Jodi Picoult - Handle with Care

“There were a lot of TV cameras this morning.”

“Yeah.”

“Cameras make my stomach hurt.”

I threaded my arm around the seat to reach your hand. “You know I’d never let any of those reporters bother you.”

“Mom should bake for them. If they really loved her brownies or her toffee bars, they might just say thank you and leave.”

“Maybe your mom could add arsenic to the batter,” I mused.

“What?”

“Nothing.” I shook my head. “Your mom loves you, too. You know that, right?”

Outside, the Atlantic reached a crescendo. “I think there are two different oceans-the one that plays with you in the summer, and the one that gets so mad in the winter,” you said. “It’s hard to remember what the other one’s like.”

I opened my mouth, thinking that you hadn’t heard what I said about Charlotte. And then I realized that you had.

Guy Booker was just the sort of person that Piper and I would have laughed at if we’d come across him at Maxie’s Pad-an attorney who had gotten so big in his own head that he had a personalized license plate which read HOTSHOT on his mint green T-Bird. “This is really about the money, isn’t it?” he said.

“No. But the money means the difference between good care and lousy care for my daughter.”

“Willow receives Katie Beckett monies through Healthy Kids Gold, doesn’t she?”

“Yes, but even so, that doesn’t cover all the medical expenses-and none of the out-of-pocket ones. For example, when a child’s in a spica cast, she needs a different kind of car seat. And the dental problems that are part and parcel of OI might run thousands of dollars a year.”

“If your daughter had been born a gifted pianist, would you be asking for money for a grand piano?” Booker said.

Marin had told me that he would try to get me angry, so that the jury would like me less. I took a deep breath and counted to five. “That’s comparing apples and oranges, Mr. Booker. This isn’t an arts education we’re talking about. It’s my daughter’s life.”

Booker walked toward the jury; I had to suppress an urge to check if he left a trail of oil. “You and your husband don’t see eye to eye about this lawsuit, Ms. O’Keefe, correct?”

“No, we do not.”

“Would you agree that the cause of your pending divorce is that your husband, Sean, doesn’t support this lawsuit?”

“Yes,” I said softly.

“He doesn’t believe Willow was a wrongful birth, does he?”

“Objection,” Marin called out. “You can’t ask her what his opinion is.”

“Sustained.”

Booker folded his arms. “Yet, you’re going through with the lawsuit anyway, even though it will most likely split up your family, aren’t you?”

I pictured Sean in his coat and tie this morning, that tiny lift of spirit I’d had when I thought he was coming to court with me instead of against me. “I still think it’s the right thing to do.”

“Have you had conversations with Willow about this lawsuit?” Booker asked.

“Yes,” I said. “She knows I’m doing this because I love her.”

“You think she understands that?”

I hesitated. “She’s only six. I think a lot of the mechanics of the lawsuit have gone over her head.”

“What about when she’s older?” said Booker. “I bet Willow’s pretty good when it comes to computer skills?”

“Sure.”

“Have you ever thought about the moment years from now when your daughter gets on the Internet and Googles herself? You? This case?”

“Well, God knows I’m not looking forward to that, but I hope that, if it happens, I’ll be able to explain to her why it was necessary…and that the quality of her life that day is a direct result of the lawsuit.”

“God knows,” Booker repeated. “Interesting choice of words. You’re a practicing Catholic, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“As a practicing Catholic, you’re aware that it’s a mortal sin to have an abortion?”

I swallowed. “Yes, I am.”

“Yet the premise of this lawsuit is that, if you’d known about Willow’s condition earlier, you would have terminated the pregnancy, right?”

I could feel the eyes of the jury on me. I had known that there was a point where I would be put on display-the sideshow oddity, the zoo animal-and this was it. “I know what you’re doing,” I said tightly. “But this case is about malpractice, not abortion.”

“That’s not an answer, Ms. O’Keefe. Let’s try again: if you’d found out that you were carrying a child who was profoundly deaf and blind, would you have terminated the pregnancy?”

“Objection,” Marin cried. “That’s irrelevant. My client’s child isn’t deaf and blind.”

“It goes to the mind-set of whether or not the child’s mother could have done what she says she could,” Booker argued.

“Sidebar,” Marin said, and they both approached the bench, continuing to argue loudly in front of everyone. “Judge, this is prejudicial. He can ask what my client’s decision was regarding actual medical facts that the defendant did not share with her-”

“Don’t tell me how to try my case, sweetheart,” Booker said.

“You arrogant pig-”

“I’m going to allow the question,” the judge said slowly. “I think we all need to hear what Mrs. O’Keefe has to say.”

Marin gave me a measured look as she walked past the witness stand-a reminder that I had been called to the mat, and was expected to deliver. “Ms. O’Keefe,” Booker repeated, “would you have aborted a profoundly deaf and blind child?”

“I…I don’t know,” I said.

“Are you aware that Helen Keller was profoundly blind and deaf?” he asked. “What if you found out that the baby you were carrying was missing a hand? Would you have terminated that pregnancy?”

I kept my lips pressed tight, silent.

“Are you aware that Jim Abbott, a one-handed pitcher, pitched a no-hitter in major league baseball and won an Olympic gold medal in 1988?” Booker said.

“I’m not Jim Abbott’s mother. Or Helen Keller’s. I don’t know how difficult their childhoods were.”

“Well, then, we’re back to the original question: If you had known about Willow’s condition at eighteen weeks, would you have aborted her?”

“I was never given that option,” I said tightly.

“Actually, you were,” Booker countered. “At twenty-seven weeks. And by your own testimony, it wasn’t a decision you could make then. So why should a jury believe that you would have been able to make it several weeks earlier?”

Malpractice, Marin had drilled into my head, over and over. That’s why you instigated this lawsuit. No matter what else Guy Booker claims, it’s about a standard of care and a choice you weren’t offered.

I was shaking so hard that I slipped my hands beneath my thighs. “This case isn’t about what I might have done.”

“Sure it is,” Booker said. “Otherwise, it’s a waste of our time.”

“You’re wrong. This case is about what my doctor didn’t do-”

“Answer the question, Ms. O’Keefe-”

“Specifically,” I said, “she didn’t give me a choice about ending the pregnancy. She should have known something was wrong from that very first ultrasound, and she should have-”

“Ms. O’Keefe,” the lawyer yelled, “answer the question!”

I wilted against the chair and pressed my fingers to my temples. “I can’t,” I whispered. I looked down at the grain of the wood on the railing before me. “I can’t answer that question for you now, because now there is a Willow. A girl who likes pigtails but not braids, and who broke her femur this weekend, and who sleeps with a stuffed pig. A girl who’s kept me awake at night for the past six and a half years wondering how to get through the next day without an emergency, and planning, as a backup, how to go from crisis to crisis to crisis.” I looked up at the lawyer. “At eighteen weeks of pregnancy, at twenty-seven weeks of pregnancy, I didn’t know Willow like I do today. So I can’t answer your question now, Mr. Booker. But the reality is, nobody gave me a chance to answer it back then. ”