Jodi Picoult - Handle with Care

What would I do?

I would go back to the moment Charlotte had asked me to help her have a baby, and I’d refer her to someone else.

I’d go back to when we were more likely to laugh together than to cry.

I’d go back to the time before you had come between us.

I’d do whatever I had to, to keep you from feeling like everything was breaking apart.

If you chose to stop a loved one’s suffering-either before it began or during the process-was that murder, or mercy?

“Yes,” I whispered. “I would.”

“The learning curve was huge,” Charlotte said. “From figuring out how to hold Willow, or how to change her diaper without breaking a bone, to knowing that we might simply be carrying her in our arms and hear that little pop that meant she’d broken something. We found out where to order car beds and adapted infant carriers, so that the straps wouldn’t snap her collarbones. We started to understand when we had to go to the emergency room and when we could splint the break ourselves. We stocked our own waterproof casts in the garage. We traveled to Nebraska, because they had orthopedic surgeons who specialized in OI, and we started Willow on a course of pamidronate infusions at Children’s Hospital in Boston.”

“Do you ever-well, for lack of a better term-get a break?”

Charlotte smiled a little. “Not really. We don’t make plans. We don’t bother, because we never know what’s going to happen. There’s always a new trauma we have to learn to deal with. Breaking a rib, for example, isn’t like breaking your back.” She hesitated. “Willow did that last year.”

Someone in the jury sucked in their breath, a whistling sound that made Guy Booker roll his eyes and that absolutely delighted me. “Can you tell the court how you’ve managed to pay for all this?”

“That’s a huge problem,” Charlotte said. “I used to work, but after Willow was born, I couldn’t. Even when she was in preschool, I had to be ready to run if she had a break, and you can’t do that when you’re the head pastry chef at a restaurant. We tried to hire a nurse that we trusted to take care of her, but it cost more than my salary, and sometimes the agency would send along women who knew noth ing about OI, who didn’t speak English, who couldn’t understand what I told them about taking care of Willow. I had to be her advocate, and I had to be there all the time.” She shrugged. “We don’t give big birthday or Christmas gifts. We don’t have IRAs or a college fund for the kids. We don’t take vacations. All of our money goes to pay for what insurance doesn’t.”

“Like?”

“Willow’s in a clinical study for her pamidronate, which means it’s free, but once she’s a certain age she can’t be part of the study anymore, and each infusion is over a thousand dollars. Leg braces cost five thousand dollars each, rodding surgeries are a hundred thousand. A spinal fusion, which Willow will have to have as a teen, can be several times that, and that’s not counting the flight to Omaha to have it done. Even if insurance pays for part of these things, the rest is left to us. And there are plenty of smaller items that add up: wheelchair maintenance, sheepskin to line casts, ice packs, clothes that can accommodate casts, different pillows to make Willow more comfortable, ramps for handicapped access into the house. She’ll need more equipment as she gets older-reachers and mirrors and other adaptations for short stature. Even a car with pedals that are easier to press down on, so they don’t cause microfractures in her feet, costs tens of thousands of dollars to get rigged correctly, and Vocational Rehabilitation will pay for only one vehicle-the rest are your responsibility, for life. She can go to college, but even that will cost more than usual, because of the adaptations necessary-and the best schools for kids like Willow aren’t nearby either, which means more travel expenses. We cashed out my husband’s 401(k) and took out a second mortgage. I’ve maxed out two credit cards.” Charlotte looked over at the jury. “I know what I look like to all of you. I know you think I’m in this for a big payday, that this is why I started this lawsuit.”

I stilled, not sure what she was doing; this was not what we had practiced. “Charlotte, have you-”

“Please,” she said. “Let me finish. It is about cost. But not the financial kind.” She blinked back tears. “I don’t sleep at night. I feel guilty when I laugh at a joke on TV. I watch little girls the same age as Willow at the playground, and I hate them sometimes-that’s how bitterly jealous I can get when I see how easy it is for them. But the day I signed that DNR in the hospital, I made a promise to my daughter. I said, If you fight, I will, too. If you live, I will make sure your life is the best it can possibly be. That’s what a good mother does, right?” She shook her head. “The way it usually works, the parent takes care of the child, until years later, when the roles are reversed. But with Willow and me, I’ll always be the one taking care of her. That’s why I’m here today. That’s what I want you to tell me. How am I supposed to take care of my daughter after I’m gone?”

You could have heard a pin drop, a heart beat. “Your Honor,” I said. “Nothing further.”

The sea was a monster, black and angry. You were equally terrified and fascinated by it; you’d beg to go watch the waves crash against the retaining wall, but every time they did, you shivered in my arms.

I had taken the day off work because Guy Booker had said that all witnesses had to come to the trial on the first day. But as it turned out, I couldn’t be in the courtroom anyway, until my testimony. I stayed for ten minutes-just long enough for the judge to tell me to leave.

This morning, I’d realized that Charlotte thought I was coming to court to support her. I could see why, after the night before, she would expect that. In her arms, I had been explosive, enraged, and tender by turns-as if we were playing out our feelings in a pantomime beneath the sheets. I knew she was upset when I told her I was meeting Guy Booker, but she should have understood better than anyone why I still needed to testify against her in this lawsuit: you did what you had to do to protect your child.

After leaving the courthouse, I’d driven home and told the hired nurse to take the afternoon off. Amelia would need to be picked up at school at three, but in the meantime, I asked what you wanted to do. “I can’t do anything,” you said. “ Look at me.”

It was true, your entire left leg was splinted. But all the same, I didn’t see why I couldn’t get a little creative to boost your spirits. I carried you out to the car, wrapped in blankets, and tucked you sideways across the backseat so that your leg was stretched along it. You could still wear your seat belt this way, and as you began to spot the familiar landmarks that led to the ocean, you got more and more animated.

There was nobody at the beach in late September, so I could park sideways across the lot that butted up to the retaining wall, giving you a bird’s-eye view. The truck’s cab sat high enough for you to see the waves, creeping forward and slinking backward like great gray cats. “Daddy?” you asked. “How come you can’t skate on the ocean?”

“I guess you can, way up in the Arctic, but for the most part, there’s too much salt in the water for it to freeze.”

“If it did freeze, wouldn’t it be awesome if there were still waves? Like ice sculptures?”

“That would be cool,” I agreed. I glanced over my headrest at you. “Wills? You okay?”

“My leg doesn’t hurt.”

“I wasn’t talking about your leg. I was talking about what’s going on today.”