Jodie Picoult - My Sister's Keeper

FIRE AND HOPE ARE CONNECTED, just so you know. The way the Greeks told it, Zeus put Prometheus and Epimetheus in charge of creating life on earth. Epimetheus made the animals, giving out bonuses like swiftness and strength and fur and wings. By the time Prometheus made man, all the best qualities had been given out. He settled for making them walk upright, and he gave them fire.

Zeus, pissed off, took it away. But Prometheus saw his pride and joy shivering and unable to cook. He lit a torch from the sun and brought it to man again. To punish Prometheus, Zeus had him chained to a rock, where an eagle fed on his liver. To punish man, Zeus created the first woman-Pandora-and gave her a gift, a box she was forbidden to open.

Pandora's curiosity got the best of her, and one day she opened that box. Out came plagues and misery and mischief. She managed to shut the lid tight before hope escaped. It's the only weapon we have left to fight the others.

Ask any fireman; he'll tell you it's true. Hell. Ask any father.

"Come on up," I say to Campbell Alexander, when he arrives with Anna. "There's fresh coffee." He follows me up the stairs, his German shepherd trailing. I pour two cups. "What's the dog for?"

"He's a chick magnet," the lawyer says. "Got any milk?"

I pass him the carton from the fridge, then sit down with my own mug. It's quiet up here; the boys are downstairs washing the engines and doing their daily maintenance.

"So." Alexander takes a sip of his coffee. "Anna tells me that you've both moved out."

'Yeah. I sort of figured you might want to ask me about that."

"You do realize that your wife is opposing counsel," he says carefully.

I meet his eye. "I suppose by that you mean do I realize that I shouldn't be sitting here talking to you."

"That only becomes an issue if your wife is still representing you."

"I never asked Sara to represent me."

Alexander frowns. "I'm not sure she's aware of that."

"Look, with all due respect, this may seem like an incredibly big deal, and it is, but we have another incredibly big deal going on at the same time. Our older daughter's been hospitalized and… well, Sara's fighting on two fronts."

"I know. And I'm sorry about Kate, Mr. Fitzgerald," he says.

"Call me Brian." I cup my hands around my mug. "And I would like to speak to you… without Sara around."

He leans back in the folding chair. "How about right now?"

It's not a good time, but it will never be a good time for this. "Okay." I take a deep breath. "I think Anna's right."

At first I'm not sure Campbell Alexander's even heard me. Then he asks, "Are you willing to tell that to the judge at a hearing?"

I look down at my coffee. "I think I have to."

By the time Paulie and I responded to this morning's ambulance call, the boyfriend already had the girl in a shower. She sat on the bottom, her legs splayed around the drain, fully dressed. Her hair was matted to the front of her face, but even if it wasn't, I'd have known that she was unconscious.

Paulie got right inside and started to drag her out. "Her name's Magda," the boyfriend said. "She's gonna be okay, right?"

"Is she diabetic?"

"What does that matter?"

For Christ's sake. "Tell me what you were using," I demanded.

"We were just getting drunk," the boyfriend said. 'Tequila."

He was no more than seventeen. Old enough to have heard the myth that a shower will bring someone out of a heroin overdose. "Let me explain this to you. My buddy and I want to help Magda, to save her life. But if you tell me that she's got alcohol in her system and it turns out that it's a drug instead, whatever we give her could backfire and make her even worse. You get that?"

By then, just outside the shower stall, Paulie had wrestled Magda out of her shirt. There were tracks up and down her arms. "If it's tequila, then they've been shooting it up. Coma cocktail?"

I took the Narcan out of the paramedic bag and handed Paulie the equipment for a microdrip. "So, urn," the boy said, "you're not going to tell the cops, are you?"

In one quick move, I grabbed him by the neck of his shirt and pushed him up against the wall. "Are you that fucking stupid?"

"It's just that my parents will kill me."

"You didn't seem to care much if you killed yourself. Or her." I jerked his head toward the girl, who by then was vomiting all over the floor. "You think life is something you can throw out like a piece of trash? You think you OD, and get a second chance?"

I was yelling hard into his face. I felt a hand on my shoulder—Paulie. "Step down, Cap," he said under his breath.

Slowly I realized that the kid was trembling in front of me, that he really had nothing to do with the reason I was yelling. I walked away to clear my head. Paulie finished up with the patient and then came back to me. "You know, if it's too much, we can cover for you," he offered. "The chief'll give you as much time off as you want."

"I need to work." Over his shoulder I could see the girl pinking up; the boy sobbing into his hands beside her. I looked Paulie in the eye. "When I'm not here," I explained, "I have to be there."

The lawyer and I finish up our coffee. "Second cup?" I offer.

"I'd better not. I have to get back to the office."

We nod at each other, but there is really nothing left to say. "Don't worry about Anna," I add. "I'll make sure she gets whatever she needs."

'You might want to check in at home, too," Alexander says. "I just got your son released on PR bail for stealing a judge's Humvee."

He puts his coffee cup in the sink and leaves me holding this information, knowing sooner or later, it will force me to my knees.

No MATTER HOW MANY TIMES you drive to the emergency room, it never becomes routine. Brian carries our daughter in his arms, blood running down her face. The triage nurse waves us inside, shepherds the other kids to the bank of plastic chairs where they can wait. A resident comes into the cubicle, all business. "What happened?"

"She went over the handlebars of her bike," I said. "She landed on concrete. There doesn't seem to be any evidence of concussion, but there's a scalp lac at the hairline of about an inch and a half."

The doctor lays her down gently on the table, snaps on gloves, and peers at her forehead. "Are you a doctor or a nurse?"

I try to smile. "Just used to this."

It takes eighty-two stitches to sew up the gash. Afterward, with a bright white patch of gauze taped to her head, and a hefty dose of pediatric Tylenol swimming through her veins, we walk out to the waiting area, hand in hand.

Jesse asks her how many stitches she needed. Brian tells her she was just as brave as a firefighter. Kate glances at Anna's fresh bandage. "I like it better when I get to sit out here," she says.

It starts when Kate screams in the bathroom. I race upstairs and jimmy the lock to find my nine-year-old standing in front of a toilet spattered with blood. Blood runs down her legs, too, and has soaked through her underpants. This is the calling card for APL—hemorrhage in all sorts of masks and disguises. Kate's had rectal bleeding before, but she was a toddler; she would not remember. "It's all right," I say calmly.

I get a warm washcloth to clean her up, and find a sanitary napkin for her underwear. I watch her try to position the bulk of the pad between her legs. This is the moment I would have had with her when she got her period; will she live long enough for that?

"Mom," Kate says. "It's back."

"Clinical relapse." Dr. Chance takes off his glasses and presses his thumbs to the corners of his eyes. "I think a bone marrow transplant's the way to go."

My mind jumps to a memory of an inflatable Bozo punching bag I had when I was Anna's age; filled with sand at the bottom, I'd whack it only to have it pop back up.