tea and soup and told Mia the stories behind c ertain objects in the house: the old oak trunk with the bullet stuck in the center, the basket-hilted sword hung over the fireplace, the red tartan bl anket that Mia was beginning to recognize as the Carrymuir MacDonald plaid. Then she'd tucked embroidered sheets around the cushions of the living roo m couch and had given Mia two pillows and one of the blankets and told her to sleep well.
Mia fell asleep with Kafka, the cat, tucked under her arm, and almost immed iately started dreaming of her strongest childhood memory: the time her par ents had left her behind.
Jodi Picoult
Mia had been four years old when they went for that walk in the woods. She had trailed behind them, passing in front when her parents stopped for se veral minutes to kiss in a copse of bushes. Knowing it would be a while, M
ia had wandered off to listen to the trees. She was sensitive to sounds--s he could hear blood running through veins or buds opening on flowers. So w hile her parents moaned in each other's arms, she flopped down on her bell y in the moss and waited for the telltale hum and stretch of bark as the b ranches sought out the afternoon sun. When she remembered to look up, her parents were gone.
She had tried to listen very carefully for the traces of their laughter on th e breeze, or of her father's fingers brushing her mother's neck, but the only sound she could distinguish was her own unsteady breathing. Mia had sat down and hugged her knees to her chest. It wasn't on purpose, she told herself. It wasn't their fault. It wasn't that they didn't love her eithe r; it was simply that they loved each other more.
After about three hours, she had wandered to a road, and a driver she did no t know took her to the closest police station. Mia could remember, even now, certain things about the officer: how nice he was when he helped her climb into the chair behind his desk; how his hair smelled of peppermint and did n ot wave in the wind. He had driven her home in a police cruiser and they wal ked in through the unlocked door. She poured him a glass of milk while they waited in the kitchen for her parents to appear. Mia had sat very quietly at the table, wondering if it was only she who could hear through the ceiling the rush of her mother's breath, the square pressure of the big four-poster on the bedroom floor, the pound and ache of her parents' love. . . . Mia woke up when she heard the first tumblers in the lock giving way. Quiet footsteps traced their way into the living room. Blinking, she let her eyes adjust to the darkness. She sat up to see Cameron MacDonald raise his arms o ver his head, stretch with an animal grace, and turn in her direction. His first thought was that Allie had been waiting up for him, and had fallen asleep on the couch. But he had talked to her at dinnertime; told her she'd best go to sleep. Years of instinct had him reaching for a gun belt he'd re moved in the kitchen, so his hand was riding on his hip when he realized he knew the woman on the couch.
She was wearing one of Allies nightgowns and her hair was in even greater d isarray than it had been when he'd first seen her in the flower shop. Her h ands clutched at a MacDonald plaid and her eyes were wide and bright. He tried to move, and couldn't.
Then she smiled at him, and with an instinct he could only consider self-pro tection, Cam whirled and ran up the stairs.
A Hie was asleep on her back, wearing a fine lawn nightgown blued by the l ight that was ribboning through the bedroom window. She was snoring. Cam h eld his breath and eased down beside her on the bed. He untied the laces a t the throat of the nightgown and gently peeled the fabric away, so that A llies breasts lay exposed like an offering.
He bent his head to her nipple, running his tongue along the edge until her hand came up to his hair. She made a small sound in the back of her throat a nd tried to sit up. "No," Cam whispered. "Just stay
Mia fell asleep with Kafka, the cat, tucked under her arm, and almost immed iately started dreaming of her strongest childhood memory: the time her par ents had left her behind.
Jodi Picoult
Mia had been four years old when they went for that walk in the woods. She had trailed behind them, passing in front when her parents stopped for se veral minutes to kiss in a copse of bushes. Knowing it would be a while, M
ia had wandered off to listen to the trees. She was sensitive to sounds--s he could hear blood running through veins or buds opening on flowers. So w hile her parents moaned in each other's arms, she flopped down on her bell y in the moss and waited for the telltale hum and stretch of bark as the b ranches sought out the afternoon sun. When she remembered to look up, her parents were gone.
She had tried to listen very carefully for the traces of their laughter on th e breeze, or of her father's fingers brushing her mother's neck, but the only sound she could distinguish was her own unsteady breathing. Mia had sat down and hugged her knees to her chest. It wasn't on purpose, she told herself. It wasn't their fault. It wasn't that they didn't love her eithe r; it was simply that they loved each other more.
After about three hours, she had wandered to a road, and a driver she did no t know took her to the closest police station. Mia could remember, even now, certain things about the officer: how nice he was when he helped her climb into the chair behind his desk; how his hair smelled of peppermint and did n ot wave in the wind. He had driven her home in a police cruiser and they wal ked in through the unlocked door. She poured him a glass of milk while they waited in the kitchen for her parents to appear. Mia had sat very quietly at the table, wondering if it was only she who could hear through the ceiling the rush of her mother's breath, the square pressure of the big four-poster on the bedroom floor, the pound and ache of her parents' love. . . . Mia woke up when she heard the first tumblers in the lock giving way. Quiet footsteps traced their way into the living room. Blinking, she let her eyes adjust to the darkness. She sat up to see Cameron MacDonald raise his arms o ver his head, stretch with an animal grace, and turn in her direction. His first thought was that Allie had been waiting up for him, and had fallen asleep on the couch. But he had talked to her at dinnertime; told her she'd best go to sleep. Years of instinct had him reaching for a gun belt he'd re moved in the kitchen, so his hand was riding on his hip when he realized he knew the woman on the couch.
She was wearing one of Allies nightgowns and her hair was in even greater d isarray than it had been when he'd first seen her in the flower shop. Her h ands clutched at a MacDonald plaid and her eyes were wide and bright. He tried to move, and couldn't.
Then she smiled at him, and with an instinct he could only consider self-pro tection, Cam whirled and ran up the stairs.
A Hie was asleep on her back, wearing a fine lawn nightgown blued by the l ight that was ribboning through the bedroom window. She was snoring. Cam h eld his breath and eased down beside her on the bed. He untied the laces a t the throat of the nightgown and gently peeled the fabric away, so that A llies breasts lay exposed like an offering.
He bent his head to her nipple, running his tongue along the edge until her hand came up to his hair. She made a small sound in the back of her throat a nd tried to sit up. "No," Cam whispered. "Just stay
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