Maybe then it wouldn’t be quite so boring.
“We don’t have to go home just yet,” my father says. “The only times I’ve been to San Francisco, I’ve been stuck in business meetings. I haven’t really seen anything.”
He has apologized to my mother, and my mother has apologized to him. Or something like that. They spent a long time with their arms around each other, their whispered words a screen. It reminded me of the wild animals you see on HD television channels, the ones who find a long lost pack member and nuzzle and circle and huddle close for days, lest the other one disappear again.
There is quiet music in the restaurant; and women stroll across the lobby, their high heels kissing the marble. Businessmen hold folded newspapers beneath their arms and talk in languages I don’t understand. A waiter comes by with a fresh glass of orange juice for my father, before he’s even finished his first. “Maybe we should all move in here,” he jokes.
I listen to my family talk about how to spend the day, all the possibilities. And I cannot remember the last time we did this: made choices as a unit, instead of individuals.
I set my spoon on the edge of my oatmeal bowl. “What person,” I ask quietly, “would you most want to trade places with?”
At first, everyone keeps talking, and I figure they haven’t heard me. But then, one by one, they stop speaking. I bet they’re all going to laugh – it was one thing to play games at the table when we were younger, but now? I might as well have IDIOT written on my forehead.
“Bill Gates,” my father says. “For all the obvious reasons.”
Devon is next. “Brad Pitt. Helloooo , Angelina.”
We look at my mother, it’s her turn. “No one,” she says, smiling. “There isn’t a single person who’s got it better than me right now.”
I almost want to let her know, at that moment, that she was wrong all those years ago about the memory you’d keep. It isn’t the last best one you want to save; it’s the one you haven’t had yet. But I’ll have years to explain that. And I’ll have a lifetime to prove that even if an exotic destination has dazzling culture, stunning scenery, spectacular hotels, there’s something it can never be: your home.
My mother and father and brother, they’re all looking at me. I can’t remember the last time anyone was hanging on my words. I recall what I thought last night, when I first saw my mother: what if it turns out this isn’t about going back, but starting over?
What if ?
I open my mouth, and I tell them what they’re waiting to hear.
Books by Jodi Picoult
Songs of the Humpback Whale
Harvesting the Heart
Picture Perfect
Mercy
The Pact
Keeping Faith
Plain Truth
Salem Falls
Perfect Match
Second Glance
My Sister's Keeper
Vanishing Acts
The Tenth Circle
Nineteen Minutes
Change of Heart
Handle With Care
House Rules
Sing You Home
Leaving Time
“We don’t have to go home just yet,” my father says. “The only times I’ve been to San Francisco, I’ve been stuck in business meetings. I haven’t really seen anything.”
He has apologized to my mother, and my mother has apologized to him. Or something like that. They spent a long time with their arms around each other, their whispered words a screen. It reminded me of the wild animals you see on HD television channels, the ones who find a long lost pack member and nuzzle and circle and huddle close for days, lest the other one disappear again.
There is quiet music in the restaurant; and women stroll across the lobby, their high heels kissing the marble. Businessmen hold folded newspapers beneath their arms and talk in languages I don’t understand. A waiter comes by with a fresh glass of orange juice for my father, before he’s even finished his first. “Maybe we should all move in here,” he jokes.
I listen to my family talk about how to spend the day, all the possibilities. And I cannot remember the last time we did this: made choices as a unit, instead of individuals.
I set my spoon on the edge of my oatmeal bowl. “What person,” I ask quietly, “would you most want to trade places with?”
At first, everyone keeps talking, and I figure they haven’t heard me. But then, one by one, they stop speaking. I bet they’re all going to laugh – it was one thing to play games at the table when we were younger, but now? I might as well have IDIOT written on my forehead.
“Bill Gates,” my father says. “For all the obvious reasons.”
Devon is next. “Brad Pitt. Helloooo , Angelina.”
We look at my mother, it’s her turn. “No one,” she says, smiling. “There isn’t a single person who’s got it better than me right now.”
I almost want to let her know, at that moment, that she was wrong all those years ago about the memory you’d keep. It isn’t the last best one you want to save; it’s the one you haven’t had yet. But I’ll have years to explain that. And I’ll have a lifetime to prove that even if an exotic destination has dazzling culture, stunning scenery, spectacular hotels, there’s something it can never be: your home.
My mother and father and brother, they’re all looking at me. I can’t remember the last time anyone was hanging on my words. I recall what I thought last night, when I first saw my mother: what if it turns out this isn’t about going back, but starting over?
What if ?
I open my mouth, and I tell them what they’re waiting to hear.
Books by Jodi Picoult
Songs of the Humpback Whale
Harvesting the Heart
Picture Perfect
Mercy
The Pact
Keeping Faith
Plain Truth
Salem Falls
Perfect Match
Second Glance
My Sister's Keeper
Vanishing Acts
The Tenth Circle
Nineteen Minutes
Change of Heart
Handle With Care
House Rules
Sing You Home
Leaving Time
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