My Sister's Keeper

by Jodi Picoult

  Why are terms of endearment always foods? Honey, cookie, sugar, pumpkin. It's not like caring about someone is enough to actually sustain you.

  "I understand what you're trying to do here," my mother continues. "And I agree that maybe your father and I need to listen to you a little bit more. But Anna, we don't need a judge to help us do this."

  My heart is a soft sponge at the base of my throat. "You mean it's okay to stop?"

  When she smiles, it feels like the first warm day of March--after an eternity of snow, when you suddenly remember how summer feels on the backs of your bare calves and in the part of your hair. "That's exactly what I mean," my mother says.

  No more blood draws. No granulocytes or lymphocytes or stem cells or kidney. "If you want, I'll tell Kate," I offer. "So you don't have to."

  "That's all right. Once Judge DeSalvo knows, we can pretend it never happened."

  In the back of my mind, a hammer trips. "But . . . won't Kate ask why I'm not her donor anymore?"

  My mother goes very still. "When I said stop, I meant the lawsuit."

  I shake my head hard, as much to give her an answer as to dislodge the knot of words tangled in my gut.

  "My God, Anna," my mother says, stunned. "What have we done to you to deserve this?"

  "It's not what you've done to me."

  "It's what we haven't done, right?"

  "You aren't listening to me!" I yell, and at that very moment, Vern Stackhouse walks up to our table.

  The deputy looks from me to my mother to my father and forces a smile. "Guess this isn't the best time to interrupt," he says. "I'm real sorry about this, Sara. Brian." He hands my mother an envelope, nods, and walks off.

  She pulls out the paper inside and reads it, then turns to me. "What did you say to him?" she demands.

  "To who?"

  My father picks up the notice. It is full of legal language, which might as well be Greek. "What's this?"

  "A motion for a temporary restraining order." She grabs it from my father. "Do you realize you're asking to have me kicked out of the house, and to have no contact with you? Is that really what you want?"

  Kick her out? I can't breathe. "I never asked for that."

  "Well, an attorney wouldn't have filed it on his own behalf, Anna."

  Do you know how sometimes--when you are riding your bike and you start skidding across sand, or when you miss a step and start tumbling down the stairs--you have those long, long seconds to know that you are going to be hurt, and badly? "I don't know what's going on," I say.

  "Then how can you think you're qualified to make decisions for yourself?" My mother stands so abruptly her chair clatters to the cafeteria floor. "If this is what you want, Anna, we can start right now." Her voice, it's thick and rough as rope the moment before she leaves me.

  *

  About three months ago, I borrowed Kate's makeup. Okay, so borrowed wouldn't be the right word, exactly: stole. I didn't have any of my own; I wasn't supposed to be allowed to wear it until I turned fifteen. But a miracle had happened, and Kate wasn't around to ask, and desperate times call for desperate measures.

  The miracle was five-eight, with hair the color of Silver Queen corn silk and a smile that made me feel like I'd been spinning in circles. His name was Kyle and he'd moved from Idaho, right into the homeroom seat behind mine. He didn't know anything about me or my family, so when he asked me if I wanted to go to a movie with him I knew it wasn't because he felt sorry for me. We saw the new Spider-Man movie, or at least he did. I spent all my time trying to figure out how electricity could leap the tiny space between my arm and his.

  When I came home, I still was walking about six inches above the ground, which is why Kate was able to blindside me. She knocked me onto my bed, pinned me by my shoulders. "You thief," she accused. "You went into my bathroom drawer without asking."

  "You take my things all the time. You borrowed my blue sweatshirt two days ago."

  "That's totally different. You can wash a sweatshirt."

  "How come it's okay to have my germs floating around your arteries, but not on your freaking Max Factor Cherry Bomb lip gloss?" I shoved a little harder, and managed to roll us, so that now I had the upper hand.

  Her eyes lit up. "Who was it?"

  "What are you talking about?"

  "If you're wearing makeup, Anna, there must have been a reason."

  "Get lost," I said.

  "Fuck off." Kate smiled at me. Then she reached one free hand under my arm and tickled me, taking me by surprise so much that I let go of her. A minute later we had wrestled off the bed, each of us trying to get the other to cry uncle. "Anna, stop already," Kate gasped. "You're killing me."

  Those words, they were all it took. My hands fell off her as if I'd been burned. We lay shoulder to shoulder between our beds, staring up at the ceiling and breathing hard, both of us pretending that what she'd said had not cut quite so close to the bone.

  *

  In the car, my parents fight. Maybe we should hire a real lawyer, my father says, and my mother replies, I am one.

  But Sara, my father says, if this isn't going to go away, all I'm saying is--

  What are you saying, Brian? she challenges. What are you really saying? That some man in a suit whom you've never met would be able to explain Anna better than her own mother? And then my father drives the rest of the way in silence.

  To my shock, there are TV cameras waiting on the steps of the Garrahy building. I'm sure they're here for something really big, so imagine my surprise when a microphone gets stuck into my face, and a reporter with helmet hair asks me why I am suing my parents. My mother pushes the woman away. "My daughter has no comment," she says, over and over; and when one guy asks if I'm aware that I am Rhode Island's first designer baby, I think for a minute she might actually deck him.

  I've known since I was seven how I was conceived, and it wasn't that huge a deal. First off, my parents told me when the thought of them having sex was far more disgusting than the thought of creation in a petri dish. Second, by then tons of people were having fertility drugs and septuplets and my story wasn't really all that original anymore. But a designer baby? Yeah, right. If my parents were going to go to all that trouble, you'd think they'd have made sure to implant the genes for obedience, humility, and gratitude.

  My father sits next to me on a bench, his hands knotted between his knees. Inside the judge's chambers, my mother and Campbell Alexander are verbally slugging it out. Here in the hallway, we're unnaturally quiet, as if they've taken all possible words with them and left us with nothing.

  I hear a woman curse, and then Julia rounds the bend. "Anna. Sorry I'm late; I couldn't get past the media. Are you all right?"

  I nod, and then I shake my head.

  Julia kneels down in front of me. "Do you want your mother to leave the house?"

  "No!" To my utter embarrassment, my eyes get glassy with tears. "I've changed my mind. I don't want to do this anymore. None of it."

  She looks at me for a long moment, then nods. "Let me go in and talk to the judge."

  When she leaves, I concentrate on getting air into my lungs. There are so many things I have to work hard at now, that I used to be able to carry out instinctively--draw in oxygen, keep my silence, do the right thing. The weight of my father's eyes on me makes me turn. "Did you mean it?" he asks. "About not wanting to do this anymore?"

  I don't answer. I don't move a fraction of an inch.

  "Because if you're still not sure, maybe it's not such a bad idea, having some breathing space. I mean, I've got that extra bed in my room at the station." He rubs the back of his neck. "It wouldn't be like we were moving out, or anything. Just . . ." He looks at me.

  " . . . breathing," I finish, and do just that.

  My father stands up and holds out his hand. We walk out of the Garrahy Complex, side by side. The reporters come on like wolves, but this time, their questions bounce right off me. My chest feels full of glitter and helium, the way it
used to when I was little and riding my father's shoulders at twilight, when I knew that if I held up my hands and spread my fingers like a net, I could catch the coming stars.

  CAMPBELL

  THERE MAY BE A SPECIAL CORNER of Hell for attorneys who are shamelessly self-aggrandizing, but you can bet we all are ready for our close-ups. When I arrive at the family court to find a horde of reporters on parade, I offer around sound bites as if they are candy, and make sure that the cameras are on me. I say the appropriate things about how this case is unorthodox, but ultimately painful for everyone involved. I hint that the judge's ruling may affect the rights of minors nationwide, as well as stem cell research. Then I smooth the jacket of my Armani suit, tug on Judge's leash, and explain that I really must go speak to my client.

  Inside, Vern Stackhouse catches my eye and gives me a thumbs-up. I'd run into the deputy earlier, and very innocently asked whether his sister, a reporter for the ProJo, would be coming down today. "I can't really say anything," I hinted, "but the hearing . . . it's going to be pretty big."

  In that special corner of Hell, there's probably a throne for those of us who try to capitalize off our pro bono work.

  Minutes later, we are in chambers. "Mr. Alexander." Judge DeSalvo lifts up the motion for a restraining order. "Would you like to tell me why you've filed this, when I explicitly addressed the issue yesterday?"

  "I had my initial meeting with the guardian ad litem, Judge," I reply. "While Ms. Romano was present, Sara Fitzgerald told my client the lawsuit was a misunderstanding that would work itself out." I slide my glance toward Sara, who shows no emotion but a tightening of her jaw. "This is a direct violation of your order, Your Honor. Although this court tried to fashion conditions that would keep the family together, I don't think it's going to work until Mrs. Fitzgerald finds it possible to mentally separate her role as parent from her role as opposing counsel. Until then, a physical separation is necessary."

  Judge DeSalvo taps his fingers on the desk. "Mrs. Fitzgerald? Did you say those things to Anna?"

  "Well, of course I did!" Sara explodes. "I'm trying to get to the bottom of this!"

  The admission is a circus tent collapsing, leaving all of us in utter silence. Julia chooses that moment to burst through the door. "Sorry I'm late," she says, breathless.

  "Ms. Romano," the judge asks, "have you had a chance to speak to Anna today?"

  "Yes, just now." She looks at me, and then at Sara. "I think she's very confused."

  "What's your opinion of the motion Mr. Alexander's filed?"

  She tucks an errant coil of hair behind one ear. "I don't think I have enough information to make a formal decision, but my gut feeling says it would be a mistake for Anna's mother to be removed from the house."

  Immediately, I tense. Reacting, the dog gets to his feet. "Judge, Mrs. Fitzgerald just admitted that she violated the court's order. At the very least she should be reported to the bar for ethical violations, and--"

  "Mr. Alexander, there is more to this case than the letter of the law." Judge DeSalvo turns to Sara. "Mrs. Fitzgerald, I strongly recommend you look into hiring an independent attorney to represent you and your husband in this petition. I am not going to grant the restraining order today, but I will warn you once again not to talk with your child about this case until the hearing next week. If it comes to my attention at some future date that you have ignored this directive once again, I will report you to the bar myself and personally escort you from your home." He smacks the file folder shut and gets up. "Do not bother me again until Monday, Mr. Alexander."

  "I need to see my client," I announce, and I hurry out to the hallway where I know Anna is waiting with her father.

  Sara Fitzgerald, predictably, is right at my heels. Following her--intent on keeping the peace, no doubt--is Julia. All three of us come to an abrupt stop at the sight of Vern Stackhouse, dozing on the bench where Anna was sitting. "Vern?" I say.

  He immediately leaps to his feet, clearing his throat defensively. "It's a lumbar problem. Gotta sit down every now and then to take the pressure off."

  "You know where Anna Fitzgerald went?"

  He jerks his head toward the front door of the building. "She and her dad took off a while ago."

  From the look on Sara's face, this is news to her, too. "Do you need a ride back to the hospital?" Julia asks.

  She shakes her head and peers through the glass doors, where the reporters have rallied. "Is there a back way out?"

  At my side, Judge begins to stick his muzzle into my hand. Damn.

  Julia steers Sara Fitzgerald toward the rear of the building. "I need to talk to you," she calls over her shoulder to me.

  I wait for her to turn her back. Then I promptly grab Judge's harness and haul him down a corridor.

  "Hey!" A moment later, Julia's heels strike the tile behind me. "I said I wanted to talk to you!"

  For a minute I seriously consider ducking out a window. Then I stop abruptly, turn, and offer up my most engaging smile. "Technically speaking, you said you needed to talk to me. If you'd said you wanted to talk to me, I might have waited around." Judge sinks his teeth into the corner of my suit, my expensive Armani suit, and tugs. "Right now, though, I have a meeting to get to."

  "What the hell is wrong with you?" she says. "You told me you talked to Anna about her mother and that we were all on the same page."

  "I did, and we were--Sara was coercing her, and Anna wanted that to stop. I explained the alternatives."

  "Alternatives? She's a thirteen-year-old girl. Do you know how many kids I see whose take on a trial is completely different from their parents'? A mother comes in and promises that her child will testify against a child molester, because she wants the perp put away for life. But the child doesn't care what happens to the perp, as long as he never has to be in the same room as the guy again. Or he thinks that maybe the perp should get another chance, just like his parents give him when he's bad. You can't expect Anna to be like a normal adult client. She doesn't have the emotional capability to make decisions independent of her home situation."

  "Well, that's the point of this whole petition," I say.

  "As a matter of fact, Anna told me, not a half hour ago, that she's changed her mind about this whole petition." Julia raises a brow. "Didn't know that, did you?"

  "She hasn't talked to me about it."

  "That's because you're talking about the wrong things. You had a conversation with her about a legal way to keep her from being pressured to call off the lawsuit. Of course she jumped all over that. But do you really think she was considering what it might truly mean--that there would be one less parent home to cook or drive or help her with homework, that she wouldn't be able to kiss her mother good night, that the rest of her family would most likely be very upset with her? All she heard, when you talked, were the words no pressure. She never heard separation."

  Judge begins to whine in earnest. "I have to go."

  She follows me. "Where?"

  "I told you, I have an appointment." The corridor is lined with rooms, all locked. Finally I find a knob that turns in my hand. I walk inside and bolt the door behind me. "Gentlemen," I say heartily.

  Julia rattles the knob. She bangs on the smoky postage-stamp square of glass. I feel sweat break out on my forehead. "You're not getting away this time," she yells through the door at me. "I'm still waiting right here."

  "I'm still busy," I yell back. When Judge pushes his snout in front of me, I sink my fingers into the thick fur at his neck. "It's okay," I tell him, and then I turn around to face the empty room.

  JESSE

  EVERY NOW AND THEN I have to contradict myself and believe in God, such as at this very moment when I come home to find a bodacious babe on my doorstep, one who gets to her feet and asks me if I know Jesse Fitzgerald.

  "Who's asking?" I say.

  "Me."

  I give her my most charming smile. "Then here I am."

  Let me just step back for a moment and tell you t
hat she's older than me, but with every glance that makes less and less of a difference--she's got hair I could get lost in, and a mouth so soft and full I have a hard time tearing my eyes away to check out the rest of her. I'm itching to get my hands on her skin--even the ordinary parts--just to see if it feels as smooth as it looks.

  "I'm Julia Romano," she says. "I'm a guardian ad litem."

  All the violins soaring in my veins screech to a stop. "Is that like a cop?"

  "No, I'm an attorney, and I'm working with a judge to help your sister."

  "You mean Kate?"

  Something in her face tightens. "I mean Anna. She filed a lawsuit for medical emancipation from your parents."

  "Oh, yeah. I know about that."

  "Really?" This seems to surprise her, as if defiance is something Anna's cornered the market on. "Do you happen to know where she is?"

  I glance at the house, dark and empty. "Am I my sister's keeper?" I say. Then I grin at her. "If you feel like waiting, you can come up and see my etchings."

  To my shock, she agrees. "Actually, that's not a bad idea. I'd like to talk to you."

  I lean against the door again and cross my arms, so that my biceps flex. I give her the grin that's stopped half the female population of Roger Williams University in their tracks. "You got plans for tonight?"

  She stares at me like I've just spoken Greek. No, damn, she'd probably understand Greek. Martian. Or freaking Vulcan. "Are you asking me out on a date?"

  "I'm sure as hell trying," I say.

  "You're sure as hell failing," she responds flatly. "I'm old enough to be your mother."

  "You have the most fantastic eyes." By eyes, I mean tits, but whatever.

  Julia Romano chooses that moment to button her suit jacket, which makes me laugh out loud. "Why don't we just talk here?"

  "Whatever," I say, and I lead her up to my apartment.

  Given what it usually looks like, the place isn't so bad. The dishes on the counter are only a day or two old; and spilled cereal isn't nearly as bad to come home to after a full day as spilled milk. On the middle of the floor is a bucket and rag and container of gas; I'm working up some firesticks. There are clothes all over the floor, some artfully arranged to minimize the effect of a leak in my moonshine still.