Jodie Picoult - My Sister's Keeper

I have to crawl out what was the window of the truck, because the engine is between me and whoever's inside the BMW. But if I twist myself a certain way, there is a tiny space where I can nearly fit myself, one that puts me up against the tempered glass, spiderweb-shattered, stained red with blood. And just as Red forces the driver's side door free with the Jaws and a dog comes whimpering out, I realize that the face pressed up against the other side of the broken window is Anna's.

"Get them out," I yell, "get them out now!" I do not know how I force myself back out of this snarled skeleton to knock Red out of the way; how I unhook Campbell Alexander from his seat belt and drag him to lay in the street with the rain pelting around him; how I reach inside to where my daughter is still and wide-eyed, strapped into her belt the way she is supposed to be and Jesus God no.

Paulie comes out of nowhere and lays his hands on her and before I know what I'm doing I deck him, sending him sprawling. "Fuck, Brian," he says, holding his jaw.

"It's Anna. Paulie, it's Anna."

When they understand, they try to hold me back and do this work for me, but it is my baby, my baby, and I am having none of it. I get her onto a backboard and strap her down, let them load her onto the ambulance. I tip back the bottom of her chin, ready to intubate, but see the little scar she got from falling on Jesse's ice skate, and fall apart. Red moves me aside and does it instead, then takes her pulse. "It's weak, Cap," he says, "but it's there."

He puts in an IV line while I pick up the radio and call in our ETA. 'Thirteen-year-old female, MVA, severe closed head injury…" When the cardiac monitor blanks out, I drop the receiver and start CPR. "Get the paddles," I order, and I pull open Anna's shirt, cut through the lace of the bra she wanted so badly but doesn't need. Red shocks her, and gets the pulse back, bradycardia with ventricular escape beats.

We bag her and put in an IV. Paulie screams into the loading zone for ambulances and throws open the back doors. On the trailer, Anna is immobile. Red grabs my arm, hard. "Don't think about it," he says, and he takes the head of Anna's stretcher and rushes her into the ER.

They will not let me into the trauma room. A flock of firefighters dribble in for support. One of them goes up to get Sara, who arrives frantic. "Where is she? What happened?"

"A car accident," I manage. "I didn't know who it was until I got there." My eyes fill up. Do I tell her that she is not breathing independently? Do I tell her that the EKG flatlined? Do I tell her that I have spent the past few minutes questioning every single thing I did on that call, from the way I crawled over the truck to the moment I pulled her from the wreckage, certain that my emotion compromised what should have been done, what could have been done?

At that moment I hear Campbell Alexander, and the sound of something being thrown against a wall. "Goddammit," he says. "Just tell me whether or not she was brought here!"

He bursts out of the doorway of another trauma room, his arm in a cast, his clothes bloodied. The dog, limping, is at his side. Immediately, Campbell's eyes home in on mine. "Where's Anna?" he asks.

I don't answer, because what the hell can I say. And that's all it takes for him to understand. "Oh, Jesus," he whispers. "Oh God, no."

The doctor comes out of Anna's room. He knows me; I am here four nights a week. "Brian," he says soberly, "she's not responding to noxious stimuli."

The sound that comes out of me is primal, inhuman, all-knowing. "What does that mean?" Sara's words peck at me. "What is he saying, Brian?"

"Anna's head hit the window with great force, Mrs. Fitzgerald. It caused a fatal head injury. A respirator is keeping her breathing right now, but she's not showing any indications of neurological activity… she's brain dead. I'm sorry," the doctor says. "I really am." He hesitates, looks from me to Sara. "I know it's not something you even want to think about right now, but there's a very small window… is organ donation something you'd like to consider?"

There are stars in the night sky that look brighter than the others, and when you look at them through a telescope you realize you are looking at twins. The two stars rotate around each other, sometimes taking nearly a hundred years to do it. They create so much gravitational pull there's no room around for anything else. You might see a blue star, for example, and realize only later that it has a white dwarf as a companion-that first one shines so bright, by the time you notice the second one, it's really too late.

Campbell is the one who actually answers the doctor. "I have power of attorney for Anna," he explains, "not her parents." He looks from me, to Sara. "And there is a girl upstairs who needs that kidney."

IN THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE there are orphans and widows, but there is no word for the parent who loses a child.

They bring her back down to us after the donated organs are removed. I am the last to go in. In the hallway, already, are Jesse and Zanne and Campbell and some of the nurses we've grown close to, and even Julia Romano—the people who needed to say goodbye.

Brian and I walk inside, where Anna lies tiny and still on the hospital bed. A tube feeds down her throat, a machine breathes for her. It is up to us to turn it off. I sit down on the edge of the bed and pick up Anna's hand, still warm to the touch, still soft inside mine. It turns out that after all these years I have spent anticipating a moment like this, I am completely at a loss. Like coloring the sky in with a crayon; there is no language for grief this big. "I can't do this," I whisper.

Brian comes up behind me. "Sweetheart, she's not here. It's the machine keeping her body alive. What makes Anna Anna is already gone."

I turn, bury my face against his chest. "But she wasn't supposed to," I sob.

We hold each other, then, and when I feel brave enough I look back down at the husk that once held my youngest. He is right, after all. This is nothing but a shell. There is no energy to the lines of her face; there is a slack absence to her muscles. Under this skin they have stripped her of organs that will go to Kate and to other, nameless, second-chance people.

"Okay." I take a deep breath. I put my hand on Anna's chest as Brian, trembling, flips off the respirator. I rub her skin in small circles, as if this might make it easier. When the monitors flatline, I wait to see some change in her. And then I feel it, as her heart stops beating beneath my palm—that tiny loss of rhythm, that hollow calm, that utter loss.

2010

THERE SHOULD BE A STATUTE of limitation on grief. A rule book that says it is all right to wake up crying, but only for a month. That after forty -two days you will no longer turn with your heart racing, certain you have heard her call out your name. That there will be no fine imposed if you feel the need to clean out her desk; take down her artwork from the refrigerator; turn over a school portrait as you pass —if only because it cuts you fresh again to see it. That it is okay to measure the time she has been gone, the way we once measured her birthdays.

For a long time, afterward, my father claimed to see Anna in the night sky. Sometimes it was the wink of her eye, sometimes the shape of her profile. He insisted that stars were people who were so well loved they were traced in constellations, to live forever. My mother believed, for a long time, that Anna would come back to her. She began to look for signs — plants that bloomed too early, eggs with double yolks, salt spilled in the shape of letters.