{"product_id":"the-book-of-two-ways-isbn-9781984818355","title":"The Book of Two Ways","description":"\u003cb\u003e#1 \u003ci\u003eNEW YORK TIMES \u003c\/i\u003eBESTSELLER • From the author of \u003ci\u003eSmall Great Things\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eA Spark of Light\u003c\/i\u003e comes a \u003cb\u003e“powerful” (\u003ci\u003eThe Washington Post\u003c\/i\u003e)\u003c\/b\u003e novel about the choices that alter the course of our lives.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eLook for Jodi Picoult’s new novel, \u003ci\u003eBy Any Other Name, \u003c\/i\u003enow available!\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eNAMED ONE OF THE BEST BOOKS OF THE YEAR BY \u003ci\u003eMARIE CLAIRE\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Everything changes in a single moment for Dawn Edelstein. She’s on a plane when the flight attendant makes an announcement: Prepare for a crash landing. She braces herself as thoughts flash through her mind. The shocking thing is, the thoughts are not of her husband but of a man she last saw fifteen years ago: Wyatt Armstrong.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003eDawn, miraculously, survives the crash, but so do all the doubts that have suddenly been raised. She has led a good life. Back in Boston, there is her husband, Brian, their beloved daughter, and her work as a death doula, in which she helps ease the transition between life and death for her clients.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003eBut somewhere in Egypt is Wyatt Armstrong, who works as an archaeologist unearthing ancient burial sites, a career Dawn once studied for but was forced to abandon when life suddenly intervened. And now, when it seems that fate is offering her second chances, she is not as sure of the choice she once made.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003eAfter the crash landing, the airline ensures that the survivors are seen by a doctor, then offers transportation to wherever they want to go. The obvious destination is to fly home, but she could take another path: return to the archaeological site she left years before, reconnect with Wyatt and their unresolved history, and maybe even complete her research on The Book of Two Ways—the first known map of the afterlife.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003eAs the story unfolds, Dawn’s two possible futures unspool side by side, as do the secrets and doubts long buried with them. Dawn must confront the questions she’s never truly asked: What does a life well lived look like? When we leave this earth, what do we leave behind? Do we make choices . . . or do our choices make us? And who would you be if you hadn’t turned out to be the person you are right now?“A thrilling adventure . . . With Picoult’s stories, there is always something new to learn, and \u003ci\u003eThe Book of Two Ways\u003c\/i\u003e is no exception. . . . A fun and interesting read, one that will lead readers to both learn a lot and also ask themselves key questions about how to create happy lives for themselves during the short time we have on earth.”\u003cb\u003e—Associated Press\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “\u003ci\u003eThe Book of Two Ways\u003c\/i\u003e is a return for Picoult to the themes of her earliest books—motherhood, complicated romantic love. . . . Picoult, at this point in her career, could skillfully build tension in a broom closet, but the best part of this book is not the suspense; it’s the look at the complexity of a woman as she enters middle age. . . . Picoult always tells both sides of a story not with judgment, but with grace.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Washington Post\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Jodi Picoult fans rejoice! . . . \u003ci\u003eThe Book of Two Ways \u003c\/i\u003eis one story you won’t be able to put down.”\u003cb\u003e—CNN\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Asking life or death questions in perfect Picoult fashion.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eParade\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “[A] delightfully escapist, high-concept novel . . . \u003ci\u003eThe Book of Two Ways \u003c\/i\u003enearly spills over in its earnestness and emotion. . . . This is a book of big, burning questions such as what defines a great life.”\u003cb\u003e—BookTrib\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“Picoult’s fans will appreciate this multifaceted, high-concept work.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Picoult’s fans will be more than ready for this puzzle of a novel. . . . [They] will find heady themes to consider.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Jodi Picoult knows how to write allll the feels, and \u003ci\u003eThe Book of Two Ways\u003c\/i\u003e is no exception.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eCosmopolitan\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Unputdownable.”—\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eE! Online\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Riveting.”\u003cb\u003e—Womendotcom\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “If you didn’t already see Jodi’s name and preorder this one, let us convince you.”—\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eGood Housekeeping\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eJodi Picoult \u003c\/b\u003eis the #1 \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of twenty-nine novels, including \u003ci\u003eA Spark of Light\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eSmall Great Things\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eLeaving Time\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eThe Storyteller\u003c\/i\u003e,\u003ci\u003e Lone Wolf\u003c\/i\u003e,\u003ci\u003e Sing You Home\u003c\/i\u003e,\u003ci\u003e House Rules\u003c\/i\u003e,\u003ci\u003e Handle with Care\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eChange of Heart\u003c\/i\u003e,\u003ci\u003e Nineteen Minutes\u003c\/i\u003e, and \u003ci\u003eMy Sister’s Keeper\u003c\/i\u003e. She is also the author, with daughter Samantha van Leer, of two young adult novels, \u003ci\u003eBetween the Lines\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eOff the Page\u003c\/i\u003e. Picoult lives in New Hampshire.\u003cb\u003ePrologue\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy calendar is full of dead people. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e When my phone alarm chimes, I fish it out from the pocket of my cargo pants. I’ve forgotten, with the time change, to turn off the reminder. I’m still groggy with sleep, but I open the date and read the names: \u003ci\u003eIris Vale. Eun Ae Kim. Alan Rosenfeldt. Marlon Jensen\u003c\/i\u003e. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I close my eyes, and do what I do every day at this moment: I remember them. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Iris, who had died tiny and birdlike, had once driven a getaway car for a man she loved who’d robbed a bank. Eun Ae, who had been a doctor in Korea, but couldn’t practice in the United States. Alan had proudly showed me the urn he bought for his cremated remains and then joked, \u003ci\u003eI haven’t tried it on yet\u003c\/i\u003e. Marlon had changed out all the toilets in his house and put in new flooring and cleaned the gutters; he bought graduation gifts for his two children and hid them away. He took his twelve-year-old daughter to a hotel ballroom and waltzed with her while I filmed it on his phone, so that the day she got married there would be video of her dancing with her father. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e At one point, they were my clients. Now, they’re my stories to keep. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Everyone in my row is asleep. I slip my phone back into my pocket and carefully crawl over the woman to my right without disturbing her—air traveler’s yoga—to make my way to the bathroom in the rear of the plane. There I blow my nose and look in the mirror. I’m at the age where that’s a surprise, where I still think I’m going to see a younger woman rather than the one who blinks back at me. Lines fan from the corners of my eyes, like the creases of a familiar map. If I untangle the braid that lies over my left shoulder, these terrible fluorescent lights would pick up those first gray strands in my hair. I’m wearing baggy pants with an elastic waist, like every other sensible nearly-forty woman who knows she’s going to be on a plane for a long-haul flight. I grab a handful of tissues and open the door, intent on heading back to my seat, but the little galley area is packed with flight attendants. They are knotted together like a frown. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e They stop talking when I appear. “Ma’am,” one of them says, “could you please take your seat?” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt strikes me that their job isn’t really very different from mine. If you’re on a plane, you’re not where you started, and you’re not where you’re going. You’re caught in between. A flight attendant is the guide who helps you navigate that passage smoothly. As a death doula, I do the same thing, but the journey is from life to death, and at the end, you don’t disembark with two hundred other travelers. You go alone. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI climb back over the sleeping woman in the aisle seat and buckle my seatbelt just as the overhead lights blaze and the cabin comes alive. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Ladies and gentlemen,” a voice announces, “we have just been informed by the captain that we’re going to have a planned emergency. Please listen to the flight attendants and follow their directions.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI am frozen. \u003ci\u003ePlanned emergency\u003c\/i\u003e. The oxymoron sticks in my mind. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere is a quick rush of sound—shock rolls through the cabin—but no screams, no loud cries. Even the baby behind me, who shrieked for the first two hours of the flight, is silent. “We’re crashing,” the woman on the aisle whispers. “Oh my God, we’re crashing.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe must be wrong; there hasn’t even been turbulence. Everything has been normal. But then the flight attendants station themselves in the aisles, performing a strange, staccato ballet of safety movements as instructions are read over the speakers. \u003ci\u003eFasten your \u003ci\u003eseatbelts. When you hear the word \u003c\/i\u003ebrace, \u003ci\u003eassume the brace position. After the plane comes to a complete stop you’ll hear \u003c\/i\u003eRelease your seatbelts\u003ci\u003e. Get out. Leave everything behind.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003eLeave everything behind. \u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/i\u003eFor someone who makes a living through death, I haven’t given a lot of thought to my own. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI have heard that when you are about to die, your life flashes before your eyes. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut I do not picture my husband, Brian, his sweater streaked with inevitable chalk dust from the old-school blackboards in his physics lab. Or Meret, as a little girl, asking me to check for monsters under the bed. I do not envision my mother, not like she was at the end or before that, when Kieran and I were young. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eInstead, I see \u003ci\u003ehim. \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e As clearly as if it were yesterday, I imagine Wyatt in the middle of the Egyptian desert, the sun beating down on his hat, his neck ringed with dirt from the constant wind, his teeth a flash of lightning. A man who hasn’t been part of my life for fifteen years. A place I left behind. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA dissertation I never finished. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAncient Egyptians believed that to get to the afterlife, they had to be deemed innocent in the Judgment Hall. Their hearts were weighed against the feather of Ma’at, of truth. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI am not so sure my heart will pass. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe woman to my right is softly praying in Spanish. I fumble for my phone, thinking to turn it on, to send a message, even though I know there is no signal, but I can’t seem to open the button on my pants pocket. A hand catches mine and squeezes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI look down at our fists, squeezed so tight a secret couldn’t slip between our palms.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eBrace\u003c\/i\u003e, the flight attendants yell. \u003ci\u003eBrace! \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs we fall out of the sky, I wonder who will remember me.\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMuch later I would learn that when a plane crashes and the emergency personnel show up, the flight attendants tell them how many souls were on board. Souls, not people. As if they know our bodies are only passing through for a little while. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I would learn that one of the fuel filters became clogged midflight. That the second filter-clogging light came on in the cockpit forty-five minutes out, and in spite of what the pilots tried, they could not clear it, and they realized they’d have to do a land evacuation. I would learn that the plane came in short of Raleigh-Durham, sticking down in the football field of a private school. As it hit the bleachers with a wing, the plane tipped, rolled, broke into pieces. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMuch later I would learn of the family with the baby behind me, whose row of three seats separated from the floor and was thrown free from the aircraft, killing them instantaneously. I would hear about the six others who had been crushed as the metal buckled; the flight attendant who never came out of her coma. I would read the names of the passengers in the last ten rows who hadn’t gotten out of the broken fuselage before it erupted in flame. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI would learn that I was one of thirty-six people who walked away from the crash. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen I step out of the examination room of the hospital we’ve been taken to, I’m dazed. A woman in a uniform is in the hallway, talking to a man with a bandaged arm. She is part of an emergency response team from the airline that has overseen medical checks by physicians, given us clean clothes and food, and flown in frantic family members. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Ms. Edelstein?” she says, and I blink, until I realize she is talking to me. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA million years ago, I had been Dawn McDowell. I’d published under that name. But my passport and license read Edelstein. Like Brian’s. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn her hand she has a checklist of crash survivors. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe puts a tick next to my name. “Have you been seen by a doctor?” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Not yet.” I glance back at the examination room. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Okay. I’m sure you have some questions . . . ?” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat’s an understatement. \u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhy am I alive, when others aren’t?\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eWhy did I book this particular flight?\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eWhat if I’d been detained checking in, and had missed it?\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eWhat if I’d made any of a thousand other choices that would have led me far away from this crash? \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAt that, I think of Brian, and his theory of the multiverse. Somewhere, in a parallel timeline, there is another me at my own funeral. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAt the same time, I think—again, always—of Wyatt. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eI have to get out of here. \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI don’t realize I have said this out loud until the airline representative responds. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Once we get the doctor’s paperwork, you’re clear to leave. Is someone coming for you, or do you need us to make travel arrangements?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe, the lucky ones, have been told we can have a plane ticket anywhere we need to go—to our destination, back to where the flight originated, even somewhere else, if necessary. I have already called my husband. Brian offered to come get me, but I told him not to. I didn’t say why. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI clear my throat. “I have to book a flight,” I say.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Absolutely.” The woman nods. “Where do you need to go?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eBoston,\u003c\/i\u003e I think. \u003ci\u003eHome.\u003c\/i\u003e But there’s something about the way she phrases the question: \u003ci\u003eneed,\u003c\/i\u003e instead of \u003ci\u003ewant;\u003c\/i\u003e and another destination rises like steam in my mind.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI open my mouth, and I answer.#1 New York Times bestselling author of Small Great Things","brand":"Ballantine Books","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":47673457213669,"sku":"NP9781984818355","price":30.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781984818355_10ae80c5-28ed-41b2-afca-074534171aad.jpg?v=1767738488","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/the-book-of-two-ways-isbn-9781984818355","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}