My Sister's Keeper: A Novel

by Jodi Picoult

  And I remember throwing the ball to Jesse, but Kate getting in the way—an expression of absolute shock on her face as it landed in the cradle of her arms and Dad yelled her on to the touchdown. She sprinted, and nearly had it, but then Jesse took a running leap and slammed her to the ground, crushing her underneath him.

  In that moment everything stopped. Kate lay with her arms and legs splayed, unmoving. My father was there in a breath, shoving at Jesse. “What the hell is the matter with you!”

  “I forgot!”

  My mother: “Where does it hurt? Can you sit up?”

  But when Kate rolled over, she was smiling. “It doesn’t hurt. It feels great.”

  My parents looked at each other. Neither of them understood like I did, like Jesse did—that no matter who you are, there is some part of you that always wishes you were someone else—and when, for a millisecond, you get that wish, it’s a miracle. “He forgot,” Kate said to nobody, and she lay on her back, beaming up at the cold hawkeye sun.

  • • •

  Hospital rooms never get completely dark; there is always some glowing panel behind the bed in the case of catastrophe, a runway strip so that the nurses and doctors can find their way. I have seen Kate a hundred times in beds like this one, although the tubes and wires change. She always looks smaller than I remember.

  I sit down as gently as I can. The veins on Kate’s neck and chest are a road map, highways that don’t go anywhere. I trick myself into believing that I can see those rogue leukemia cells moving like a rumor through her system.

  When she opens her eyes, I nearly fall off the bed; it’s an Exorcist moment. “Anna?” she says, staring right at me. I have not seen her look this scared since we were little, and Jesse convinced us that an old Indian ghost had come back to claim the bones buried by mistake under our house.

  If you have a sister and she dies, do you stop saying you have one? Or are you always a sister, even when the other half of the equation is gone?

  I crawl onto the bed, which is narrow, but still big enough for both of us. I rest my head on her chest, so close to her central line that I can see the liquid dripping into her. Jesse is wrong—I didn’t come to see Kate because it would make me feel better. I came because without her, it’s hard to remember who I am.

  THURSDAY

  You, if you were sensible,

  When I tell you the stars flash signals, each one dreadful,

  You would not turn and answer me

  “The night is wonderful.”

  —D. H. LAWRENCE, “Under the Oak”

  BRIAN

  WE NEVER KNOW, AT FIRST, if we are headed into a cooker or a smudge. At 2:46 A.M. last night, the lights went on upstairs. The bells went off, too, but I can’t say that I ever really hear them. In ten seconds, I was dressed and walking out the door of my room at the station. In twenty, I was stepping into my turnout gear, pulling up the long elastic suspenders, and shrugging into the turtle-shell of my coat. By the time two minutes passed, Caesar was driving the engine onto the streets of Upper Darby; Paulie and Red were the can man and the hydrant man, riding behind.

  Sometime after that, consciousness came in small bright flashes: we remembered to check our breathing apparatus; we slid on our gloves; dispatch called to tell us that the house was on Hoddington Drive; that it appeared to be either a structure fire or a room and contents fire. “Turn left here,” I told Caesar. Hoddington was only eight blocks away from where I lived.

  The house looked like the mouth of a dragon. Caesar drove around as far as he could, trying to get me a view of three sides. Then we all piled out of the engine and stared for a moment, four Davids against a Goliath. “Charge a two-and-a-half inch line,” I told Caesar, tonight’s motor pump operator. A woman in a nightgown ran toward me, sobbing, three children holding her skirt. “Mija,” she screamed, pointing. “¡Mija!”

  “¿Dónde está?” I got right in front of her, so that she couldn’t see anything but my face. “¿Cuantos años tiene?”

  She pointed to a window on the second floor. “Tres,” she cried.

  “Cap,” Caesar yelled, “we’re ready over here.”

  I heard the approaching whine of a second engine, the reserve guys coming to back us up. “Red, vent the northeast corner of the roof; Paulie, put the wet stuff on the red stuff and push it out when it’s got somewhere to go. We’ve got a kid on the second floor. I’m going in to see if I can get her.”

  It was not, like in the movies, a slam dunk—a scene for the hero to go win his Oscar. If I got in there, and the stairs had gone . . . if the structure threatened to collapse . . . if the temperature of the space had gotten so hot that everything was combustible and ripe for flashover—I would have backed out and told my men to back out with me. The safety of the rescuer is of a higher priority than the safety of the victim.

  Always.

  • • •

  I’m a coward. There are times when my shift is over that I’ll stay and roll hose, or put on a fresh pot of coffee for the crew coming in, instead of heading straight to my house. I have often wondered why I get more rest in a place where, for the most part, I’m roused out of bed two or three times a night. I think it is because in a firehouse, I don’t have to worry about emergencies happening—they’re supposed to. The minute I walk through the door at home, I’m worrying about what might come next.

  Once, in second grade, Kate drew a picture of a firefighter with a halo above his helmet. She told her class that I would only be allowed to go to Heaven, because if I went to Hell, I’d put out all the fires.

  I still have that picture.

  In a bowl, I crack a dozen eggs and start to whip them into a frenzy. The bacon’s already spitting on the stove; the griddle’s heating for pancakes. Firemen eat together—or at least we try to, before the bells ring. This breakfast will be a treat for my guys, who are still showering away the memories of last night from their skin. Behind me, I hear the fall of footsteps. “Pull up a chair,” I call over my shoulder. “It’s almost ready.”

  “Oh, thanks, but no,” says a female voice. “I wouldn’t want to impose.”

  I turn around, brandishing my spatula. The sound of a woman here is surprising; one who’s shown up just shy of seven A.M. is even more remarkable. She is small, with wild hair that makes me think of a forest fire. Her hands are covered with winking silver rings. “Captain Fitzgerald, I’m Julia Romano. I’m the guardian ad litem assigned to Anna’s case.”

  Sara’s told me about her—the woman the judge will listen to, when push comes to shove.

  “Smells great,” she says, smiling. She walks up and takes the spatula out of my hand. “I can’t watch someone cook without helping. It’s a genetic abnormality.” I watch her reach into the fridge, rummaging around. Of all things, she comes back with a jar of horseradish. “I was hoping you might have a few minutes to talk.”

  “Sure.” Horseradish?

  She adds a good wad of the stuff to the eggs, and then pulls orange zest off the spice rack, along with some chili powder, and sprinkles this on as well. “How’s Kate doing?”

  I pour a circle of batter on the griddle, watch it come to a bubble. When I flip it, it’s an even, creamy brown. I’ve already spoken to Sara this morning. Kate’s night was uneventful; Sara’s wasn’t. But that’s because of Jesse.

  There is a moment during a structure fire when you know you are either going to get the upper hand, or that it’s going to get the upper hand on you. You notice the ceiling patch about to fall and the staircase eating itself alive and the synthetic carpet glued to the soles of your boots. The sum of the parts overwhelms, and that’s when you back out and force yourself to remember that every fire will burn itself out, even without your help.

  These days, I’m fighting fire on six sides. I look in front of me and see Kate sick. I look behind me and see Anna with her lawyer. The only time Jesse isn’t drinking like a fish, he’s strung out on drugs; Sara’s grasping at straws. And me, I’ve got my gear on,
safe. I’m holding dozens of hooks and irons and poles—all tools that are meant to destroy, when what I need is something to rope us together.

  “Captain Fitzgerald . . . Brian!” Julia Romano’s voice knocks me out of my own head, into a kitchen that’s rapidly filling with smoke. She reaches past me and shoves the pancake that’s burning off the griddle.

  “Jesus!” I drop the charcoal disk that used to be a pancake into the sink, where it hisses at me. “I’m sorry.”

  Like open sesame, those two simple words change the landscape.

  “Good thing we’ve got the eggs,” Julia Romano says.

  • • •

  In a burning house, your sixth sense kicks in. You can’t see, because of the smoke. You can’t hear, because fire roars loud. You can’t touch, because it will be the end of you.

  In front of me, Paulie manned the nozzle. A line of firefighters backed him up; a charged hose was a thick, dead weight. We worked our way up the stairs, still intact, intent on shoving this fire out the hole Red had put in the roof. Like anything that’s confined, fire has a natural instinct to escape.

  I got down on my hands and knees and started to crawl through the hallway. The mother said it was the third door on the left. The fire rolled along the other side of the ceiling, racing to the vent. As the spray attacked, white steam swallowed the other firefighters.

  The door to the child’s room was open. I crawled in calling her name. A larger shape at the window drew me like a magnet, but it turned out to be an oversized stuffed animal. I checked the closets and under the bed, too, but nobody was there.

  I backed into the hallway again and nearly tripped over the hose, fist-thick. A human could think; a fire couldn’t. A fire would follow a specific path; a child might not. Where would I have gone if I were terrified?

  Moving fast, I started poking my head into doorways. One was pink, a baby’s room. Another had Matchbox cars all over the floor and bunk beds. One was not a room at all, but a closet. The master bedroom was on the far side of the staircase.

  If I were a kid, I’d want my mother.

  Unlike the other bedrooms, this one was leaking thick, black smoke. Fire had burned a seam at the bottom of the door. I opened it, knowing I was going to let in air, knowing it was the wrong thing to do and the only choice I had.

  Predictably, the smoldering line ignited, flame filling the doorway. I charged through it like a bull, feeling embers rain down the back of my helmet and coat. “Luisa!” I yelled out. I felt my way around the perimeter of the room, found the closet. I knocked hard and called again.

  It was faint, but there was definitely a knock back.

  • • •

  “We’ve been lucky,” I tell Julia Romano, quite possibly the last words she’d ever expect to hear me say. “Sara’s sister watches the kids if it’s going to be a long haul. For shorter runs, we swap off—you know, Sara stays with Kate one night at the hospital, and I go home to the other kids, or vice versa. It’s easier now. They’re old enough to take care of themselves.”

  She writes something down in her little book when I say that, and it makes me squirm in my seat. Anna’s only thirteen—is that too young to stay alone in a house? Social Services might say so, but Anna’s different. Anna grew up years ago.

  “Do you think Anna’s doing okay?” Julia asks.

  “I don’t think she would have filed a lawsuit if she was.” I hesitate. “Sara says she wants attention.”

  “What do you think?”

  To buy time, I take a forkful of eggs. The horseradish turned out to be surprisingly good. It brings out the orange. I tell Julia Romano this.

  She folds her napkin next to her own plate. “You didn’t answer my question, Mr. Fitzgerald.”

  “I don’t think it’s that simple.” I very carefully set my silverware down. “Do you have brothers or sisters?”

  “Both. Six older brothers and a twin sister.”

  I whistle. “Your parents must have a hell of a lot of patience.”

  She shrugs. “Good Catholics. I don’t know how they did it, either, but none of us fell through the cracks.”

  “Did you always think so?” I ask. “Did you ever feel, when you were a kid, that maybe they were playing favorites?” Her face tightens, just the tiniest bit, and I feel bad about putting her on the spot. “We all know you’re supposed to love your kids equal, but that’s not always how it works out.” I get to my feet. “You got a little extra time? There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

  • • •

  Last winter we got an ambulance call in the dead of winter for a guy who lived up a rural road. The contractor he hired to plow his driveway had found him and called 911; apparently the guy had gotten out of his car the night before, slipped, and froze right to the gravel; the contractor nearly ran over him, thinking he was a drift.

  When we got to the scene, he’d been outside for nearly eight hours, and he was nothing more than an ice cube with no pulse. His knees were bent; I remember this, because when we finally pried him out and set him on a backboard, there they were, sticking straight up in the air. We got the heat cranked in the ambulance and brought him inside, starting to cut off his clothes. By the time we had our paperwork in order for the hospital transport, the guy was sitting up and talking to us.

  I tell you this to show you that in spite of what you’d think, miracles happen.

  • • •

  It’s a cliché, but the reason I became a firefighter in the first place was because I wanted to save people. So the moment I emerged from the fiery arched doorway with Luisa in my arms, when her mother first saw us and fell to her knees, I knew I had done my job and done it well. She swooped down beside the EMT from the second crew who got a line into the girl’s arm and put her on oxygen. The kid was coughing, frightened, but she would be fine.

  The fire was all but out; the boys were inside doing salvage and overhaul. Smoke drew a veil over the night sky; I couldn’t make out a single star in the constellation Scorpio. I took off my gloves and wiped my hands across my eyes, which would sting for hours. “Good work,” I said to Red, as he packed up the hose.

  “Good save, Cap,” he called back.

  It would have been better, of course, if Luisa had been in her own room, as her mother expected. But kids don’t stay where they’re supposed to. You turn around and find her not in the bedroom but hiding in a closet; you turn around and see she’s not three but thirteen. Parenting is really just a matter of tracking, of hoping your kids do not get so far ahead you can no longer see their next moves.

  I took off my helmet and stretched the muscles of my neck. I looked up at the structure that was once a home. Suddenly I felt fingers wrap around my hand. The woman who lived here stood with tears in her eyes. Her youngest was still in her arms; the other kids were sitting in the fire truck under Red’s supervision. Silently she raised my knuckles to her lips. A streak of soot came off my jacket to stripe her cheek. “You’re welcome,” I said.

  On our way back to the station I directed Caesar the long way, so that we passed right down the street where I live. Jesse’s Jeep sat in my driveway; the lights in the house were all off. I pictured Anna with the covers pulled up to her chin, like usual; Kate’s bed empty.

  “We all set, Fitz?” Caesar asked. The truck was barely crawling, almost stopped directly in front of my driveway.

  “Yeah, we’re set,” I said. “Let’s take it on home.”

  I became a firefighter because I wanted to save people. But I should have been more specific. I should have named names.

  JULIA

  BRIAN FITZGERALD’S CAR IS FILLED with stars. There are charts on the passenger seat and tables jammed into the console between us; the backseat is a palette for Xerox copies of nebulae and planets. “Sorry,” he says, reddening. “I wasn’t expecting company.”

  I help him clear off a space for me, and in the process pick up a map made of pinpricks. “What’s this?” I ask.

  “A sky atl
as.” He shrugs. “It’s kind of a hobby.”

  “When I was little, I once tried to name every star in the sky after one of my relatives. The scary part is I hadn’t run out of names by the time I fell asleep.”

  “Anna’s named after a galaxy,” Brian says.

  “That’s much cooler than being named after a patron saint,” I muse. “Once, I asked my mom why stars shine. She said they were night-lights, so the angels could find their way around in Heaven. But when I asked my dad, he started talking about gas, and somehow I put it all together and figured that the food God served caused multiple trips to the bathroom in the middle of the night.”

  Brian laughs out loud. “And here I was trying to explain atomic fusion to my kids.”

  “Did it work?”

  He considers for a moment. “They could all probably find the Big Dipper with their eyes closed.”

  “That’s impressive. Stars all look the same to me.”

  “It’s not that hard. You spot a piece of a constellation—like Orion’s belt—and suddenly it’s easier to find Rigel in his foot and Betelgeuse in his shoulder.” He hesitates. “But ninety percent of the universe is made of stuff we can’t even see.”

  “Then how do you know it’s there?”

  He slows to a stop at a red light. “Dark matter has a gravitational effect on other objects. You can’t see it, you can’t feel it, but you can watch something being pulled in its direction.”

  • • •

  Ten seconds after Campbell left last night, Izzy walked into the living room where I was just on the cusp of having one of those bone-cleansing cries a woman should treat herself to at least once during a lunar cycle. “Yeah,” she said dryly. “I can see this is a totally professional relationship.”

  I scowled at her. “Were you eavesdropping?”

  “Pardon me if you and Romeo were having your little tête-à-tête through a thin wall.”