Free The Pact by Jodi Picoult Page B

his father away. “Let go,” he panted.
    “Chris,” James said, struggling. “Don't.”
    “I can sign myself out.”
    “They won't let you,” Gus said. “They know today's the funeral.”
    “You can't do this!” Chris shouted, jerking away from James and cuffing him on the jaw with his arm. James staggered back, holding his hand to his mouth, and Chris ran out of the room. Gus tore after him. “Stop him,” she yelled to the nurses at the main desk. She heard a flurry of activity behind her, but she could not take her eyes off Chris. Not when the locked doors did not give way to his titan pulls; not when the orderlies twisted his arms behind his back and plunged a needle into his biceps; not when he slumped to the floor, with the glitter of accusations in his eyes and the taste of Emily's name on his lips.
    It had been Michael's plan to sit shiva following the burial service. Because Melanie had refused to have anything to do with the preparations, it had fallen to Michael to order bagels and lox, salads, coffee and cookies. Some neighbor-not Gus-had arranged the food on the dining room table by the time they returned from the cemetery.
    Melanie went straight upstairs with her bottle of Valium. Michael sat on the living room couch, accepting the condolences of his dentist, a veterinary colleague, some clients. Emily's friends. They approached in a pack, a swelling, amorphous mass that looked as if it might part at any minute to reveal his daughter in its center. “Mr. Gold,” one girl said-Heather or Heidi, Michael thought-her sad eyes a faded liberty blue, “we don't know how this could have happened.” She touched his hand, her own palm milk-soft. Her hand was the same size as Emily's.
    “I didn't see it either,” Michael replied, realizing for the first time how true that was. On the surface, Em had been busy and bright, a beautiful tempest of a teenager. He'd liked what he'd seen, so he never thought to dig deeper. Too frightening to unearth the specters of drugs, of sex, of adult choices that he didn't yet want her to be making.
    He was still holding Heather's hand. Her fingernails were small ovals, pale seashells you might stash in a pocket. Michael raised the girl's hand to his face, and cradled it against his cheek. The girl leaped backward, snatching away her hand, her fingers recoiling, her cheeks flushed. She turned away, swallowed immediately by a fold in the group of her friends.
    Michael cleared his throat, wanting to say something. But what? You reminded me of her. 1 was wishing you were my daughter. Nothing seemed right. He stood and made his way past wellwishers and teary relatives to the foyer. “Excuse me,” he said in a commanding voice. He waited until every eye was turned toward him. “On behalf of Melanie and myself, I'd like to thank you for coming today. We, uh, appreciate your kind words and your support. Please stay as long as you like.”
    And then, to the incredulous stares of fifty people who knew him well, Michael Gold left his own home.
    THERE WERE TWO visiting sessions in the locked psychiatric ward; one at nine-thirty in the morning, and one at three. Chris's mother not only managed to be there for both of them, but also sweet-talked the nurses into letting her stay past the allotted time for a visit, so that when he came back from speaking with a psychiatrist or taking a shower in the communal bathroom, he'd often find her still there and waiting.
    But when Chris woke up from his medically induced stupor on the day of Emily's funeral, his mother was not there. He didn't know if this was because it was not yet three, if the doctors had prohibited her visit in light of the morning drama, or if she was just plain scared to show up after screwing him over like that. He inched up in bed and scrubbed his hand over his face. The inside of his mouth felt like sandpaper and his mind was wheeling, as if a fly were spirographing around inside his head.
    A nurse carefully pushed open