by Jodi Picoult
I watched my father move in his yellow slicker. He didn't seem to notice it was raining; he certainly didn't want to crawl into a hole and clutch his sick stomach and die, like I did. "Campbell," he bellowed, "come about."
But to turn into the wind meant to ride another roller coaster up and down. "Campbell," my father repeated, "now."
A trough opened up in front of us; the boat dipped so sharply I lost my footing. My father lunged past me, grabbing for the rudder. For one blessed moment, the sails went still. Then the boom whipped across, and the boat tacked along an opposite course.
"I need coordinates," my father ordered.
Navigating meant going down into the hull where the charts were, and doing the math to figure out what heading we had to be on to reach the next race buoy. But being below, away from the fresh air, only made it worse. I opened a map just in time to throw up all over it.
My father found me by default, because I hadn't returned with an answer. He poked his head down and saw me sitting in a puddle of my own vomit. "For Christ's sake," he muttered, and left me.
It took all the strength I had to pull myself up after him. He jerked the wheel and yanked at the rudder. He pretended I was not there. And when he jibed, he did not call it. The sail whizzed across the boat, ripping the seam of the sky. The boom flew, clipped me on the back of the head and knocked me out.
I came to just as my father was stealing the wind of another boat, mere feet from the finish line. The rain had mellowed to a mist, and as he put our craft between the airstream and our closest competitor, the other boat fell back. We won by seconds.
I was told to clean up my mess and take the taxi in, while my father sailed the dory to the yacht club to celebrate. It was an hour later when I finally arrived, and by then he was in high spirits, drinking scotch from the crystal cup he had won. "Here comes your crew, Cam," a friend called out. My father lifted the victory cup in salute, drank deeply, and then slammed it down so hard on the bar that its handle shattered.
"Oh," said another sailor. "That's a shame."
My father never took his eyes off me. "Isn't it, though," he said.
*
On the rear bumper of practically every third car in Rhode Island you'll find a red-and-white sticker celebrating the victims of some of the bigger criminal cases in the state: My Friend Katie DeCubellis Was Killed by a Drunk Driver. My Friend John Sisson Was Killed by a Drunk Driver. These are given out at school fairs and fund-raisers and hair salons, and it doesn't matter if you never knew the kid who got killed; you put them on your vehicle out of solidarity and secret joy that this tragedy did not happen to you.
Last year, there were red-and-white stickers with a new victim's name: Dena DeSalvo. Unlike the other victims, this was one I knew marginally. She was the twelve-year-old daughter of a judge, who reportedly broke down during a custody trial held shortly after the funeral and took a three-month leave of absence to deal with his grief. The same judge, incidentally, who has been assigned to Anna Fitzgerald's case.
As I make my way into the Garrahy Complex, where the family court is housed, I wonder if a man carrying around so much baggage will be able to try a case where a winning outcome for my client will precipitate the death of her teenage sister.
There is a new bailiff at the entrance, a man with a neck as thick as a redwood and most likely the brainpower to match. "Sorry," he says. "No pets."
"This is a service dog."
Confused, the bailiff leans forward and peers into my eyes. I do the same, right back at him. "I'm nearsighted. He helps me read the road signs." Stepping around the guy, Judge and I head down the hall to the courtroom.
Inside, the clerk is being taken down a peg by Anna Fitzgerald's mother. That's my assumption, at least, because in actuality the woman looks nothing like her daughter, who stands beside her. "I'm quite sure that in this case, the judge would understand," Sara Fitzgerald argues. Her husband waits a few feet behind her, apart.
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."
Whe
n 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.
ANNA
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.
"Does there have to be a trial?"
"Well . . . your parents can just agree to medical emancipation, and that would be that," the judge says.
Like that would ever happen.
"On the other hand, once someone files a petition--like you have--then the respondent--your parents--have to go to court. If your parents really believe you're not ready to make these kinds of decisions by yourself, they have to present their reasons to me, or else risk having me find in your favor by default."
I nod. I have told myself that no matter what, I'm going to keep cool. If I fall apart at the seams, there's no way this judge will think I'm capable of deciding anything. I have all these brilliant intentions, but I get sidetracked by the sight of the judge, lifting his can of apple juice.
Not too long ago, when Kate was in the hospital to get her kidneys checked out, a new nurse handed her a cup and asked for a urine sample. "It better be ready when I come back for it," she said. Kate--who isn't a fan of snotty demands--decided the nurse needed to be taken down a peg. She sent me out on a mission to the vending machines, to get the very juice that the judge is drinking now. She poured this into the specimen cup, and when the nurse came back, held it up to the light. "Huh," Kate said. "Looks a little cloudy. Better filter it through again." And then she lifted it to her lips and drank it down.
The nurse turned white and flew out of the room. Kate and I, we laughed until our stomachs cramped. For the rest of that day, all we had to do was catch each other's eye and we'd dissolve.
Like a tooth, and then there's nothing left.
"Anna?" Judge DeSalvo prompts, and then he sets that stupid can of Mott's down on the table between us and I burst into tears.
"I can't give a kidney to my sister. I just can't."
Without a word, Judge DeSalvo hands me a box of Kleenex. I wad some into a ball, wipe at my eyes and my nose. For a while, he's quiet, letting me catch my breath. When I look up I find him waiting. "Anna, no hospital in this country will take an organ from an unwilling donor."
"Who do you think signs off on it?" I ask. "Not the little kid getting wheeled into the OR--her parents."
"You're not a little kid; you could certainly make your objections known," he says.
"Oh, right," I say, tearing up again. "When you complain because someone's sticking a needle into you for the tenth time, it's considered standard operating procedure. All the adults look around with fake smiles and tell each other that no one voluntarily asks for more needles." I blow my nose into a Kleenex. "The kidney--that's just today. Tomorrow it'll be something else. It's always something else."
"Your mother told me you want to drop the lawsuit," he says. "Did she lie to me?"
"No." I swallow hard.
"Then . . . why did you lie to her?"
There are a thousand answers for that; I choose the easy one. "Because I love her," I say, and the tears come all over again. "I'm sorry. I'm really sorry."
He stares at me hard. "You know what, Anna? I'm going to appoint someone who's going to help your lawyer tell me what's best for you. How does that sound?"
My hair's fallen all over the place; I tuck it behind my ear. My face is so red it feels swollen. "Okay," I answer.
"Okay." He presses an intercom button, and asks to have everyone else sent back.
My mother comes into the room first and starts to make her way over to me, until Campbell and his dog cut her off. He raises his brows and gives me a thumbs-up sign, but it's a question. "I'm not sure what's going on," Judge DeSalvo says, "so I'm appointing a guardian ad litem to spend two weeks with her. Needless to say, I expect full cooperation on both of your parts. I want the guardian ad litem's report back, and then we'll have a hearing. If there's anything more I need to know at that time, bring it with you."
"Two weeks . . ." my mother says. I know what she's thinking. "Your Honor, with all due respect, two weeks is a very long time, given the severity of my other daughter's illness."
She looks like someone I do not recognize. I have seen her before be a tiger, fighting a medical system that isn't moving fast enough for her. I have seen her be a rock, giving the rest of us something to cling to. I have seen her be a boxer, coming up swinging before the next punch can be thrown by Fate. But I have never seen her be a lawyer before.
Judge DeSalvo nods. "All right. We'll ha
ve a hearing next Monday, then. In the meantime I want Kate's medical records brought to--"
"Your Honor," Campbell Alexander interrupts. "As you're well aware, due to the strange circumstances of this case, my client is living with opposing counsel. That's a flagrant breach of justice."
My mother sucks in her breath. "You are not suggesting my child be taken away from me."
Taken away? Where would I go?
"I can't be sure that opposing counsel won't try to use her living arrangements to her best advantage, Your Honor, and possibly pressure my client." Campbell stares right at the judge, unblinking.
"Mr. Alexander, there is no way I am pulling this child out of her home," Judge DeSalvo says, but then he turns to my mother. "However, Mrs. Fitzgerald, you cannot talk about this case with your daughter unless her attorney is present. If you can't agree to that, or if I hear of any breach in that domestic Chinese wall, I may have to take more drastic action."
"Understood, Your Honor," my mother says.
"Well." Judge DeSalvo stands up. "I'll see you all next week." He walks out of the room, his flip-flops making small sucking slaps on the tile floor.
The minute he is gone, I turn to my mother. I can explain, I want to say, but it never makes its way out loud. Suddenly a wet nose pokes into my hand. Judge. It makes my heart, that runaway train, slow down.
"I need to speak to my client," Campbell says.
"Right now she's my daughter," my mother says, and she takes my hand and yanks me out of my chair. At the threshold of the door, I manage to look back. Campbell's fuming. I could have told him it would wind up like this. Daughter trumps everything, no matter what the game.
*
World War III begins immediately, not with an assassinated archduke or a crazy dictator but with a missed left turn. "Brian," my mother says, craning her neck. "That was North Park Street."
My father blinks out of his fog. "You could have told me before I passed it."
"I did."
Before I can even weigh the costs and benefits of entering someone else's battle again, I say, "I didn't hear you."
My mother's head whips around. "Anna, right now, you are the last person whose input I need or want."