My Sister's Keeper (13 page)

When I get back into my office, Julia is gone. Kerri sits at the computer in
a rare moment of productivity, typing. “She said that if you needed her,
you could damn well come find her. Her words, not mine. And she asked for all
the medical records.” Kerri glances over her shoulder at me. “You
look like shit.”

“Thanks.” An orange Post-it on her desk catches my attention.
“Is this where she wants the records sent?”

“Yeah.”

I slip the address into my pocket. “I'll take care of it,” I say.

A week later, in front of the same grave, I unlaced Julia Romano's
combat boots. I peeled away her camouflage jacket. Her feet were narrow and as
pink as the inside of a tulip. Her collarbone was a mystery. “I knew you
were beautiful under there,” I said, and this was the first spot on her
that I kissed.

The Fitzgeralds live in Upper Darby, in a house that could belong to any
typical American family. Two-car garage; aluminum siding; Totfmder stickers in
the windows for the fire department. By the time I get there, the sun is
setting behind the roofline.

The whole drive over, I've tried to convince myself that what Julia said has
absolutely no bearing on why I've decided to visit my client. That I was always
planning to take this little detour before I headed home for the night.

But the truth is, in all the years I've been practicing, this is the first
time I've paid a house call.

Anna opens the door when I ring the bell. “What are you doing
here?”

“Checking up on you.”

“Does that cost extra?”

“No,” I say dryly. “It's part of a special promotion I'm
doing this month.”

“Oh.” She crosses her arms. “Have you talked to my
mother?”

“I'm trying my best not to. I assume she's not home?”

Anna shakes her head. “She's at the hospital. Kate got admitted again.
I thought you might have gone over there.”

“Kate's not my client.”

This actually seems to disappoint her. She tucks her hair behind her ears.
“Did you, like, want to come in?”

I follow her into the living room and sit down on the couch, a palette of
cheery blue stripes. Judge sniffs the edges of the furniture. “I heard you
met the guardian ad litem.”

“Julia. She took me to the zoo. She seems all right.” Her eyes
dart to mine. “Did she say something about me?”

“She's worried that your mother might be talking to you about this
case.”

“Other than Kate,” Anna says, “what else is there to talk
about?”

We stare at each other for a moment. Beyond a client-attorney relationship,
I am at a loss.

I could ask to see her room, except that there's no way in hell any male
defense attorney would ever go upstairs alone with a thirteen-year-old girl. I
could take her out to dinner, but I doubt she'd appreciate Cafe Nuovo, one of
my favorite haunts, and I don't think I could stomach a Whopper. I could ask
her about school, but it isn't in session.

“Do you have kids?” Anna asks.

I laugh. “What do you think?”

“It's probably a good thing,” she admits. “No offense, but
you don't exactly look like a parent.”

That fascinates me. “What do parents look like?”

She seems to think about this. “You know how the tightrope guy at the
circus wants everyone to believe his act is an art, but deep down you can see
that he's really just hoping he makes it all the way across? Like that.”
She glances at me. “You can relax, you know. I'm not going to tie you up
and make you listen to gangsta rap.”

“Oh, well,” I joke. “In that case.” I loosen my tie and
sit back on the pillows.

It makes a smile dart briefly across her face. “You don't have to
pretend to be my friend or anything.”

“I don't want to pretend.” I run my hand through my hair.
“The thing is, this is new to me.”

“What is?”

I gesture around the living room. “Visiting a client. Shooting the
breeze. Not leaving a case at the office at the end of the day.”

“Well, this is new to me, too,” Anna confesses.

“What is?”

She twists a strand of hair around her pinky. “Hoping,” she says.

The part of town where Julia's apartment is located is an upscale area with
a reputation for divorced bachelors, a point that irritates me the whole time I
am trying to find a parking spot. Then the doorman takes one look at Judge and
bars my path. “No dogs allowed,” he says. “Sorry.”

“This is a service dog.” When that doesn't seem to ring a bell, I
spell it out for him. “You know. Like Seeing Eye.”

“You don't look blind.”

“I'm a recovering alcoholic,” I tell him. “The dog gets
between me and a beer.”

Julia's apartment is on the seventh floor. I knock on her door and then see
an eye checking me out through the peephole. She opens it a crack, but leaves
the chain in place. She has a kerchief wrapped around her head, and she looks
like she's been crying.

“Hi,” I say. “Can we start over?”

She wipes her nose. “Who the hell are you?”

“Okay. Maybe I deserve that.” I glance at the chain. “Let me
in, will you?”

She gives me a look, like I'm crazy or something. “Are you on crack?”

There is a scuffle, and another voice, and then the door opens wide and
stupidly I think: There are two of her. “Campbell,”
the real Julia says, “what are you doing here?”

I hold up the medical records, still getting over the shock. How the hell is
it that she never managed to mention, that entire year at Wheeler, having a
twin?

“Izzy, this is Campbell Alexander. Campbell, this is my sister.”

“Campbell…” I watch Izzy turn my name over on her tongue. At
second glance, she really looks nothing like Julia at all. Her nose is a bit
longer, her complexion not nearly the same shade of gold. Not to mention the
fact that watching her mouth move doesn't make me hard. “Not the
Campbell?” she says, turning to Julia. “From…”

“Yeah,” she sighs.

Izzy's gaze narrows. “I knew I shouldn't let him in.”

“It's fine,” Julia insists, and she takes the files from me.
“Thanks for bringing these.”

Izzy waggles her fingers. “You can leave now.”

“Stop.” Julia swats her sister's arm. “Campbell is the
attorney I'm working with this week.”

“But wasn't he the guy who—”

“Yes, thanks, I have a fully functioning memory.”

“So!” I interrupt. “I stopped off at Anna's house.”
Julia turns to me. “And?”

“Earth to Julia,” Izzy says. “This is self-destructive
behavior.”

“Not when it involves a paycheck, Izzy. We have a case together, that's
it. Okay? And I really don't feel like being lectured by you about
self-destructive behavior. Who called Janet for a mercy fuck the night after
she dumped you?”

“Hey.” I turn to Judge. “How about those Red Sox?” Izzy
stamps down the hall. “It's your suicide,” she yells, and then I hear
a door slam.

“I think she really likes me,” I say, but Julia doesn't crack as
mile.

“Thanks for the medical records. Bye.”

“Julia—”

“Hey, I'm just saving you the trouble. It must've been hard training a
dog to drag you out of a room when you need rescuing from some emotionally
volatile situation, like an old girlfriend who's telling the truth. How does it
work, Campbell? Hand signals? Word commands? A high-pitched whistle?”

I look wistfully down the empty hallway. “Can I have Izzy back
instead?”

Julia tries to push me out the door.

“All right. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to cut you off today in the
office. But… it was an emergency.”

She stares at me. “What did you say the dog's for?”

“I didn't.” When she turns, Judge and I follow her deeper into the
apartment, closing the door behind us. “So I went to see Anna Fitzgerald.
You were right—before I took out a restraining order against her mother, I
needed to talk to her.”

“And?”

I think back to the two of us, sitting on that striped couch, stretching a
web of trust between us. “I think we're on the same page.” Julia doesn't
respond, just picks up a glass of white wine on the kitchen counter. “Why
yes, I'd love some,” I say.

She shrugs. “It's in Smilla.”

The fridge, of course. For its sense of snow. When I walk there and take out
the bottle, I can feel her trying not to smile. “You forget that I know
you.”

“Knew,” she corrects.

“Then educate me. What have you been doing for fifteen years?” I
nod down the hallway toward Izzy's room. “I mean, other than cloning
yourself.” A thought occurs to me, and before I can even voice it Julia
answers.

“My brothers all became builders and chefs and plumbers. My parents
wanted their girls to go to college, and figured attending Wheeler
senior year might stack the odds. I had good enough grades to get a partial
scholarship there; Izzy didn't. My parents could only afford to send one of us
to private school.”

“Did she go to college?”

“RISD,” Julia says. "She's a jewelry designer.”

“A hostile jewelry designer-

“Having your heart broken can do that.” Our eyes meet, and Julia
realizes what she's said. “She just moved in today.”

My eyes canvass the apartment, looking for a hockey stick, a Sports
Illustrated magazine, a La-Z-Boy chair, anything telltale and male.
“Is it hard getting used to a roommate?”

“I was living alone before, Campbell, if that's what you're
asking.” She looks at me over the edge of her wine glass. “How about
you?”

“I have six wives, fifteen children, and an assortment of sheep.”
Her lips curve. “People like you always make me feel like I'm
underachieving.”

“Oh yeah, you're a real waste of space on the planet. Harvard
undergrad, Harvard Law, a bleeding heart guardian ad litem__”

"How'd you know where I went to law school?”

“Judge DeSalvo," I lie, and she buys it.

I wonder if Julia feels like it has been moments, not years, since we've
been together. If sitting at this counter with me feels as effortless for her
as it does for me. It's like picking up an unfamiliar piece of sheet music and
starting to stumble through it, only to realize it is a melody you'd
once learned by heart, one you can play without even trying.

“I didn't think you'd become a guardian ad litem,” I admit.

“Neither did I.” Julia smiles. “I still have moments where I
fantasize about standing on a soapbox in Boston Common, railing against a
patriarchal society. Unfortunately, you can't pay a landlord in dogma.”
She glances at me. “Of course, I also mistakenly believed you'd be
President of the United States by now.”

“I inhaled,” I confess. “Had to set my sights a little lower.
And you—well, actually, I figured you'd be living in the suburbs, doing the
soccer mom thing with a bunch of kids and some lucky guy.”

Julia shakes her head. “I think you're confusing me with Muffy or
Bitsie or Toto or whatever the hell the names of the girls in Wheeler
were.”

“No. I just thought that… that I might be the guy.”

There is a thick, viscous silence. “You didn't want to be that
guy,” Julia says finally. “You made that pretty clear.”

That's not true, I want to argue. But how else would it look to her, when
afterward, I wanted nothing to do with her. When, afterward, I acted just like
everyone else. “Do you remember—” I begin.

“I remember everything, Campbell,” she interrupts. “If I
didn't, this wouldn't be so hard.”

My pulse jumps so high that Judge gets to his feet and pushes his snout into
my hip, alarmed. I had believed back then that nothing could hurt Julia, who
seemed to be so free. I had hoped that I could be as lucky.

I was mistaken on both counts.

ANNA

IN OUR LIVING ROOM we have a whole shelf devoted to the visual history of our
family. Everyone's baby pictures are there, and some school head shots, and
then various photos from vacations and birthdays and holidays. They make me
think of notches on a belt or scratches on a prison wall—proof that time's
passed, that we haven't all just been swimming in limbo.

There are double frames, singles, 8 x 10s, 4 x 6s. They are made of blond
wood and inlaid wood and one very fancy glass mosaic. I pick up one of
Jesse—he's about two, in a cowboy costume. Looking at it, you'd never know what
was coming down the pike.

There is Kate with hair and Kate all bald; one of Kate as a baby sitting on
Jesse's lap; one of my mother holding each of them on the edge of a pool. There
are pictures of me, too, but not many. I go from infant to about ten years old
in one fell swoop.

Maybe it's because I was the third child, and they were sick and tired of
keeping a catalog of life. Maybe it's because they forgot.

It's nobody's fault, and it's not a big deal, but it's a little depressing
all the same. A photo says, You were happy, and I wanted to catch that.
A photo says, You were so important to me that I put down everything else
to come watch.

My father calls at eleven o'clock to ask if I want him to come get me.
“Mom's going to stay at the hospital,” he explains. “But if you
don't want to be alone in the house, you can sleep at the station.”

“No, it's okay,” I tell him. “I can always get Jesse if I
need something.”

“Right,” my father says. “Jesse.” We both pretend that
this is a reliable backup plan.

“How's Kate?” I ask.

“Still pretty out of it. They've got her drugged up.” I hear him
drag in a breath. “You know, Anna,” he begins, but then there is a
shrill bell in the background. “Honey, I've got to go.” He leaves me
with an earful of dead air.

For a second I just hold the phone, picturing my dad stepping into his boots
and pulling up the puddle of pants by their suspenders. I imagine the door of
the station yawning like Aladdin's cave, and the engine screaming out, my
father in the front passenger seat. Every time he goes to work, he has to put
out fires.

It's just the encouragement I need. Grabbing a sweater, I leave the house
and head for the garage.

There was this kid in my school, Jimmy Stredboe, who used to be a total
loser. He got zits on top of his zits; he had a pet rat named Orphan Annie; and
once in science class he puked into the fish tank. No one ever talked to him,
in case dorkhood was contagious. But then one summer he was diagnosed with MS.
After that, no one was mean to Jimmy anymore. If you passed him in the hall,
you smiled. If he sat next to you at the lunch table, you nodded hello. It was
as if being a walking tragedy canceled out ever having been a geek.

From the moment I was born, I have been the girl with the sick sister. All
my life bank tellers have given me extra lollipops; principals have known me by
name. No one is ever outright mean to me.

It makes me wonder how I'd be treated if I were like everyone else.

Maybe I'm a pretty rotten person, not that anyone would ever have the guts
to tell me this to my face. Maybe everyone thinks I'm rude or ugly or stupid
but they have to be nice because it could be the circumstances of my life that
make me that way.

It makes me wonder if what I'm doing now is just my true nature.

The headlights of another car bounce off the rearview mirror, lighting up
like green goggles around Jesse's eyes. He drives with one wrist on the wheel,
lazy. He needs a haircut, in a big way. “Your car smells like smoke,”
I say.

“Yeah. But it covers the aroma of spilled whiskey.” His teeth
flash in the dark. “Why? Is it bothering you?”

“Kind of.”

Jesse reaches across my body to the glove compartment. He takes out a pack
of Merits and a Zippo, lights up, and blows smoke in my direction.
“Sorry,” he says, though he isn't.

“Can I have one?”

“One what?”

“A cigarette.” They are so white they seem to glow.

“You want a cigarette?” Jesse cracks up.

“I'm not joking,” I say.

Jesse raises one brow, and then turns the wheel so sharply I think he might
roll the Jeep. We wind up in a huff of road dust on the shoulder. Jesse turns
on the interior lights and shakes the pack so that one cigarette shimmies out.

It feels too delicate between my fingers, like the fine bone of a bird. I
hold it the way I think a drama queen ought to, between the vise of my second
and middle fingers. I put it up to my lips.

“You have to light it first.” Jesse laughs, and he sparks up the
Zippo.

There is no freaking way I'm leaning into a flame; chances are I'll set my
hair on fire instead of the cigarette. “You do it for me,” I say.

“Nope. If you're gonna learn, you're gonna learn it all.” He
flicks the lighter again.

I touch the cigarette to the burn, suck in hard the way I have seen Jesse
do. It makes my chest explode, and I cough so forcefully that for a minute I
actually believe I can taste my lung at the base of my throat, pink and spongy.
Jesse goes to pieces and plucks the cigarette out of my hand before I drop it.
He takes two long drags and then tosses it out the window.

“Nice try,” he says.

My voice is a sandpit. “It's like licking a barbecue.”

While I work on remembering how to breathe, Jesse pulls into the road again.
“What made you want to?”

I shrug. “I figured I might as well.”

“If you'd like a checklist of depravity, I can make one up for
you.” When I don't reply, he glances over at me. “Anna,” he
says, “you're not doing the wrong thing.”

By now he's pulled into the hospital's parking lot. “I'm not doing the
right thing, either,” I point out.

He turns off the ignition but doesn't make an attempt to leave the car.
“Have you thought about the dragon guarding the cave?”

I narrow my eyes. “Speak English.”

“Well, I'm guessing Mom's asleep about five feet away from Kate.”

Oh, shit. It is not that I think my mother would throw me out, but she
certainly won't leave me alone with Kate, and right now that's what I want more
than anything. Jesse looks at me. “Seeing Kate isn't going to make you
feel better.”

There's really no way to explain why I need to know that she's okay, at
least now, even though I have taken steps that will put an end to that.

For once, though, someone seems to understand. Jesse stares out the window
of the car. “Leave it to me,” he says.

We were eleven and fourteen, and we were training for the Guinness Book
of World Records. Surely there had never been two sisters who did
simultaneous headstands for so long that their cheeks went hard as plums and
their eyes saw nothing but red. Kate had the shape of a pixie, all noodle arms
and legs; and when she bent to the ground and kicked up her feet, it looked as
delicate as a spider walking a wall. Me, I sort of defied gravity with a thud.

We balanced in silence for a few seconds. “I wish my head was
flatter,” I said, as I felt my eyebrows scrunch down. “Do you think
there's a man who'll come to the house to time us? Or do we just mail a
videotape?”

“I guess they'll let us know.” Kate folded her arms along the
carpet.

“Do you think we'll be famous?”

“We might get on the Today show. They had that eleven-year-old
kid who could play the piano with his feet.” She thought for a second.
“Mom knew someone who got killed by a piano falling out a window.”

“That's not true. Why would anyone push a piano out a window?”

“It is true. You ask her. And they weren't taking it out, they were
putting it in.” She crossed her legs against the wall, so that it looked
like she was just sitting upside down. “What do you think is the best way
to die?”

“I don't want to talk about this,” I said.

“Why? I'm dying. You're dying.” When I frowned, she said,
“Well, you are.” Then she grinned. “I just happen to be more
gifted at it than you are.”

“This is a stupid conversation.” Already, it was making my skin
itch in places I knew I would never be able to scratch.

“Maybe an airplane crash,” Kate mused. “It would suck, you
know, when you realized you were going down… but then it happens and you're
just powder. How come people get vaporized, but they still manage to find
clothes in trees, and those black boxes?”

By now my head was starting to pound. “Shut up, Kate.”

She crawled down the wall and sat up, flushed. “There's just sleeping
through it as you croak, but that's kind of boring.”

“Shut up,” I repeated, angry that we had only lasted
about twenty-two seconds, angry that now we were going to have to try for a
record all over again. I tipped myself sunny-side up again and tried to clear
the knot of hair out of my face. “You know, normal people don't sit around
thinking about dying.”

“Liar. Everyone thinks about dying.”

“Everyone thinks about you dying,” I said.

The room went so still that I wondered if we ought to go for a different
record—how long can two sisters hold their breath?

Then a twitchy smile crossed her face. “Well,” Kate said. “At
least now you're telling the truth.”

Jesse gives me a twenty-dollar bill for cab fare home; because that's the
only hitch in his plan—once we go through with this, he isn't going to be
driving back. We take the stairs up to the eighth floor instead of the
elevator, because they let us out behind the nurse's station, not in front of
it. Then he tucks me inside a linen closet filled with plastic pillows and
sheets stamped with the hospital's name. “Wait,” I blurt out, when
he's about to leave me. “How am I going to know when it's time?” He
starts to laugh. “You'll know, trust me.”

He takes a silver flask out of his pocket—it's one my father got from the
chief and thinks he lost three years ago—screws off the cap, and pours whiskey
all over the front of his shirt. Then he starts to walk down the hall. Well, walk
would be a loose approximation—Jesse slams like a billiard ball into the walls
and knocks over an entire cleaning cart. “Ma?” he yells out.
“Ma, where are you?”

He isn't drunk, but he sure as hell can do a great imitation. It makes me
wonder about the times I have looked out my bedroom window in the middle of the
night and seen him puking into the rhododendrons—maybe that was all for show,
too.

The nurses swarm out from their hive of a desk, trying to subdue a boy half
their age and three times as strong, who at that very moment grabs the
uppermost tier of a linen rack and pulls it forward, making a crash so loud it
rings in my ears. Call buttons start ringing like an operator's switchboard
behind the nurse's desk, but all three of the night-duty ladies are doing their
best to hold Jesse down while he kicks and flails.

The door to Kate's room opens, and bleary-eyed, my mother steps out. She
takes a look at Jesse, and for a second her whole face is frozen with the
realization that, in fact, things can get worse. Jesse swings his head
toward her, a great big bull, and his features melt. “Hiya, Mom,” he
greets, and he smiles loosely up at her.

“I am so sorry,” my mother says to the nurses. She closes her eyes
as Jesse stumbles upright and throws his sloppy arms around her.

“There's coffee in the cafeteria,” one nurse suggests, and my
mother is too embarrassed to even answer her. She just moves toward the
elevator banks with Jesse attached to her like a mussel on a crusty hull, and
pushes the down button over and over in the fruitless hope that it will
actually make the doors open faster.

When they leave, it is almost too easy. Some of the nurses hurry off to
check on the patients who've rung in; others settle back behind their desk,
trading hushed commentary about Jesse and my poor mother like it's some card
game. They never look my way as I sneak out of the linen closet, tiptoe down
the hall, and let myself into my sister's hospital room.

One Thanksgiving when Kate was not in the hospital, we actually pretended to
be a regular family. We watched the parade on TV, where a giant balloon fell
prey to a freak wind and wound up wrapped around a NYC traffic light. We made
our own gravy. My mother brought the turkey's wishbone out to the table, and we
fought over who would be granted the right to snap it. Kate and I were given
the honors. Before I got a good grip, my mother leaned close and whispered into
my ear, “You know what to wish for.” So I shut my eyes tight
and thought hard of remission for Kate, even though I had been planning to ask
for a personal CD player, and got a nasty satisfaction out of the fact that I
did not win the tug-of-war.

After we ate, my father took us outside for a game of two-on-two touch
football while my mother was washing the dishes. She came outside when Jesse
and I had already scored twice. “Tell me,” she said, “that I am
hallucinating.” She didn't have to say anything else—we'd all seen Kate
tumble like an ordinary kid and wind up bleeding uncontrollably like a sick
one.

“Aw, Sara.” My dad turned up the wattage on his smile.
“Kate's on my team. I won't let her get sacked.”

He swaggered over to my mother, and kissed her so long and slow that my own
cheeks started to burn, because I was sure the neighbors would see. When he
lifted his head, my mother's eyes were a color I had never seen before and
don't think I have ever seen again. “Trust me,” he said, and then he
threw the football to Kate.