Harvesting the Heart (69 page)

They fall into a deep sleep on the bed, on top of the comforter. Nicholas curls his body around Paige as though that might protect her from tomorrow. Even in his sleep he reaches for her, filling his hand with the curve of her breast, crossing her abdomen with his arm. In the middle of the night he wakes up, to find Paige staring at him. He wishes there were words to say the things he wants to say.

Instead he pulls her against him and begins to touch her again, much more slowly. In the back of his mind he thinks he should not be doing this, but he cannot stop himself. If he can take her away for a little while, if she can take
him
away, what's the harm? In his profession, he never stops fighting against impossible odds, but he learned a long time ago that not all outcomes can be controlled. He tells himself this is the reason he's trying so hard now not to become involved, not to let himself love. He can fight till he drops, yet somewhere in the back of his mind he understands the margins of his power.

Nicholas closes his eyes as Paige runs her tongue along the line of his throat and spreads her small hands across his chest. For a quick moment he lets himself believe that she belongs to him every bit as much as he belongs to her. Paige kisses the corner of his mouth. It is not about possession and limits. It is about giving everything until there's nothing left to give, and then searching and scraping until you find a little bit more.

Nicholas rolls over so that he and Paige are facing each other on their sides. They stare at each other for a long time, running their hands over familiar skin and whispering things that do not matter. They come together two more times that night, and Nicholas tallies their lovemaking silently. The first time is for forgiving. The second time is for forgetting. And the third time is for beginning all over again.

chapter
44

I
wake up in my own bed, in Nicholas's arms, and I have absolutely no idea how I got there.
Maybe,
I think to myself,
this has all been a bad dream.
For a moment I am almost convinced that if I walk down the hall I will find Max curled in his crib, but then I remember the hospital and last night, and I cover my head with the pillow, hoping to block out the light of day.

Nicholas stirs beside me. The white sheets contrast with his black hair, making him look immortal. As his eyes open, I have a fleeting memory of the night before, Nicholas's hands moving over my body like a running line of fire. I startle and pull the sheet up to cover myself. Nicholas rolls onto his back and closes his eyes.

“This probably shouldn't have happened,” I whisper.

“Probably not,” Nicholas says tensely. He rubs his hand across his jaw. “I called the hospital at five,” he says. “Max was still sleeping soundly, and his vitals were good. The prognosis is excellent. He'll be fine.”

He'll be fine.
I want to trust Nicholas more than anything, but I will not believe him until I see Max and he lifts his arms and calls for me. “Can we see him today?” I ask.

Nicholas nods. “At ten o‘clock,” he says, and then he rolls out of bed to step into paisley boxer shorts. “Do you want to use this bathroom?” he says quietly, and without waiting for an answer, he pads down the hall to the smaller one.

I stare at myself in the mirror. I am shocked by the shadows above my cheeks and the red cast of my eyes. I look around for my toothbrush, but of course it isn't there; Nicholas would have thrown it out months ago. I borrow his, but I can barely brush my teeth because my hands are shaking. The toothbrush clatters into the bowl of the sink and leaves a violent blue mark of Crest. I wonder how I ever became so incompetent.

Then I remember that stupid list of accomplishments I made the day I ran away from home. What had I said? Back then I could change a diaper, I could measure formula, I could sing my son to sleep. And now what can I do? I rummage in the drawers beneath the sink and find my old makeup bag, tucked into a corner behind Nicholas's unused electric razor. I pull out a blue eyeliner and throw the cap into the toilet. 1., I write on the mirror,
I can canter and jump and gallop a horse.
I tap the pencil to my chin.
2. I can tell myself I am not my mother.
I run out of space on the mirror, so I continue on the white Corian counters.
I can draw away my pain. I can seduce my own husband. I can
—I stop here and think that this is not the list I should be making. I pick up a green eye pencil and start writing where I left off, angrily listing the things I cannot do:
I cannot forget. I cannot make the same mistake twice. I cannot live this way. I cannot take the blame for everything. I cannot give up.

With my words covering the stark bathroom in flowered curlicues of green and blue, I become inspired. I take the pale-lime shampoo from the bathtub and smear it over the tiled walls; I draw pink lipstick hearts and orange Caladryl scrolls on the tank of the toilet. Nicholas comes in sometime after I am finishing a line of blue toothpaste waves and diving aloe vera dolphins. I flinch, expecting him to start yelling, but he just smiles. “I guess you're done with the shampoo,” he says.

Nicholas doesn't take the time to eat breakfast, which is fine with me, even though it is only eight o'clock. We may not be able to see Max right away, but I will feel better knowing I am closer to my child. We get into the car, and I notice Max's car seat pushed to the side; I wonder how it got that way. I wait for Nicholas to back out of the driveway, but he sits perfectly still, with his foot on the brake and his hand on the clutch. He looks down at the steering wheel as if it is something fascinating he has never seen before. “Paige,” he says, “I'm sorry about last night.”

I shiver involuntarily. What did I expect him to say?

“I didn't mean to—to do that,” Nicholas continues. “It's just that you were in such bad shape, and I thought—hell, I don't know what I was thinking.” He looks up at me, resolved. “It won't happen again,” he says.

“No,” I say quietly. “I suppose it won't.”

I look up and down the thin stretch of street that I once imagined I'd be living on for most of my life. I don't see actual objects, like trees and cars and fox terriers. Instead I see eddies of color, an impressionist painting. Green and lemon and mauve and peach: the edges of the world as I know it run muddy together. “I was wrong about you,” Nicholas is saying. “Whatever happens, Max belongs with you.”

Whatever happens.
I turn my face up to him. “And what about you?” I say.

Nicholas looks at me. “I don't know,” he says. “I honestly don't know.”

I nod, as though this is an answer I can accept, and turn away to look out my window as Nicholas backs out of the driveway. It is going to be a cold, crisp fall day, but memories of the night before are everywhere: eggshells scattered through the streets, shaving cream on residential windows, toilet paper festooned through the trees. I wonder how long it will take to come clean.

At the hospital, Nicholas asks about Max and is told that he's been moved to pediatrics. “That's a good start,” he murmurs, although he is not really speaking to me. He walks to a yellow elevator bank, and I follow close behind. The doors open, smelling of antiseptic and fresh linen, and we step inside.

An image comes to me quickly: I am in that Cambridge graveyard with Max, who is about three. He runs between the headstones and peeks from behind the monuments. It is my day off from classes; finally, I'm getting my bachelor's degree. Simmons College, not Harvard—and that doesn't matter. I am sitting while Max runs his fingers over the old grave markers, fascinated by the chips and gulleys of aging stone. “Max,” I call, and he comes over, sliding to his knees and getting grass stains on his overalls. I motion to the pad I've been drawing on, and we lay it across the flat marker of a revolutionary soldier. “You pick,” I say. I offer him an array of crayons. He takes the melon and the forest green and the violet; I choose the orange-yellow and the mulberry. He puts the green crayon in his hand and starts to color in the image of a pony I've done for him, a Shetland he'll ride that summer at my mother's. I cover his chubby hand with mine and guide his fingers gently over lines I have drawn for him. I feel my own blood running beneath his flushed skin.

The doors of the elevator hiss open, but Nicholas stands frozen. I wait for him to take charge, but nothing happens. I turn my head to look at him—he's never like this. Nicholas, coolheaded and unflappable, is scared to face what's coming. Two nurses pass. They peer into the elevator and whisper to each other. I can imagine what they are saying about me and about Nicholas, and it doesn't affect me at all. Another mark for my accomplishment list: I can stand on my own in a world that is falling apart. I can stand so well, I realize, that I can support someone else. “Nicholas?” I whisper, and I can tell by the flicker of his eyes that he has forgotten I am there but he's relieved to see me just the same. “It's going to be fine,” I tell him, and I smile for what seems like the first time in months.

The jaws of the elevator start to close again, but I brace them with my strength. “It's only going to get easier,” I say with confidence, and I reach across the distance to squeeze Nicholas's hand. He squeezes mine right back. We step off the elevator together and take those first steps down the hall. At Max's door, we stop and see him pink and quiet and breathing. Nicholas and I stand calmly at the threshold. We have all the time in the world to wait for our son to come around.

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bestselling author
Jodi Picoult

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