Handle With Care by Jodi Picoult Read Free Book Online Page A

set up your walker, with its tennis-ball feet, so that we can creep across the sidewalk, while behind us, their children swing from monkey bars and play dodgeball and do all the other ordinary things that would cause you to break. They smile at me, because they want to be polite or politically correct, but the whole time they are thinking, Thank God. Thank God it was her, instead of me.
    Your father says that I’m not being fair when I say things like this. That some people, when they ask, really do want to lend a hand. I tell him that if they really wanted to lend a hand, they wouldn’t bring macaroni casseroles—instead they’d offer to take Amelia apple picking or ice skating so that she can get out of the house when you can’t, or they’d rake the gutters of the house, which are always clogging up after a storm. And if they truly wanted to be saviors, they’d call the insurance company and spend four hours on the phone arguing over bills, so I wouldn’t have to.
    Sean doesn’t realize that most people who offer their help do it to make themselves feel better, not us. To be honest, I don’t blame them. It’s superstition: if you give assistance to the family in need…if you throw salt over your shoulder…if you don’t step on the cracks, then maybe you’ll be immune. Maybe you’ll be able to convince yourself that this could never happen to you.
    Don’t get me wrong; I am not complaining. Other people look at me and think: That poor woman; she has a child with a disability. But all I see when I look at you is the girl who had memorized all the words to Queen’s “Bohemian Rhapsody” by the time she was three, the girl who crawls into bed with me whenever there’s a thunderstorm—not because you’re afraid but because I am, the girl whose laugh has always vibrated inside my own body like a tuning fork. I would never have wished for an able-bodied child, because that child would have been someone who wasn’t you.
     
    The next morning I spent five hours on the phone with the insurance company. Ambulance trips were not covered by our policy; however, the hospital in Florida would not discharge anyone in a spica cast unless he or she was traveling by ambulance. It was a catch-22, but I was the only one who could see it, and it led to a conversation that felt like theater of the absurd. “Let me get this straight,” I said to the fourth supervisor I’d spoken with that day. “You’re telling me I didn’t have to take the ambulance; therefore you won’t cover the cost.”
    “That’s correct, ma’am.”
    On the couch, you were propped up on pillows, drawing stripes on your cast with markers. “Can you tell me what the alternative was?” I asked.
    “Apparently you could have kept the patient in the hospital.”
    “You do understand this cast is going to stay on for months. Are you suggesting I keep my daughter hospitalized for that long?”
    “No, ma’am. Just until transportation could be arranged.”
    “But the only transportation the hospital would allow us to leave in was an ambulance!” I said. By now your leg looked like a candy cane. “Would your policy have covered the additional stay?”
    “No, ma’am. The maximum number of nights allowed for injuries like these is—”
    “Yeah, we’ve been through that.” I sighed.
    “It seems to me,” the supervisor said tartly, “that given the option of paying for additional nights in the hospital or an unauthorized ambulance trip, you don’t have much to complain about.”
    I felt my cheeks flame. “Well, it seems to me that you are an enormous ass!” I yelled, and I slammed down the phone. I turned around and saw you, marker trailing out of your hand, precariously close to the fabric of the couch cushions. You were twisted like a pretzel, your lower half in the cast still facing forward, your head leaning back over your shoulder so that you could see out the window.
    “Swear jar,” you murmured. You had a canning jar that