Authors: Jodi Picoult
Handle With Care (33 page)
“Can I talk to you?” I said as I walked into the study where Charlotte was poring over the results of a search engine.
She jumped up. “I’m sorry. I know. You didn’t come here to film me surfing the Net for wheelchair tire patch kits.”
I closed the door behind me. “Forget about the camera, Charlotte. I was just upstairs with Willow, counting her piggy bank savings. She wants to give it to you. She’s trying to buy her way into your good graces.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Charlotte said.
“Why? What great leap of logic would you make if you were six years old and you knew that your mother had filed a lawsuit because something was wrong when you were born?”
“Aren’t you my lawyer?” Charlotte said. “Aren’t you supposed to be helping me instead of telling me I’m a rotten mother?”
“I am trying to help you. I don’t know how the hell I’m going to cobble together a video for the jury from this footage, to be honest. Because right now, if they saw it, they might feel sorry for Willow—but they’d hate you.”
Suddenly all of the fight went out of Charlotte. She sank back into the chair she’d been sitting on when I came into the room. “When you first mentioned wrongful birth, I felt like Sean did. Like it was the most disgusting term I’d ever heard in my life. All these years I’ve just gone along doing what needed to be done. I knew people watched me with Willow and thought, That poor girl. That poor mother. But you know, I never really pictured it that way. She was my baby and I was going to take care of her, and that was that.” Charlotte looked up at me. “Then, you and Robert Ramirez started talking, asking me questions. And I thought, Someone gets it. It felt like I’d been living underground, and for a moment, I’d been given this glimpse of the sky. Once you’ve seen that, how can you go back where you came from?”
I felt my cheeks burn. I knew exactly what Charlotte was talking about, and I did not like thinking I had anything in common with her. But I remembered the day when I’d been told I was adopted, when I realized there was another mother, another father out there somewhere I had never met. For years, even when it wasn’t in the forefront of my mind, it was still present, an itch just beneath the skin.
Lawyers were notorious for finding cases in the most unlikely places, especially ones with huge potential damages awards. But was the dissolution of this family really my fault? Had Bob and I created a monster?
“My mother’s in a nursing home now,” Charlotte said. “She can’t remember who I am, so I’ve become the keeper of the memories. I’m the one who tells her about the time she baked brownies for the entire senior class when I ran for student council, and how I won by a landslide. Or how she used to collect sea glass with me during the summer and put it in a jar next to my bed. I wonder what memories Willow will have to tell me, if it comes to that. I wonder if there’s a difference between being a dutiful mother and being a good mother.”
“There is,” I said, and Charlotte looked up at me, expectant.
Even if I couldn’t articulate the difference as an adult, as a child, I had felt it. I thought for a moment. “A dutiful mother is someone who follows every step her child makes,” I said.
“And a good mother?”
I lifted my gaze to Charlotte’s. “Is someone whose child wants to follow her.”
Interfering Agents:
A substance added to sugar syrup in order to prevent it from crystallizing.
We’ve all had a crystallizing moment, when suddenly everything begins to come together…whether we want it to or not. The same thing happens in the production of candy—there’s a time when the mixture starts to turn into something it wasn’t moments before. A single unincorporated sugar crystal can change the texture from smooth to grainy, and eventually, if you don’t prevent it, you get rock candy. But ingredients added to sugar syrup before boiling can keep that moment of crystallization from occurring. Common interfering agents are corn syrup, glucose, and honey; cream of tartar, lemon juice, or vinegar.
If it’s not candy you’re trying to prevent from becoming crystal clear—but, instead, your life—well, the best interfering agent is always a lie well told.
CRÈME CARAMEL
CARAMEL
1 cup sugar
1/3 cup water
2 tablespoons light corn syrup
¼ teaspoon lemon juice
CUSTARD
1½ cups whole milk
1½ cups light whipping cream
3 large eggs
2 large egg yolks
2/3 cup sugar
1½ teaspoons vanilla extract
Pinch of salt
You can make one large crème caramel, but I like to make individual ones in ramekins. To make the caramel, mix the sugar, water, corn syrup, and lemon juice in a medium nonreactive saucepan (a light-colored one, so you can see the color of the syrup). Simmer over medium-high heat, wiping the sides of the pan with a wet cloth to make sure there are no sugar crystals lurking that might cause crystallization. Cook for about 8 minutes, until the syrup turns from clear to gold, swirling the pan to make sure browning occurs evenly. Continue to cook for another 4 to 5 minutes, swirling the pan constantly, until large bubbles on the mixture’s surface turn honey-colored. Remove the pan immediately from the heat and pour a portion of the caramel into each of eight ungreased 5-or 6-ounce ovenproof ramekins. Allow the caramel to cool and harden, about 15 minutes. (Ramekins can be covered with plastic wrap and refrigerated for up to two days, but return them to room temperature before you move on to the next step.)
To make the custard, heat the milk and cream in a medium saucepan over medium heat, stirring occasionally until a thermometer in the liquid reads 160 degrees F. Remove the mixture from the heat. Meanwhile, whisk the eggs, yolks, and sugar in a large bowl until just combined. Whisk the warm milk mixture, vanilla, and salt into the egg mixture until just mixed but not foamy. Strain the mixture through a mesh sieve into a large measuring cup and set it aside.
Bring 2 quarts of water to a boil. Meanwhile, fold a dish towel to fit the bottom of a large roasting pan. Divide the reserved custard mixture among the ramekins and place the filled ramekins in the pan, making sure they do not touch. Set the pan on the center rack of a preheated 350 degree F oven. Fill the pan with boiling water to reach halfway up the ramekins and cover the entire pan loosely with aluminum foil, so that steam can escape. Bake 35 to 40 minutes, until a paring knife inserted halfway between the center and edge of the custard comes out clean.
Transfer the custards to a wire rack and cool to room temperature. To unmold, slide a paring knife around the outer edge of each custard, hold a serving plate over the top of the ramekin, invert, and shake gently to release the custard. Serve immediately.
Charlotte
August 2008
The 2008 Biennial Osteogenesis Imperfecta Convention was being held in Omaha, at a huge Hilton with a conference center, a big pool, and over 570 people who looked like you. As we walked into the registration area, I suddenly felt like a giant, and you turned to me from your wheelchair with the biggest smile on your face. “Mom,” you said, “I’m normal here.”
We’d never been to a conference before. We’d never been able to find the money to come to one. But Sean had not slept at our house in months—and although you hadn’t asked why, it had less to do with you not noticing than with you not wanting to hear the answer. Frankly, neither did I. Sean and I had not used the word separation, but just because you didn’t put a name to something did not mean it wasn’t there. Sometimes, I caught myself wondering what Sean would like for dinner, or picking up the phone to call his cell before I remembered not to. Your face lit up when he came to visit you; I wanted to give you something else to look forward to. So when the flyer for this conference came via email from the OI Foundation, I knew that I’d found the perfect prize.
Now, as I watched you eyeing a phalanx of girls your age roll by in their own wheelchairs, I realized we should have done this earlier. Even Amelia wasn’t making any sarcastic remarks—just taking in the small groups of people in wheelchairs, walkers, or on their own two feet, greeting each other like long-lost relatives. There were preteen girls—some who looked like Amelia, others who were short of stature, like you—taking pictures of each other with disposable cameras. Boys the same age
were terrorizing the escalators, teaching each other how to ride their wheelchairs up and down them.
A little girl with black ringlets walked up to you, her braces jingling. “You’re new,” she said. “What’s your name?”
“Willow.”
“I’m Niamh. It’s a weird name because there’s no v but it sounds like there is. You’ve got a weird name, too.” She looked up at Amelia. “Is this your sister? Does she have OI?”
“No.”
“Huh,” Niamh said. “Well, that’s too bad for her. The coolest programs are for kids like us.”
There were forty information sessions over a three-day weekend—everything from “Financial Planning for Your Special-Needs Child” to “Writing the IEP” and “Ask a Doctor.” You had your own Kids’ Club events—arts and crafts, scavenger hunts, swimming, video game competitions, how to be more independent, how to improve your self-esteem. I hadn’t been too keen on giving you up for a day’s activities, but they were staffed by nurses. Preteens with OI had Game Night, and The Adventures of Bone Boy and Milk Maid. Even Amelia could attend special talks for non-OI siblings.
“Niamh, there you are!” A teenage girl who looked about Amelia’s age came closer with a pack of kids trailing behind her. “You can’t just run off,” she said, grasping Niamh’s hand. “Who’s your friend?”
“Willow.”
The older girl crouched down so that she was eye level with you in your chair. “Nice to meet you, Willow. We’re just across the lobby over there playing Spit if you want to join us.”
“Can I?” you asked.
“If you’re careful. Amelia, can you push her—”
“I’ve got it.” A boy stepped forward and took the handles of your chair. He had dirty blond hair that swept into his eyes and a smile that could have melted a glacier—or Amelia, at whom he kept staring. “Unless you’re coming?”
Amelia, to my disbelief, blushed.
“Maybe later,” she said.
Although there had been handicapped-accessible rooms blocked out at the hotel, we didn’t book one. Amelia and I didn’t particularly want a
roll-in shower, and the idea of using a loaner shower seat for you made my skin crawl. You could easily clean up in the bathtub and wash your hair under the faucet. We’d attended the keynote speech, which was about current research on OI, and gone to a sprawling buffet dinner—one that included low tables so that wheelchair users or very small people could see and reach the food.
“Lights out,” I said, and Amelia buried herself under the covers, the iPod buds still in her ears. The screen glowed beneath the sheets. You rolled onto your side, your face already wreathed in dreams. “I love it here,” you said. “I want to stay here forever.”
I smiled. “Well, it won’t be much fun when all your OI friends go back home.”
“Can we come again?”
“I hope so, Wills.”
“Next time, can Dad come with us?”
I stared at the digital alarm clock as one number bled into the next. “I hope so,” I repeated.
This is how we wound up coming to the convention:
One morning, when you and Amelia were at school, I was baking. It was what I did when you were gone now; there was a Zen rhythm to beating together the sugar and the shortening, to folding in the egg whites, to scalding the milk. My kitchen steamed with the smells of vanilla and caramel, cinnamon and anise. I’d whisk royal icing; I’d roll out perfect pie crusts; I’d punch down dough. The more my hands moved, the less likely I was to let my mind wander.
Back then, it had been March—two months since Sean opted out of the lawsuit. For a few weeks after our row in the middle of the highway, I’d left the pillows and bedding on the fireplace hearth, a just-in-case, as close as I could come to an apology. He came to the house every now and then to see you girls, but when he did, I felt like I was intruding. I would balance my checkbook, I would clean the bathroom, while listening to your laughter downstairs.
This is what I wish I’d had the guts to say to him: I made a mistake, but so did you. Aren’t we even now?
Sometimes I missed Sean viscerally. Sometimes I was angry at him. Sometimes I just wanted to turn back time, to go back to the moment he
had asked, What do you think about a vacation to Disney World? But mostly I wondered why the head could move so swiftly while the heart dragged its feet. Even when I felt sure of myself and confident, even when I started to think that you girls and I would be fine on our own, I still loved him. It felt like anything else permanent that has gone missing: a lost tooth, a severed leg. You might know better, but that doesn’t keep your tongue from poking at the hole in your gum, or your phantom limb from aching.
So every morning I baked to forget, until the windows steamed and just breathing felt like sitting down at the finest table. I baked until my hands were red and raw and my nails were caked with flour. I baked until I stopped wondering why a lawsuit could move so exceedingly slowly. I baked until I didn’t wonder where next month’s mortgage payment would come from. I baked until it grew so hot in the kitchen that I wore only a tank top and jogging shorts under my apron, until I imagined myself under the golden dome of a flaky crust of my own making, wondering if Sean would break through before I suffocated.
Which is why I was stunned when the doorbell rang in the middle of a fleet of beignets. I was not expecting anyone—I had nothing to expect anymore, period. On the porch stood a stranger, making me even more aware of the fact that I was only half dressed and my hair was grayed with confectioners’ sugar.
“Are you Ms. Syllabub?” the man asked.
He was short and round, with a double chin and a matching curve to his receding hairline. He was holding a plastic bag full of my shortbread, tied with a green ribbon.
“That’s just a name,” I said. “But it’s not mine.”
