Jodie Picoult - My Sister's Keeper

When Anna notices me, a wash of relief rushes over her features. I turn to the clerk of the court. "I'm Campbell Alexander," I say. "Is there a problem?"

"I've been trying to explain to Mrs. Fitzgerald, here, that we only allow attorneys into chambers."

"Well, I'm here on behalf on Anna," I reply.

The clerk turns to Sara Fitzgerald. "Who's representing your party?"

Anna's mother is stricken for a moment. She turns to her husband. "It's like riding a bicycle," she says quietly.

Her husband shakes his head. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

"I don't want to do this. I have to do this."

The words fall into place like cogs. "Hang on," I say. "You're a lawyer?"

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.

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.