Vanishing Acts by Jodi Picoult Page A

that I found myself in the backyard at Delia and Andrew's house, asleep in their hammock. What woke me was the sound of crying; Delia was sitting on the ground beside me, shredding pieces of grass with her hands. “I'm pregnant,” she said. My head was swimming underwater, my tongue was as thick as a mossy field, but immediately, I thought: She's mine, now. I stumbled out of the hammock and onto one knee. I tugged the ponytail elastic out of Delia's hair and doubled it up, then reached for her hand. “Delia Hopkins,” I said, “will you marry me?” I slid the makeshift ring onto her finger, and turned up the wattage on my smile. When she didn't answer-just curled up her knees and buried her head against them-I began to feel the butterfly beat of panic in the pit of my stomach. “Delia,” I said, swallowing. “Is it the baby? Do you want to ... to get rid of it?” The thought of a part of me taking root in her was miraculous to me, like finding an orchid growing in the cracks of a broken tenement sidewalk. But was willing to give that up in return for Delia. I would do anything for her.
When she looked at me, there was nothing in her eyes, as if she'd pulled free from her life the strand that was me. “I want the baby, Eric,” she said. “But I don't want you.”
Delia had complained about my drinking before, but since she hardly drank herself, it seemed impossible for her to be able to know what exactly constituted too much. She claimed she didn't like the smell of alcohol, but I thought it was loss of control she couldn't handle; and that seemed to be her hang-up, not mine. Sometimes she got angry enough to take a real stand, but it was a vicious cycle: Every time she swore she'd leave me, it would only send me spiraling down into a bottle, and eventually she'd come help me crawl back out to consciousness, swearing up one side and down another that it would never happen again, when we both knew that it would.
This time, though, she wasn't leaving on her own behalf, but someone else's. For a long time after she walked away, I sat on the lawn in her backyard, balancing the truth between my shoulders like Atlas's weight. When I finally headed home, I looked up the information for Alcoholics Anonymous, and went to a meeting that night. It took me some time, but eventually I realized why Delia said no to my proposal. I had asked her to spend the wrong life with me, but at any moment, a person might start over from scratch.
I would like to take the time to find Delia, but right now I can't. I make one phone call: to the prosecutors in Arizona. The canned voice I reach informs me that the Maricopa County Attorney's office hours are from nine a.m. to five p.m. I glance at my watch, and realize that in Arizona it's only seven in the morning. I leave a message, informing whoever needs to know that I am representing Andrew Hopkins, that he has waived extradition here in New Hampshire district court in return, we hope, for a speedy transport.
Then I head downstairs to the sheriff's office, where Andrew is temporarily occupying a six-foot-square space. “I need to see Delia,” he says.
“That's not an option right now.”
“You don't understand–”
“You know, Andrew, as the parent of a four-year-old ... I honestly don't.” This brings back yesterday's conversation, and his confession. Andrew, wisely, changes the subject. “When do we leave for Arizona?”
“It's their call. It could be tomorrow; it could be a month from now.”
“And in the meantime?”
“You get luxurious accommodations provided by the State of New Hampshire. And you get to meet with me, so we can figure out what we're going to do in Phoenix. Right now, I have no idea what evidence the prosecution has. Until I can put together the pieces, we'll just enter a not guilty plea and figure out the rest later.”
“But,” Andrew says, “what if I want to plead guilty?” In the history of my career, I have met only one defendant who didn't at least