My Sister's Keeper

by Jodie Picoult

  Sara turns. "Well, yes."

  I glance down at Anna, incredulous. "And you neglected to mention this?"

  "You never asked," she whispers.

  The clerk gives us each an Entry of Appearance form, and summons the sheriff.

  "Vern." Sara smiles. "Good to see you again."

  Oh, this just keeps getting better.

  "Hey!" The sheriff kisses her cheek, shakes hands with the husband. "Brian."

  So not only is she an attorney; she also has all the public servants in the palm of her hand. "Are we finished with Old Home Day?" I ask, and Sara Fitzgerald rolls her eyes at the sheriff: The guy's a jerk, but what are you gonna do? "Stay here," I tell Anna, and I follow her mother back toward chambers.

  Judge DeSalvo is a short man with a monobrow and a fondness for coffee milk. "Good morning," he says, waving us toward our seats. "What's with the dog?"

  "He's a service dog, Your Honor." Before he can say anything else, I leap into the genial conversation that heralds every meeting in chambers in Rhode Island. We are a small state, smaller still in the legal community. It is not only conceivable that your paralegal is the niece or sister-in-law of the judge with whom you're meeting; it's downright likely. As we chat, I glance over at Sara, who needs to understand which of us is part of this game, and which of us isn't. Maybe she was an attorney, but not in the ten years I've been one.

  She is nervous, pleating the bottom of her blouse. Judge DeSalvo notices. "I didn't know you were practicing law again."

  "I wasn't planning to, Your Honor, but the complainant is my daughter."

  At that, the judge turns to me. "Well, what's this all about, Counselor?"

  "Mrs. Fitzgerald's youngest daughter is seeking medical emancipation from her parents."

  Sara shakes her head. "That's not true, Judge." Hearing his name, my dog glances up. "I spoke to Anna, and she assured me she really doesn't want to do this. She had a bad day, and wanted a little extra attention." Sara lifts a shoulder. "You know how thirteen-year-olds can be."

  The room grows so quiet, I can hear my own pulse. Judge DeSalvo doesn't know how thirteen-year-olds can be. His daughter died when she was twelve.

  Sara's face flames red. Like the rest of this state, she knows about Dena DeSalvo. For all I know, she's got one of the bumper stickers on her minivan. "Oh God, I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"

  The judge looks away. "Mr. Alexander, when was the last time you spoke with your client?"

  "Yesterday morning, Your Honor. She was in my office when her mother called me to say it was a misunderstanding."

  Predictably, Sara's jaw drops. "She couldn't have been. She was jogging."

  I look at her. "You sure about that?"

  "She was supposed to be jogging …"

  "Your Honor," I say, "this is precisely my point, and the reason Anna Fitzgerald's petition has merit. Her own mother isn't aware of where she is on any given morning; medical decisions regarding Anna are made with the same haphazard—"

  "Counselor, can it." The judge turns to Sara. "Your daughter told you she wanted to call off the lawsuit?"

  "Yes."

  He glances at me. "And she told you that she wanted to continue?"

  "That's right."

  "Then I'd better talk directly to Anna."

  When the judge gets up and walks out of chambers, we follow. Anna is sitting on a bench in the hall with her father. One of her sneakers is untied. "I spy something green," I hear her say, and then she looks up.

  "Anna," I say, at the exact same moment as Sara Fitzgerald.

  It is my responsibility to explain to Anna that Judge DeSalvo wants a few minutes in private. I need to coach her, so that she says the right things, so that the judge doesn't throw the case out before she gets what she wants. She is my client; by definition, she is supposed to follow my counsel.

  But when I call her name, she turns toward her mother.

  ANNA

  I DON'T THINK ANYONE WOULD COME, to my funeral. My parents, I guess, and Aunt Zanne and maybe Mr. Ollincott, the social studies teacher. I picture the same cemetery we went to for my grandmother's funeral, although that was in Chicago so it doesn't really make any sense. There would be rolling hills that look like green velvet, and statues of gods and lesser angels, and that big brown hole in the ground like a split seam, waiting to swallow the body that used to be me.

  I imagine my mom in a black-veiled Jackie O hat, sobbing. My dad holding on to her. Kate and Jesse staring at the shine of the coffin and trying to plea-bargain with God for all the times they did something mean to me. It is possible that some of the guys from my hockey team would come, clutching lilies and their composure. "That Anna," they'd say, and they wouldn't cry but they'd want to.

  There would be an obituary on page twenty-four of the paper, and maybe Kyle McFee would see it and come to the funeral, his beautiful face twisted up with the what-ifs of the girlfriend he never got to have. I think there would be flowers, sweet peas and snapdragons and blue balls of hydrangea. I hope someone would sing "Amazing Grace," not just the famous first verse but all of them. And afterward, when the leaves turned and the snow came, every now and then I would rise in everyone's minds like a tide.

  At Kate's funeral, everyone will come. There will be nurses from the hospital who've gotten to be our friends, and other cancer patients still counting their lucky stars, and townspeople who helped raise money for her treatments. They will have to turn mourners away at the cemetery gates. There will be so many lush funeral baskets that some will be donated to charity. The newspaper will run a story of her short and tragic life. Mark my words, it will be on the front page.

  Judge DeSalvo's wearing flip-flops, the kind soccer players wear when they take off their cleats. I don't know why, but this makes me feel a little better. I mean, it's bad enough I'm here in this courthouse, being led toward his private room in the back; there's something nice about knowing that I'm not the only one who doesn't quite fit the part.

  He takes a can from a dwarf fridge and asks me what I'd like to drink. "Coke would be great," I say.

  The judge opens the can. "Did you know that if you leave a baby tooth in a glass of Coke, in a few weeks it'll completely disappear? Carbonic acid." He smiles at me. "My brother is a dentist in Warwick. Does that trick every year for the kindergartners."

  I take a sip of the Coke, and imagine my insides dissolving. Judge DeSalvo doesn't sit down behind his desk, but instead takes a chair right next to me. "Here's the problem, Anna," he says. "Your mom is telling me you want to do one thing. And your lawyer is telling me you want to do another. Now, under normal circumstances, I'd expect your mother to know you better than some guy you met two days ago. But you never would have met this guy if you hadn't sought him out for his services. And that makes me think that I need to hear what you think about all this."

  "Can I ask you something?"

  "Sure," he says.

  "Does there have to be a trial?"

  "Well… your parents can just agree to medical emancipation, and that would be that," the judge says.

  Like that would ever happen.

  "On the other hand, once someone files a petition—like you have—then the respondent—your parents—have to go to court. If your parents really believe you're not ready to make these kinds of decisions by yourself, they have to present their reasons to me, or else risk having me find in your favor by default."

  I nod. I have told myself that no matter what, I'm going to keep cool. If I fall apart at the seams, there's no way this judge will think I'm capable of deciding anything. I have all these brilliant intentions, but I get sidetracked by the sight of the judge, lifting his can of apple juice.

  Not too long ago, when Kate was in the hospital to get her kidneys checked out, a new nurse handed her a cup and asked for a urine sample. "It better be ready when I come back for it," she said. Kate—who isn't a fan of snotty demands—decided the nurse needed to be taken down a peg. She sent me out on a mission to the ve
nding machines, to get the very juice that the judge is drinking now. She poured this into the specimen cup, and when the nurse came back, held it up to the light. "Huh," Kate said. "Looks a little cloudy. Better filter it through again." And then she lifted it to her lips and drank it down.

  The nurse turned white and flew out of the room. Kate and I, we laughed until our stomachs cramped. For the rest of that day, all we had to do was catch each other's eye and we'd dissolve.

  Like a tooth, and then there's nothing left.

  "Anna?" Judge DeSalvo prompts, and then he sets that stupid can of Mott's down on the table between us and I burst into tears.

  "I can't give a kidney to my sister. I just can't."

  Without a word, Judge DeSalvo hands me a box of Kleenex. I wad some into a ball, wipe at my eyes and my nose. For a while, he's quiet, letting me catch my breath. When I look up I find him waiting. "Anna, no hospital in this country will take an organ from an unwilling donor."

  "Who do you think signs off on it?" I ask. "Not the little kid getting wheeled into the OR—her parents."

  "You're not a little kid; you could certainly make your objections known," he says.

  "Oh, right," I say, tearing up again. "When you complain because someone's sticking a needle into you for the tenth time, it's considered standard operating procedure. All the adults look around with fake smiles and tell each other that no one voluntarily asks for more needles." I blow my nose into a Kleenex. "The kidney—that's just today. Tomorrow it'll be something else. It's always something else."

  "Your mother told me you want to drop the lawsuit," he says. "Did she lie to me?"

  "No." I swallow hard.

  "Then… why did you lie to her?"

  There are a thousand answers for that; I choose the easy one. "Because I love her," I say, and the tears come all over again. "I'm sorry. I'm really sorry."

  He stares at me hard. "You know what, Anna? I'm going to appoint someone who's going to help your lawyer tell me what's best for you. How does that sound?"

  My hair's fallen all over the place; I tuck it behind my ear. My face is so red it feels swollen. "Okay," I answer.

  "Okay." He presses an intercom button, and asks to have everyone else sent back.

  My mother comes into the room first and starts to make her way over to me, until Campbell and his dog cut her off. He raises his brows and gives me a thumbs-up sign, but it's a question. "I'm not sure what's going on," Judge DeSalvo says, "so I'm appointing a guardian ad litem to spend two weeks with her. Needless to say, I expect full cooperation on both of your parts. I want the guardian ad litem's report back, and then we'll have a hearing. If there's anything more I need to know at that time, bring it with you."

  "Two weeks…" my mother says. I know what she's thinking. "Your Honor, with all due respect, two weeks is a very long time, given the severity of my other daughter's illness."

  She looks like someone I do not recognize. I have seen her before be a tiger, fighting a medical system that isn't moving fast enough for her. I have seen her be a rock, giving the rest of us something to cling to. I have seen her be a boxer, coming up swinging before the next punch can be thrown by Fate. But I have never seen her be a lawyer before.

  Judge DeSalvo nods. "All right. We'll have a hearing next Monday, then. In the meantime I want Kate's medical records brought to—"

  "Your Honor," Campbell Alexander interrupts. "As you're well aware, due to the strange circumstances of this case, my client is living with opposing counsel. That's a flagrant breach of justice."

  My mother sucks in her breath. "You are not suggesting my child be taken away from me."

  Taken away? Where would I go?

  "I can't be sure that opposing counsel won't try to use her living arrangements to her best advantage, Your Honor, and possibly pressure my client." Campbell stares right at the judge, unblinking.

  "Mr. Alexander, there is no way I am pulling this child out of her home," Judge DeSalvo says, but then he turns to my mother. "However, Mrs. Fitzgerald, you cannot talk about this case with your daughter unless her attorney is present. If you can't agree to that, or if I hear of any breach in that domestic Chinese wall, I may have to take more drastic action."

  "Understood, Your Honor," my mother says.

  "Well." Judge DeSalvo stands up. "I'll see you all next week." He walks out of the room, his flip-flops making small sucking slaps on the tile floor.

  The minute he is gone, I turn to my mother. / can explain, I want to say, but it never makes its way out loud. Suddenly a wet nose pokes into my hand. Judge. It makes my heart, that runaway train, slow down.

  "I need to speak to my client," Campbell says.

  "Right now she's my daughter," my mother says, and she takes my hand and yanks me out of my chair. At the threshold of the door, I manage to look back. Campbell's fuming. I could have told him it would wind up like this. Daughter trumps everything, no matter what the game.

  World War III begins immediately, not with an assassinated archduke or a crazy dictator but with a missed left turn. "Brian," my mother says, craning her neck. "That was North Park Street."

  My father blinks out of his fog. "You could have told me before I passed it."

  "I did."

  Before I can even weigh the costs and benefits of entering someone else's battle again, I say, "/ didn't hear you."

  My mother's head whips around. "Anna, right now, you are the last person whose input I need or want."

  "I just—"

  She holds up her hand like the privacy partition in a cab. She shakes her head.

  On the backseat, I slide sideways and curl my feet up, facing to the rear, so that all I see is black.

  "Brian," my mother says. "You missed it again."

  When we walk in, my mother steams past Kate, who opened the door for us, and past Jesse, who is watching what looks like the scrambled Playboy channel on TV. In the kitchen, she opens cabinets and bangs them shut. She takes food from the refrigerator and smacks it onto the table.

  "Hey," my father says to Kate. "How're you feeling?"

  She ignores him, pushing into the kitchen. "What happened?"

  "What happened. Well." My mother pins me with a gaze. "Why don't you ask your sister what happened?"

  Kate turns to me, all eyes.

  "Amazing how quiet you are now, when a judge isn't listening," my mother says.

  Jesse turns off the television. "She made you talk to a judge? Damn, Anna."

  My mother closes her eyes. "Jesse, you know, now would be a good time for you to leave."

  "You don't have to ask me twice," he says, his voice full of broken glass. We hear the front door open and shut, a whole story.

  "Sara." My father steps into the room. "We all need to cool off a little."

  "I have one child who's just signed her sister's death sentence, and I'm supposed to cool off?"

  The kitchen gets so silent we can hear the refrigerator whispering. My mother's words hang like too-ripe fruit, and when they fall on the floor and burst, she shudders into motion. "Kate," she says, hurrying toward my sister, her arms already outstretched. "Kate, I shouldn't have said that. It's not what I meant."

  In my family, we seem to have a tortured history of not saying what we ought to and not meaning what we do. Kate covers her mouth with her hand. She backs out of the kitchen door, bumping into my father, who fumbles but cannot catch her as she scrambles upstairs. I hear the door to our room slam shut. My mother, of course, goes after her.

  So I do what I do best. I move in the opposite direction.

  Is there any place on earth that smells better than a Laundromat? It's like a rainy Sunday when you don't have to get out from under your covers, or like lying back on the grass your father's just mowed—comfort food for your nose. When I was little my mom would take hot clothes out of the dryer and dump them on top of me where I was sitting on the couch. I used to pretend they were a single skin, that I was curled tight beneath them like one large heart.
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  The other thing I like is that Laundromats draw lonely people like metal to magnets. There's a guy passed out on a bank of chairs in the back, with army boots and a T-shirt that says Nostradamus Was an Optimist. A woman at the folding table sifts through a heap of men's button-down shirts, sniffing back tears. Put ten people together in a Laundromat and chances are you won't be the one who's worst off.

  I sit down across from a bank of washers and try to match up the clothes with the people waiting. The pink panties and lace nightgown belong to the girl who is reading a romance novel. The woolly red socks and checkered shirt are the skanky sleeping student. The soccer jerseys and kiddie overalls come from the toddler who keeps handing filmy white dryer sheets to her mom, oblivious on a cell phone. What kind of person can afford a cell phone, but not her own washer and dryer?

  I play a game with myself, sometimes, and try to imagine what it would be like to be the person whose clothes are spinning in front of me. If I were washing those carpenter jeans, maybe I'd be a roofer in Phoenix, my arms strong and my back tan. If I had those flowered sheets, I might be on break from Harvard, studying criminal profiling. If I owned that satin cape, I might have season tickets to the ballet. And then I try to picture myself doing any of these things and I can't. All I can ever see is me, being a donor for Kate, each time stretching to the next.

  Kate and I are Siamese twins; you just can't see the spot where we're connected. Which makes separation that much more difficult.

  When I look up the girl who works the Laundromat is standing over me, with her lip ring and blue streaked dreadlocks. "You need change?" she asks.

  To tell you the truth, I'm afraid to hear my own answer.

  JESSE

  I AM THE KID WHO PLAYED with matches. I used to steal them from the shelf above the refrigerator, take them into my parents' bathroom. Jean Nate Bath Splash ignites, did you know that? Spill it, strike, and you can set fire to the floor. It burns blue, and when the alcohol is gone, it stops.

  Once, Anna walked in on me when I was in the bathroom. "Hey," I said. "Check this out." I dribbled some Jean Nate on the floor, her initials. Then I torched them. I figured she'd run screaming like a tattle-tale, but instead she sat right down on the edge of the bathtub. She reached for the bottle of Jean Nate, made some loopy design on the tiles, and told me to do it again.