Jodi Picoult - Handle with Care

I surveyed the jury. “Now imagine that the information I withheld might affect not just the outcome of the jury trial you sat on…but your whole future.” I walked back to my seat. “That, ladies and gentlemen, is exactly what brings Charlotte O’Keefe here today.”

I could feel Piper staring.

As soon as Marin stood and started talking, she had a direct view of me from across the room, where she sat at a table with her attorney. Her gaze was blazing a hole in my skin; I had to turn away to stop it from burning.

Somewhere behind her was Rob. His eyes were on me, too, like pin-pricks, like lasers. I was the vertex, and they were the rays of the angle. Acute, somewhat less than the whole.

Piper didn’t look like Piper anymore. She was thinner, older. She was wearing something we would have made fun of while we were shopping, an outfit we would have consigned to the Skating Moms crowd.

I wonder if I looked different, too-or if that was even possible, given that, the very moment I’d sued her, I’d become someone she never thought I could be.

Marin slipped into her seat beside me with a sigh. “Off and running,” she whispered as Guy Booker rose and buttoned his suit jacket.

“I wouldn’t doubt that Willow O’Keefe’s had-what was it Ms. Gates said?-sixty-eight broken bones. But Willow also had a mad scientist birthday party in February. She’s got a poster of Hannah Montana hanging over her bed, and she got the highest grade on a districtwide reading test last year. She hates the color orange and the smell of cooked cabbage and asked Santa for a monkey last Christmas. In other words, ladies and gentlemen, in many ways Willow O’Keefe is no different from any other six-and-a-half-year-old girl.”

He walked toward the jury box. “Yes, she is disabled. And yes, she has special needs. But does that mean she doesn’t have a right to be alive? That her birth was a wrongful one? Because that’s what this case is really about. The tort is called wrongful birth for a reason, and believe me, it’s a tough one to wrap your heads around. But yes indeed, this mother, Charlotte O’Keefe, is saying that she wishes her own child had never been born.”

I felt a shock go through me, as sure as lightning.

“You’re going to hear from Willow’s mother about how much her daughter suffers. But you’ll also hear from her father about how much Willow loves life. And you’ll hear him say how much joy that child’s brought into his life, and just what he thinks about this so-called wrongful birth. That’s right. You’re not misunderstanding me. Charlotte O’Keefe’s own husband disagreed with the lawsuit his wife started and refused to be part of a scheme to milk the deep pockets of a medical insurance company.”

Guy Booker walked toward Piper. “When a couple first find out that they’re pregnant, they immediately hope the child will be healthy. No one wants a child to be born less than perfect. But the truth is, there are no guarantees. The truth is, ladies and gentlemen, that Charlotte O’Keefe is in this for two reasons, and two reasons only: to get some money, and to point the finger at someone other than herself.”

There were times when I was baking that I opened the oven at eye level and was hit by a wave of heat so strong and severe that it temporarily blinded me. Guy Booker’s words had the same effect at that moment. I realized that Marin was right. I could say that I loved you and that I wanted to sue for wrongful birth and not contradict myself. It was a little like telling someone, after she’d seen the color green, to completely forget its existence. I could never erase the mark of your hand holding mine, or your voice in my ear. I couldn’t imagine life without you. If I’d never known you, the tale would be different; it would not be the story of you and me.

I had never allowed myself to think that someone might have been responsible for your illness. We had been told that your disease was a spontaneous mutation, that Sean and I weren’t carriers. We had been told that nothing I might have done differently during my pregnancy would have saved you from breaking in utero. But I was your mother, and I had carried you under the umbrella of my heart. I was the one who had summoned your soul to this world; I was the reason you’d wound up in this broken body. If I hadn’t worked so hard to have a baby, you wouldn’t have been born. There were countless reasons, as far as I could see, that I was to blame.

Unless it was Piper’s fault. If that was the case, then I was off the hook.

Which meant that Guy Booker was also right.

This lawsuit, which I’d filed because of you, which I’d sworn was all about you, was actually all about me.

Proof: the part of a recipe where dough is allowed to rise.

Twice, during the baking of bread, proof is required. Yeast is proofed in water and a small bit of sugar to make sure it’s still active before going any further in the recipe. But proofing also describes a step where the dough doubles in size, the moment when it suddenly grows in dynamic proportion to what you started out with.

What makes the dough rise? The yeast, which converts glucose and other carbohydrates into carbon dioxide gas. Different breads proof differently. Some require only a single proofing; others need many. Between these stages, the baker is told to punch down the dough.

It’s no surprise to me that-in baking, and in life-the cost of growth is always a small act of violence.

DOUGH

3¾ cups flour

1/3 cup sugar

1 teaspoon salt

2 packages active dry yeast

1 cup heated milk

1 egg

1/3 cup butter, softened

CARAMEL

¾ cup dark brown sugar

½ cup unsalted butter

¼ cup light corn syrup

¾ cup pecan halves

2 tablespoons butter, softened

FILLING

½ cup pecans, chopped

2 tablespoons sugar

2 tablespoons brown sugar

1 teaspoon cinnamon

You once told me that the best part of a lazy Sunday is to wake up and smell something so delicious you follow your nose downstairs. This is one of those recipes that, like most breads, requires you to be thinking ahead-but then again, when wasn’t I thinking ahead for you?

To make the dough, mix together 2 cups of the flour, 1/3 cup sugar, salt, and yeast in a large bowl. Add the heated milk, egg, and 1/3 cup butter, and beat at low speed for a minute. Add flour if necessary to make the dough easier to shape.

On a lightly floured surface, knead dough for 5 minutes. This, I will add, was your favorite part-you would stand on a chair and throw your weight into it. When finished, put the dough into a greased bowl and flip it over once, so the greased side faces up. Cover and let it proof until it doubles in size, about 1½ hours. It’s ready if you poke it and the mark of your finger is left behind.