, but I never actually slept. I stayed awake at the kitchen table holding the biggest knife we had, just in case someone broke into the house. I’d kept myself awake on pure adrenaline, wondering what would happen if the rest of my family never actually made it home.

But instead, the opposite happened. Not only were you back but so were Mom and Dad-and they weren’t just putting on a good show for you, they were really together . They took turns watching over you; they finished each other’s sentences. It was as if I’d smashed through that fairy-tale mirror and wound up in the alternate universe of my past. There was a part of me that believed your latest break had linked them again, and if that was true, it was worth whatever pain you’d gone through. But there was another part of me that thought I was only hallucinating, that this happy family unit was just a mirage.

I didn’t really believe in God, but I wasn’t above hedging my bets, so I had prayed a silent bargain: if we can be a family again, I won’t complain. I won’t be mean to my sister. I won’t throw up anymore. I won’t cut.

I won’t I won’t I won’t.

You, apparently, weren’t feeling quite as optimistic. Mom said that since you’d come through the surgery, you kept crying and you didn’t want to eat anything. It was supposed to be the anesthesia in your system that was making you weepy, but I decided to make it my personal mission to cheer you up. “Hey, Wiki,” I said, “you want some M &M’s? They’re from my Easter candy stash.”

You shook your head.

“Want to use my iPod?”

“I don’t want to listen to music,” you murmured. “You don’t have to be nice to me just because I won’t be around here much longer.”

That sent a chill down my spine. Had someone not told me something about your surgery? Were you, like, dying ? “What are you talking about?”

“Mom wants to get rid of me because things like this keep happening.” You swiped the tears from your eyes with your hands. “I’m not the kind of kid anyone wants.”

“What are you talking about? It’s not like you’re a serial killer. You don’t torture chipmunks or do anything revolting, except try to burp ‘God Bless America’ at the dinner table-”

“I only did that once,” you said. “But think about it, Amelia. Nobody keeps things that get broken. Sooner or later, they get thrown away.”

“Willow, you are not being sent off, believe me. And if you are, I’ll run away with you first.”

You hiccuped. “Pinkie promise?”

I hooked your pinkie with mine and tugged. “Promise.”

“I can’t go on a plane,” you said seriously, as if we needed to plot our itinerary now. “The doctor said I’ll set off metal detectors at the airport. He gave Mom a note.”

One that I would probably forget, like I forgot the other doctor’s note on our last vacation.

“Amelia,” you asked, “where would we go?”

Back, I thought immediately. But I couldn’t begin to tell you how to get there.

Maybe Budapest. I didn’t really know where Budapest was, but I liked the way the word exploded on my tongue. Or Shanghai. Or the Galápagos, or the isle of Skye. You and I could travel the globe together, our own little sisterly freak show: the girl who breaks, and the girl who can’t hold herself together.

“Willow,” my mother said. “I think we need to have a talk.” She’d been standing at the threshold of the bedroom, watching us, I wondered for how long. “Amelia, can you give us a minute?”

“Okay,” I said, and I slunk outside. But instead of going downstairs, which was what she meant, I hovered in the hallway, where I could hear everything.

“Wills,” I heard my mother say, “no one’s throwing you away.”

“I’m sorry about my leg,” you said, teary. “I thought if I didn’t break anything for a long time, you’d think I was just like any other kid-”

“Accidents happen, Willow.” I heard the bed creak as my mother sat down on it. “Nobody is blaming you.”

“You do. You wish you’d never had me. I heard you say it.”

What happened after that-well, it felt like a tornado in my head. I was thinking about this lawsuit, and how it had ruined our lives. I was thinking of my father, who was downstairs for maybe only seconds or minutes longer. I was thinking of a year ago, when my arms were scar-free, when I still had a best friend and wasn’t fat and could eat food without it feeling like lead in my stomach. I was thinking of the words my mother said in response to you, and how I must have heard them wrong.

“Charlotte?”

I had come to the laundry room to hide, figuring that the load of clothes spinning in the dryer would mask any sound I made while I was crying, but Sean was standing behind me. Quickly I wiped my eyes on my sleeves. “Sorry,” I said. “The girls?”

“They’re both fast asleep.” He took a step forward. “What’s wrong?”