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

But when I feel Sam wrap his arms around my waist, and gently run his fingers over my ribs; when I feel him already hard, pushing against my thigh, I start to cry.

“What is it? What’s the matter?” Sam pulls me against him. “Did I do something?”

“No.” I try to catch my breath. I cannot tell him. I haven’t told anyone. But suddenly I don’t want to carry it around anymore, like Atlas’s weight. “When I was little,” I hear myself murmur against his skin. My voice sounds foreign, like I am listening, again, from that far corner, but as I speak I seem to be coming closer.

Sam holds me at arm’s distance then, and I witness the most amazing thing. He is staring at me, puzzled, waiting for me to tell him about my father. But all I have to do is raise my eyes to his, and look at him, really look at him. And I realize from his gaze that he isn’t waiting for an explanation anymore. “I know,” he says then, sounding surprised at his own words. “I know about your father. I don’t know why, but just then I could tell what you were going to say.” He swallows hard.

“How?” My mouth forms the word but there is no sound.

“I-I don’t know how to explain it,” Sam says. “I can see it in you.” Then he winces, and draws back, as if he has been stricken. “You were just a kid,” he whispers.

He holds me tight, and I hold him back. He is shivering, having found pieces of me that have been missing, having found parts of himself he didn’t know existed. The whole time, I cry like I have never cried before; tears I did not cry when I was nine and Daddy came into my room, tears I did not cry at my father’s funeral. Sam unbuttons the silk nightgown I am wearing, and slides it off my shoulders. He guides my hands to inch off his shorts. Our skin is iridescent in the dark. Sam reaches his hand between my legs. I cover his hand with my own; I urge him. He slips one finger inside me, moist and blossoming, and all the while he is watching my face. Is this all right? Just like that, he has found my center. Sam kisses away my tears, and then he kisses me. Like salt, I can taste my pain, my shame, on his lips.

She is so beautiful, lying here on my bed. And so sad. She keeps trying to turn her face, to hide in the pillow. But I can’t let her do that, not knowing what I now know. I am taking Jane with me every step of the way.

I close my eyes and kiss her neck, her breasts, the curve of her hip. I breathe lightly inside her thighs, knowing she can feel it. That is when she takes my hand, guides me inside her. I watch her face the entire time. I ask her if this is all right. But she holds my wrist, insisting, and so I go as tenderly as I can. Inside is hot, pulsing. I can feel myself getting harder; I rub against her leg. When I think I am going to lose control I pull away, and run my tongue over her nipples. Her eyes are open, but she isn’t looking at anything. She does not make any noise. Sometimes I think she is forgetting to breathe.

Then she sits up and reaches for me. She slides her palms up and down. Her touch is feather-light, teasing. When I can’t take it anymore I fall down on the bed, grab her roughly and kiss her. She tastes of mint and honey. Once I begin I cannot stop; I crush my mouth against hers, bruising. She pushes me away, gasping, and then she kisses me again. She rubs against me, wrapping her arms around my hips. I will not let her go. I drink her in, every inch that I can touch, and I watch to see her back arch, knotted by pleasure.

We become a twist of arms and legs. It takes a moment to see that she is moving, tunneling low, running her fingers over my body like the feeding seam of a sewing machine. She stops, looks up at me once, and then takes me into her mouth.

It is like a warm sponge, wrapped around, and she moves up and down, and the wonderful thing is: I can feel the line of her teeth; I can feel the nut of her tongue. I try to reach for her; to do something for her that feels as good as this does for me-but all I can touch are her shoulders. Her hair is spread over my hips like a dark fan. She begins to go faster and faster. I close my eyes, thinking of rhythm. I move my hips with her. This is going to be it; this is going to be it, but I want more. Gasping, I pull her hands from my sides to slide her up my body and that is when I see her ring.

It has been there the entire time, but I didn’t notice. It’s thin, gold. It looks permanent. She follows my gaze to her left hand. “Throw it out,” she whispers, “I don’t care.” She rolls away from me and tugs it off, setting it spinning on the nightstand. She rubs her finger, as if she is trying to erase the memory. But there is a thin white line where she hasn’t tanned.

She takes that hand and brushes hair away from my face. I can’t help it, I flinch-it’s got me thinking again. She leans over to kiss my chest, and then she buries her face in a blanket. “I just want to be yours,” she says.

I turn her so that she is facing me again. We start to kiss, touching together with the sound of a sigh. This time, our eyes are open, because we don’t want to miss seeing each other. I become aware of her hands on my hips, lowering me. She wraps her legs around me, and eases me inside her, and that is when I understand what it is to feel whole.

She closes around me like a soft throat. So this is what love is like. So this is the way all the pieces come together. All my blood is pouring towards my hips, pounding out of rhythm. I cannot press any closer to her, but I’m trying. I want to be contained, to come through to her other side. We cling to each other, heat steaming from our bodies.

I start to feel it building up, insistent and demanding. She opens her eyes wide, looking at me in wonder. This is the image that I carry when I crush her to me, and feel myself explode just as she tightens around me.

We stay like that for a long time. Neither of us wants to speak. I kiss her on the forehead. Astonished, that’s the way she’s watching me. And I suppose it’s the way I’m watching her too. When she shifts under my weight I move, wincing as we are ripped apart. It just doesn’t feel the same. Now that I know what it is like to feel complete, it’s no good to be by myself.

This diner has velvet Elvises on the walls. Two waitresses are sharing a cigarette and talking about Elvis. The place is empty.

“Vera saw him,” the fat waitress says. “A party in Blue Dome.”

“Well Glory Be for Vera. He’s dead, I tell you. D-E-A-D. Dead.” The waitress turns to us. She has a nose ring. “Can I help you?”

“We can seat ourselves,” my mother offers. The waitresses are already ignoring her.

My mother and I don’t bother to read the menu. We’ve memorized it. We’re listening to these waitresses, and taking in the seventeen pictures of Elvis. They are the kind you buy on highways and they hang over each booth. In the one above our heads, Elvis wears a white jumpsuit and a belt whose buckle spells LOVE. He is gyrating, even on velvet.

“Elvis died when you were three,” my mother says, and both waitresses stare at us. “Well, theoretically .”

We order three sandwiches between us: chicken cutlet, meatballparmigiana, and tuna with swiss. We order Cokes and onion rings, potato skins. While this is all being cooked we go to the restrooms and wash up. Then while we eat our food, we plot the route from Idaho to Fishtrap, Montana, with spoons and forks and sugar packets. “It won’t take us more than a few hours,” I say, and my mother agrees.

“I figure we’ll be in Massachusetts in a week,” she says. “We’ll probably celebrate your birthday in Minnesota, at this rate.”

Minnesota. My birthday. I forgot about that. As the fat waitress brings us our food, I think about what my birthday might have been like. A big surprise party, maybe, out in our backyard. Maybe even a night cruise on one of my father’s Whale Watch boats from the Institute. With a DJ and a parquet dance floor laid down. Or maybe there’d be a huge wrapped package waiting at the foot of my bed when I woke up. Inside, a red dress with spaghetti straps and sequins, the kind I always want but my mother says makes me look like a child prostitute. And my father would promenade my mother into my bedroom-she’d be wearing a taffeta gown and he’d have on his fancy tuxedo with the pinstriped bow tie. We’d walk down to the limo, and we’d be off to the fanciest restaurant for steamed lobster. And at the table, the waiter would be young and blond and gorgeous, and he’d hold out my chair for me and unfold my napkin and bring me a drink without questioning my age.