by Jodi Picoult
I put my foot down on top of a textbook. "Would you do it?"
"Tutor you? No way."
"Stop. At the car accident."
Her hands quieted. "Yeah. Because even if the law says that no one is responsible for anyone else, helping someone who needs it is the right thing to do."
I sat down beside her, close enough that the skin of her arm hummed right next to mine. "You really believe that?"
She looked down at her lap. "Yeah."
"Then how," I asked, "can you walk away from me?"
*
Afterward, I wipe my face with paper towels from the dispenser and fix my tie. Judge pads in tight circles beside me, the way he always does. "You did good," I tell him, patting the thick ruff of his neck.
When I get back into my office, Julia is gone. Kerri sits at the computer in a rare moment of productivity, typing. "She said that if you needed her, you could damn well come find her. Her words, not mine. And she asked for all the medical records." Kerri glances over her shoulder at me. "You look like shit."
"Thanks." An orange Post-it on her desk catches my attention. "Is this where she wants the records sent?"
"Yeah."
I slip the address into my pocket. "I'll take care of it," I say.
*
A week later, in front of the same grave, I unlaced Julia Romano's combat boots. I peeled away her camouflage jacket. Her feet were narrow and as pink as the inside of a tulip. Her collarbone was a mystery. "I knew you were beautiful under there," I said, and this was the first spot on her that I kissed.
*
The Fitzgeralds live in Upper Darby, in a house that could belong to any typical American family. Two-car garage; aluminum siding; Totfinder stickers in the windows for the fire department. By the time I get there, the sun is setting behind the roofline.
The whole drive over, I've tried to convince myself that what Julia said has absolutely no bearing on why I've decided to visit my client. That I was always planning to take this little detour before I headed home for the night.
But the truth is, in all the years I've been practicing, this is the first time I've paid a house call.
Anna opens the door when I ring the bell. "What are you doing here?"
"Checking up on you."
"Does that cost extra?"
"No," I say dryly. "It's part of a special promotion I'm doing this month."
"Oh." She crosses her arms. "Have you talked to my mother?"
"I'm trying my best not to. I assume she's not home?"
Anna shakes her head. "She's at the hospital. Kate got admitted again. I thought you might have gone over there."
"Kate's not my client."
This actually seems to disappoint her. She tucks her hair behind her ears. "Did you, like, want to come in?"
I follow her into the living room and sit down on the couch, a palette of cheery blue stripes. Judge sniffs the edges of the furniture. "I heard you met the guardian ad litem."
"Julia. She took me to the zoo. She seems all right." Her eyes dart to mine. "Did she say something about me?"
"She's worried that your mother might be talking to you about this case."
"Other than Kate," Anna says, "what else is there to talk about?"
We stare at each other for a moment. Beyond a client-attorney relationship, I am at a loss.
I could ask to see her room, except that there's no way in hell any male defense attorney would ever go upstairs alone with a thirteen-year-old girl. I could take her out to dinner, but I doubt she'd appreciate Cafe Nuovo, one of my favorite haunts, and I don't think I could stomach a Whopper. I could ask her about school, but it isn't in session.
"Do you have kids?" Anna asks.
I laugh. "What do you think?"
"It's probably a good thing," she admits. "No offense, but you don't exactly look like a parent."
That fascinates me. "What do parents look like?"
She seems to think about this. "You know how the tightrope guy at the circus wants everyone to believe his act is an art, but deep down you can see that he's really just hoping he makes it all the way across? Like that." She glances at me. "You can relax, you know. I'm not going to tie you up and make you listen to gangsta rap."
"Oh, well," I joke. "In that case." I loosen my tie and sit back on the pillows.
It makes a smile dart briefly across her face. "You don't have to pretend to be my friend or anything."
"I don't want to pretend." I run my hand through my hair. "The thing is, this is new to me."
"What is?"
I gesture around the living room. "Visiting a client. Shooting the breeze. Not leaving a case at the office at the end of the day."
"Well, this is new to me, too," Anna confesses.
"What is?"
She twists a strand of hair around her pinky. "Hoping," she says.
*
The part of town where Julia's apartment is located is an upscale area with a reputation for divorced bachelors, a point that irritates me the whole time I am trying to find a parking spot. Then the doorman takes one look at Judge and bars my path. "No dogs allowed," he says. "Sorry."
"This is a service dog." When that doesn't seem to ring a bell, I spell it out for him. "You know. Like Seeing Eye."
"You don't look blind."
"I'm a recovering alcoholic," I tell him. "The dog gets between me and a beer."
Julia's apartment is on the seventh floor. I knock on her door and then see an eye checking me out through the peephole. She opens it a crack, but leaves the chain in place. She has a kerchief wrapped around her head, and she looks like she's been crying.
"Hi," I say. "Can we start over?"
She wipes her nose. "Who the hell are you?"
"Okay. Maybe I deserve that." I glance at the chain. "Let me in, will you?"
She gives me a look, like I'm crazy or something. "Are you on crack?"
There is a scuffle, and another voice, and then the door opens wide and stupidly I think: There are two of her. "Campbell," the real Julia says, "what are you doing here?"
I hold up the medical records, still getting over the shock. How the hell is it that she never managed to mention, that entire year at Wheeler, having a twin?
"Izzy, this is Campbell Alexander. Campbell, this is my sister."
"Campbell . . ." I watch Izzy turn my name over on her tongue. At second glance, she really looks nothing like Julia at all. Her nose is a bit longer, her complexion not nearly the same shade of gold. Not to mention the fact that watching her mouth move doesn't make me hard. "Not the Campbell?"she says, turning to Julia. "From . . ."
"Yeah," she sighs.
Izzy's gaze narrows. "I knew I shouldn't let him in."
"It's fine," Julia insists, and she takes the files from me. "Thanks for bringing these."
Izzy waggles her fingers. "You can leave now."
"Stop." Julia swats her sister's arm. "Campbell is the attorney I'm working with this week."
"But wasn't he the guy who--"
"Yes, thanks, I have a fully functioning memory."
"So!" I interrupt. "I stopped off at Anna's house."
Julia turns to me. "And?"
"Earth to Julia," Izzy says. "This is self-destructive behavior."
"Not when it involves a paycheck, Izzy. We have a case together, that's it. Okay? And I really don't feel like being lectured by you about self-destructive behavior. Who called Janet for a mercy fuck the night after she dumped you?"
"Hey." I turn to Judge. "How about those Red Sox?"
Izzy stamps down the hall. "It's your suicide," she yells, and then I hear a door slam.
"I think she really likes me," I say, but Julia doesn't crack a smile.
"Thanks for the medical records. Bye."
"Julia--"
"Hey, I'm just saving you the trouble. It must've been hard training a dog to drag you out of a room when you need rescuing from some emotionally volatile situation, like an old girlfriend who's telling the
truth. How does it work, Campbell? Hand signals? Word commands? A high-pitched whistle?"
I look wistfully down the empty hallway. "Can I have Izzy back instead?"
Julia tries to push me out the door.
"All right. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to cut you off today in the office. But . . . it was an emergency."
She stares at me. "What did you say the dog's for?"
"I didn't." When she turns, Judge and I follow her deeper into the apartment, closing the door behind us. "So I went to see Anna Fitzgerald. You were right--before I took out a restraining order against her mother, I needed to talk to her."
"And?"
I think back to the two of us, sitting on that striped couch, stretching a web of trust between us. "I think we're on the same page." Julia doesn't respond, just picks up a glass of white wine on the kitchen counter. "Why yes, I'd love some," I say.
She shrugs. "It's in Smilla."
The fridge, of course. For its sense of snow. When I walk there and take out the bottle, I can feel her trying not to smile. "You forget that I know you."
"Knew," she corrects.
"Then educate me. What have you been doing for fifteen years?" I nod down the hallway toward Izzy's room. "I mean, other than cloning yourself." A thought occurs to me, and before I can even voice it Julia answers.
"My brothers all became builders and chefs and plumbers. My parents wanted their girls to go to college, and figured attending Wheeler senior year might stack the odds. I had good enough grades to get a partial scholarship there; Izzy didn't. My parents could only afford to send one of us to private school."
"Did she go to college?"
"RISD," Julia says. "She's a jewelry designer."
"A hostile jewelry designer."
"Having your heart broken can do that." Our eyes meet, and Julia realizes what she's said. "She just moved in today."
My eyes canvass the apartment, looking for a hockey stick, a Sports Illustrated magazine, a La-Z-Boy chair, anything telltale and male. "Is it hard getting used to a roommate?"
"I was living alone before, Campbell, if that's what you're asking." She looks at me over the edge of her wine glass. "How about you?"
"I have six wives, fifteen children, and an assortment of sheep."
Her lips curve. "People like you always make me feel like I'm underachieving."
"Oh yeah, you're a real waste of space on the planet. Harvard undergrad, Harvard Law, a bleeding heart guardian ad litem--"
"How'd you know where I went to law school?"
"Judge DeSalvo," I lie, and she buys it.
I wonder if Julia feels like it has been moments, not years, since we've been together. If sitting at this counter with me feels as effortless for her as it does for me. It's like picking up an unfamiliar piece of sheet music and starting to stumble through it, only to realize it is a melody you'd once learned by heart, one you can play without even trying.
"I didn't think you'd become a guardian ad litem," I admit.
"Neither did I." Julia smiles. "I still have moments where I fantasize about standing on a soapbox in Boston Common, railing against a patriarchal society. Unfortunately, you can't pay a landlord in dogma." She glances at me. "Of course, I also mistakenly believed you'd be President of the United States by now."
"I inhaled," I confess. "Had to set my sights a little lower. And you--well, actually, I figured you'd be living in the suburbs, doing the soccer mom thing with a bunch of kids and some lucky guy."
Julia shakes her head. "I think you're confusing me with Muffy or Bitsie or Toto or whatever the hell the names of the girls in Wheeler were."
"No. I just thought that . . . that I might be the guy."
There is a thick, viscous silence. "You didn't want to be that guy," Julia says finally. "You made that pretty clear."
That's not true, I want to argue. But how else would it look to her, when afterward, I wanted nothing to do with her. When, afterward, I acted just like everyone else. "Do you remember--" I begin.
"I remember everything, Campbell," she interrupts. "If I didn't, this wouldn't be so hard."
My pulse jumps so high that Judge gets to his feet and pushes his snout into my hip, alarmed. I had believed back then that nothing could hurt Julia, who seemed to be so free. I had hoped that I could be as lucky.
I was mistaken on both counts.
ANNA
IN OUR LIVING ROOM we have a whole shelf devoted to the visual history of our family. Everyone's baby pictures are there, and some school head shots, and then various photos from vacations and birthdays and holidays. They make me think of notches on a belt or scratches on a prison wall--proof that time's passed, that we haven't all just been swimming in limbo.
There are double frames, singles, 8 x 10s, 4 x 6s. They are made of blond wood and inlaid wood and one very fancy glass mosaic. I pick up one of Jesse--he's about two, in a cowboy costume. Looking at it, you'd never know what was coming down the pike.
There is Kate with hair and Kate all bald; one of Kate as a baby sitting on Jesse's lap; one of my mother holding each of them on the edge of a pool. There are pictures of me, too, but not many. I go from infant to about ten years old in one fell swoop.
Maybe it's because I was the third child, and they were sick and tired of keeping a catalog of life. Maybe it's because they forgot.
It's nobody's fault, and it's not a big deal, but it's a little depressing all the same. A photo says, You were happy, and I wanted to catch that. A photo says, You were so important to me that I put down everything else to come watch.
*
My father calls at eleven o'clock to ask if I want him to come get me. "Mom's going to stay at the hospital," he explains. "But if you don't want to be alone in the house, you can sleep at the station."
"No, it's okay," I tell him. "I can always get Jesse if I need something."
"Right," my father says. "Jesse." We both pretend that this is a reliable backup plan.
"How's Kate?" I ask.
"Still pretty out of it. They've got her drugged up." I hear him drag in a breath. "You know, Anna," he begins, but then there is a shrill bell in the background. "Honey, I've got to go." He leaves me with an earful of dead air.
For a second I just hold the phone, picturing my dad stepping into his boots and pulling up the puddle of pants by their suspenders. I imagine the door of the station yawning like Aladdin's cave, and the engine screaming out, my father in the front passenger seat. Every time he goes to work, he has to put out fires.
It's just the encouragement I need. Grabbing a sweater, I leave the house and head for the garage.
*
There was this kid in my school, Jimmy Stredboe, who used to be a total loser. He got zits on top of his zits; he had a pet rat named Orphan Annie; and once in science class he puked into the fish tank. No one ever talked to him, in case dorkhood was contagious. But then one summer he was diagnosed with MS. After that, no one was mean to Jimmy anymore. If you passed him in the hall, you smiled. If he sat next to you at the lunch table, you nodded hello. It was as if being a walking tragedy canceled out ever having been a geek.
From the moment I was born, I have been the girl with the sick sister. All my life bank tellers have given me extra lollipops; principals have known me by name. No one is ever outright mean to me.
It makes me wonder how I'd be treated if I were like everyone else. Maybe I'm a pretty rotten person, not that anyone would ever have the guts to tell me this to my face. Maybe everyone thinks I'm rude or ugly or stupid but they have to be nice because it could be the circumstances of my life that make me that way.
It makes me wonder if what I'm doing now is just my true nature.
*
The headlights of another car bounce off the rearview mirror, lighting up like green goggles around Jesse's eyes. He drives with one wrist on the wheel, lazy. He needs a haircut, in a big way. "Your car smells like smoke," I say.
"Yeah. But it covers the aroma of spilled whiskey." Hi
s teeth flash in the dark. "Why? Is it bothering you?"
"Kind of."
Jesse reaches across my body to the glove compartment. He takes out a pack of Merits and a Zippo, lights up, and blows smoke in my direction. "Sorry," he says, though he isn't.
"Can I have one?"
"One what?"
"A cigarette." They are so white they seem to glow.
"You want a cigarette?" Jesse cracks up.
"I'm not joking," I say.
Jesse raises one brow, and then turns the wheel so sharply I think he might roll the Jeep. We wind up in a huff of road dust on the shoulder. Jesse turns on the interior lights and shakes the pack so that one cigarette shimmies out.
It feels too delicate between my fingers, like the fine bone of a bird. I hold it the way I think a drama queen ought to, between the vise of my second and middle fingers. I put it up to my lips.
"You have to light it first." Jesse laughs, and he sparks up the Zippo.
There is no freaking way I'm leaning into a flame; chances are I'll set my hair on fire instead of the cigarette. "You do it for me," I say.
"Nope. If you're gonna learn, you're gonna learn it all." He flicks the lighter again.
I touch the cigarette to the burn, suck in hard the way I have seen Jesse do. It makes my chest explode, and I cough so forcefully that for a minute I actually believe I can taste my lung at the base of my throat, pink and spongy. Jesse goes to pieces and plucks the cigarette out of my hand before I drop it. He takes two long drags and then tosses it out the window.
"Nice try," he says.
My voice is a sandpit. "It's like licking a barbecue."
While I work on remembering how to breathe, Jesse pulls into the road again. "What made you want to?"
I shrug. "I figured I might as well."
"If you'd like a checklist of depravity, I can make one up for you." When I don't reply, he glances over at me. "Anna," he says, "you're not doing the wrong thing."
By now he's pulled into the hospital's parking lot. "I'm not doing the right thing, either," I point out.
He turns off the ignition but doesn't make an attempt to leave the car. "Have you thought about the dragon guarding the cave?"
I narrow my eyes. "Speak English."
"Well, I'm guessing Mom's asleep about five feet away from Kate."
Oh, shit. It is not that I think my mother would throw me out, but she certainly won't leave me alone with Kate, and right now that's what I want more than anything. Jesse looks at me. "Seeing Kate isn't going to make you feel better."
