Jodie Picoult - Songs of the Humpback Whale - A Novel in Five Voices

“So,” Eloise says, as Rebecca throws her arms around me. “What about for you?”

“Oh, I shouldn’t.” I cross my legs nervously, and then uncross them.

“I’m not going to let you travel with me, looking like that,” Rebecca says. “Not now that I’m dressed to kill.”

“Well, I could certainly use some underwear,” I admit. I have been sitting on the size seven bin. I jump off and open the lid, lining up several pairs on my arms. The last pair I pull out is a Gstring, a leopard print.

“Oh, that’s you, Mom. You’ve got to get that pair.”

“I don’t think so. It has its appeal, the way garter belts and thigh-high silk stockings have always held my interest. I like the idea behind them, but in reality I know I wouldn’t have a clue about how to put them on, so I do not bother.

Rebecca runs with Eloise around the racks, collecting cotton sundresses and khaki shorts and silk tank tops. It is harder to find such close matches because, like I said, I wear a popular size. “Really, you don’t have to do this.”

“Oh, just go get undressed,” Rebecca says, pointing to the cow stall. I walk inside and kick off my sneakers. The hay tangles in between my toes, prickling. Eloise sticks her head inside, which makes me embarrassed. I cross my arms in front of my chest. “Hello,” I say shyly.

Eloise throws two shoeboxes on the floor, a pair of leather woven sandals and a pair of black heeled shoes. They are both size eight. How did she know?

I check the price on each item of clothing before I try it on, a habit from shopping in expensive California boutiques that really is pointless here; nothing costs more than five dollars. The first dress I try on is too tight across the chest. I throw it onto the hay, disappointed. Somehow I had hoped that everything would look as perfect on me as it did on Rebecca.

The next piece of clothing is a cotton jumper along the same lines as the one Rebecca tried on. It is red and splashed with blue and pink flowers. There is a matching white linen top with buttons down the back and embroidered flowers on the collar and sleeves. I try it on with the sandals Eloise has given me and walk out of the stall. Rebecca claps. “You really like it?” There are no mirrors, so the only reflection I have is Rebecca’s opinion.

The last thing I try on is a lycra stretch tank dress, black. I put it on with heels. I don’t need a mirror for this one. The way it hugs my body, I know it’s bad. I can imagine sight unseen the places where my hips bulge out and where my tummy bloats. This is a dress for Rebecca’s body, not mine. “You want a laugh?” I say, calling to Rebecca.

She jumps off her underwear barrel and walks to the stall, holdingthe door open so that I don’t have to walk out. “Who’d believe it? My own mother is a fox.”

“Tell me you don’t see my hips or my butt. Tell me my stomach doesn’t look like a tire.”

Rebecca shakes her head. “I wouldn’t tell you this if you I didn’t think you looked good.” She points to my hip and addresses Eloise. “What do you do about those panty lines?”

Eloise holds up a finger, runs to the underwear barrel, and retrieves the leopard G-string. She snaps it at me, as insubstantial as milkweed. “No way,” I say to Rebecca. “I’m not getting into that.”

“Just try it. You don’t have to get it if you don’t like it.”

I sigh and pull on the slim skirt. I wiggle my underpants off over the shoes and hold the leopard ones up to the light. “The little patch of fabric goes in the front,” Rebecca says.

“How do you know that?” I stand on one leg and then the other. I pull up the G-string and discover, to my surprise, comfort. Between my legs I can barely feel the thin material of the underwear, covering me. I wriggle the skirt back down, and pace a few steps to get used to the feel of fabric against the skin of my rear end. Then I open the door.

“What a knockout,” Eloise says.

Rebecca turns to her. “We’ll take that.”

The whole ensemble costs no more than four dollars. “We will not . Where am I going to wear something like that?” I strip the skinny slip of material off my body so that I am standing braless, in this G-string. “It’s a waste of money.”

“Like four dollars is going to break you,” Rebecca says.

As we are arguing, Eloise reappears with a flimsy rose-colored sheath. “I thought you might like this. You didn’t buy a nightgown, after all.”

I lift the negligee from her hands. Soft, it slips to the floor, spilled on the hay like a broken flower.

Do you know the way there are certain things you try on, once or twice in a lifetime of shopping, and before you even see yourself you are convinced you have never looked so good in your life? I did not feel that way about the black dress, which Rebecca raved about. But this satin sheath, with its braided spaghetti straps and slit up the side, breathes with me.

Before I step outside to show Rebecca I run my hands up my sides. I touch my own breasts. I spread my legs apart, enjoying the way satin slides across hot and bothered skin. So this is what it feels like to be sexy.

I wore something like this on my wedding night, a white teddy with lace at the neck and six fabric buttons down the front. Oliver and I checked into the Hotel Meridien in Boston. Upstairs, Oliver did not comment on the teddy. He ripped it during foreplay, and after we had checked out I realized we had left it on the floor of the honeymoon suite.

I know before I open the door to reveal myself to Rebecca that I am taking this. If I could, I’d wear this one out of the store, and drive down the highways of the Midwest feeling the satin rub in between my thighs each time I shifted gears. I strike a dramatic pose, arched against the back wall of the cow stall.

Rebecca and Eloise applaud. I take a bow. I close the door behind me and very slowly pull the negligee over my head. Talk about a waste of money. The truth is, I’ve left the only man I’ve ever slept with. So who am I going to wear it for?

I start to pull on a pair of the cotton underwear I am going to buy when I stop, and step out of it, and try on the G-string instead. I pull my shorts over this, and button them and zip the fly. When I take a step forward to lace up my sneakers, there is a forbidden sensation of freedom. I feel like I am hiding a secret that no one has to know.

Now that I have ascertained that Jane and Rebecca are on their way to Iowa, I am much less worried by my situation. Today, in fact, I took two spare hours and called the Institute, taking messages down on a small bedside pad at the Holiday Inn.

I will not pat myself on the back yet; it is not the mark of a good scientist to congratulate himself before he comes to a conclusion, an endpoint. But nonetheless I consider this my finest work to date. Starting with next to nothing, I have beat Jane to the punch, if you will-I’ve discovered where she is headed before she even realizes she is headed there. Jane is the type who will be driving through Iowa, and then, having remembered her daughter’s plane crash, will turn off the road at the spur of the moment. Of course it no longer matters. Because when she turns off the road I will be there, and I will take her back to San Diego. It is where she belongs. If my calculations go according to plan, I will be home in time to catch the start of the humpback migration to the breeding grounds of Hawaii.

This morning I spoke to Shirley at the office and asked her to help me with some research. The poor girl was near tears when she heard my voice, for Christ’s sake, it’s only been four working days. I told her to ask a reference librarian in town to help her find microfiche files on the crash of Flight 997, Midwest Airlines, in September 1978. She was to record as much precise information about the site of the crash as possible. Then she was to take the data and call the State Department of Iowa, and using the Institute’s clout, find out the names of the owners of the surrounding farms. Presumably, in two days when I contact her again, I will know whose land I have to stake out.