It's probably a good thing. I have a feeling that if I really try to figure
out who I am without Kate in the equation, I'm not going to like who I see.
My parents and I are sitting together at a table in the hospital cafeteria,
although I use the word together loosely. It's more like we're
astronauts, each wearing a separate helmet, each sustained by our own private
source of air. My mother has the little rectangular container of sugar packets
in front of her. She is organizing them with ruthlessness, the Equal and then
the Sweet 'n Low and then the nubbly brown natural crystals. She looks up at
me. “Honey.”
Why are terms of endearment always foods? Honey, cookie, sugar, pumpkin.
It's not like caring about someone is enough to actually sustain you.
“I understand what you're trying to do here,” my mother continues.
“And I agree that maybe your father and I need to listen to you a little
bit more. But Anna, we don't need a judge to help us do this.”
My heart is a soft sponge at the base of my throat. “You mean it's okay
to stop?”
When she smiles, it feels like the first warm day of March—after an eternity
of snow, when you suddenly remember how summer feels on the backs of your bare
calves and in the part of your hair. “That's exactly what I
mean,” my mother says.
No more blood draws. No granulocytes or lymphocytes or stem cells or kidney.
“If you want, I'll tell Kate,” I offer. “So you don't have
to.”
“That's all right. Once Judge DeSalvo knows, we can pretend it never
happened.”
In the back of my mind, a hammer trips. “But… won't Kate ask why I'm
not her donor anymore?”
My mother goes very still. “When I said stop, I meant the
lawsuit.” I shake my head hard, as much to give her an answer as to
dislodge the knot of words tangled in my gut.
“My God, Anna,” my mother says, stunned. “What have we done
to you to deserve this?”
“It's not what you've done to me.”
“It's what we haven't done, right?”
“You aren't listening to me!” I yell, and at that very moment,
Vern Stackhouse walks up to our table.
The deputy looks from me to my mother to my father and forces a smile.
“Guess this isn't the best time to interrupt,” he says. “I'm
real sorry about this, Sara. Brian.” He hands my mother an envelope, nods,
and walks off.
She pulls out the paper inside and reads it, then turns to me. “What
did you say to him?” she demands. “To who?”
My father picks up the notice. It is full of legal language, which might as
well be Greek. “What's this?”
“A motion for a temporary restraining order.” She grabs it from my
father. “Do you realize you're asking to have me kicked out of the house,
and to have no contact with you? Is that really what you want?” Kick
her out? I can't breathe. “I never asked for that.”
“Well, an attorney wouldn't have filed it on his own behalf,
Anna.” Do you know how sometimes—when you are riding your bike and you
start skidding across sand, or when you miss a step and start tumbling down the
stairs—you have those long, long seconds to know that you are going to be hurt,
and badly? “I don't know what's going on,” I say.
“Then how can you think you're qualified to make decisions for
yourself?” My mother stands so abruptly her chair clatters to the
cafeteria floor. “If this is what you want, Anna, we can start right
now.” Her voice, it's thick and rough as rope the moment before she leaves
me.
About three months ago, I borrowed Kate's makeup. Okay, so borrowed wouldn't
be the right word, exactly: stole. I didn't have any of my own; I wasn't
supposed to be allowed to wear it until I turned fifteen. But a miracle had
happened, and Kate wasn't around to ask, and desperate times call for desperate
measures.
The miracle was five-eight, with hair the color of Silver Queen corn silk
and a smile that made me feel like I'd been spinning in circles. His name was
Kyle and he'd moved from Idaho, right into the homeroom seat behind mine. He
didn't know anything about me or my family, so when he asked me if I wanted to
go to a movie with him I knew it wasn't because he felt sorry for me. We saw
the new Spider-Man movie, or at least he did. I spent all my time
trying to figure out how electricity could leap the tiny space between my arm
and his.
When I came home, I still was walking about six inches above the ground,
which is why Kate was able to blindside me. She knocked me onto my bed, pinned
me by my shoulders. “You thief,” she accused. “You went into my
bathroom drawer without asking.”
“You take my things all the time. You borrowed my blue sweatshirt two
days ago.”
“That's totally different. You can wash a sweatshirt.”
“How come it's okay to have my germs floating around your arteries, but
not on your freaking Max Factor Cherry Bomb lip gloss?” I shoved a little
harder, and managed to roll us, so that now I had the upper hand.
Her eyes lit up. “Who was it?”
“What are you talking about?”
“If you're wearing makeup, Anna, there must have been a reason.”
“Get lost,” I said.
“Fuck off.” Kate smiled at me. Then she reached one free hand
under my arm and tickled me, taking me by surprise so much that I let go of
her. A minute later we had wrestled off the bed, each of us trying to get the
other to cry uncle. “Anna, stop already,” Kate gasped. “You're
killing me.”
Those words, they were all it took. My hands fell off her as if I'd been
burned. We lay shoulder to shoulder between our beds, staring up at the ceiling
and breathing hard, both of us pretending that what she'd said had not cut
quite so close to the bone.
In the car, my parents fight. Maybe we should hire a real
lawyer, my father says, and my mother replies, / am one.
But Sara, my father says, if this isn't going to go away, all
I'm saying is—
What are you saying, Brian? she challenges. What are you really
saying? That some man in a suit whom you've never met would be able to explain
Anna better than her own mother? And then my father drives the rest of the
way in silence.
To my shock, there are TV cameras waiting on the steps of the Garrahy
building. I'm sure they're here for something really big, so imagine my
surprise when a microphone gets stuck into my face, and a reporter with helmet
hair asks me why I am suing my parents. My mother pushes the woman away.
“My daughter has no comment,” she says, over and over; and when one
guy asks if I'm aware that I am Rhode Island's first designer baby, I think for
a minute she might actually deck him.
I've known since I was seven how I was conceived, and it wasn't that huge a
deal. First off, my parents told me when the thought of them having sex was far
more disgusting than the thought of creation in a petri dish. Second, by then
tons of people were having fertility drugs and septuplets and my story wasn't
really all that original anymore. But a designer baby? Yeah, right. If
my parents were going to go to all that trouble, you'd think they'd have made
sure to implant the genes for obedience, humility, and gratitude.
My father sits next to me on a bench, his hands knotted between his knees.
Inside the judge's chambers, my mother and Campbell Alexander are verbally
slugging it out. Here in the hallway, we're unnaturally quiet, as if they've
taken all possible words with them and left us with nothing.
I hear a woman curse, and then Julia rounds the bend. “Anna. Sorry I'm
late; I couldn't get past the media. Are you all right?”
I nod, and then I shake my head.
Julia kneels down in front of me. “Do you want your mother to leave the
house?”
“No!” To my utter embarrassment, my eyes get glassy with
tears. “I've changed my mind. I don't want to do this anymore. None of
it.”
She looks at me for a long moment, then nods. “Let me go in and talk to
the judge.”
When she leaves, I concentrate on getting air into my lungs. There are so
many things I have to work hard at now, that I used to be able to carry out
instinctively—draw in oxygen, keep my silence, do the right thing. The weight
of my father's eyes on me makes me turn. “Did you mean it?” he asks.
“About not wanting to do this anymore?”
I don't answer. I don't move a fraction of an inch.
“Because if you're still not sure, maybe it's not such a bad idea,
having some breathing space. I mean, I've got that extra bed in my room at the
station.” He rubs the back of his neck. “It wouldn't be like we were
moving out, or anything. Just. ..” He looks at me.
“… breathing,” I finish, and do just that.
My father stands up and holds out his hand. We walk out of the Garrahy
Complex, side by side. The reporters come on like wolves, but this time, their
questions bounce right off me. My chest feels full of glitter and helium, the
way it used to when I was little and riding my father's shoulders at twilight,
when I knew that if I held up my hands and spread my fingers like a net, I
could catch the coming stars.
CAMPBELL
THERE MAY BE A SPECIAL CORNER of Hell for attorneys who are shamelessly
self-aggrandizing, but you can bet we all are ready for our close-ups. When I
arrive at the family court to find a horde of reporters on parade, I offer
around sound bites as if they are candy, and make sure that the cameras are on
me. I say the appropriate things about how this case is unorthodox, but ultimately
painful for everyone involved. I hint that the judge's ruling may affect the
rights of minors nationwide, as well as stem cell research. Then I smooth the
jacket of my Armani suit, tug on Judge's leash, and explain that I really must
go speak to my client.
Inside, Vern Stackhouse catches my eye and gives me a thumbs-up. I'd run
into the deputy earlier, and very innocently asked whether his sister, a
reporter for the ProJo, would be coming down today. “I can't
really say anything,” I hinted, “but the hearing … it's going to be
pretty big.”
In that special corner of Hell, there's probably a throne for those of us
who try to capitalize off our pro bono work.
Minutes later, we are in chambers. “Mr. Alexander.” Judge DeSalvo
lifts up the motion for a restraining order. “Would you like to tell me
why you've filed this, when I explicitly addressed the issue yesterday?”
“I had my initial meeting with the guardian ad litem, Judge,” I
reply. “While Ms. Romano was present, Sara Fitzgerald told my client the
lawsuit was a misunderstanding that would work itself out.” I slide my
glance toward Sara, who shows no emotion but a tightening of her jaw.
“This is a direct violation of your order, Your Honor. Although this court
tried to fashion conditions that would keep the family together, I don't think
it's going to work until Mrs. Fitzgerald finds it possible to mentally separate
her role as parent from her role as opposing counsel. Until then, a physical
separation is necessary.”
Judge DeSalvo taps his fingers on the desk. “Mrs. Fitzgerald? Did you
say those things to Anna?”
“Well, of course I did!” Sara explodes. “I'm trying to get to
the bottom of this!”
The admission is a circus tent collapsing, leaving all of us in utter
silence. Julia chooses that moment to burst through the door. “Sorry I'm
late,” she says, breathless.
“Ms. Romano,” the judge asks, “have you had a chance to speak
to Anna today?”
“Yes, just now.” She looks at me, and then at Sara. “I think
she's very confused.”
“What's your opinion of the motion Mr. Alexander's filed?” She
tucks an errant coil of hair behind one ear. “I don't think I have enough
information to make a formal decision, but my gut feeling says it would be a
mistake for Anna's mother to be removed from the house.”
Immediately, I tense. Reacting, the dog gets to his feet. "Judge, Mrs.
Fitzgerald just admitted that she violated the court's order. At the very least
she should be reported to the bar for ethical violations, and—'
“Mr. Alexander, there is more to this case than the letter of the law.”
Judge DeSalvo turns to Sara. “Mrs. Fitzgerald, I strongly recommend you
look into hiring an independent attorney to represent you and your husband in
this petition. I am not going to grant the restraining order today, but I will
warn you once again not to talk with your child about this case until the
hearing next week. If it comes to my attention at some future date that you
have ignored this directive once again, I will report you to the bar myself and
personally escort you from your home.” He smacks the file folder shut and
gets up. “Do not bother me again until Monday, Mr.
Alexander.”
“I need to see my client,” I announce, and I hurry out to the
hallway where I know Anna is waiting with her father.
Sara Fitzgerald, predictably, is right at my heels. Following her—intent on
keeping the peace, no doubt—is Julia. All three of us come to an abrupt stop at
the sight of Vern Stackhouse, dozing on the bench where Anna was sitting.
“Vern?” I say.
He immediately leaps to his feet, clearing his throat defensively.
“It's a lumbar problem. Gotta sit down every now and then to take the
pressure off.”
“You know where Anna Fitzgerald went?”
He jerks his head toward the front door of the building. “She and her
dad took off a while ago.”
From the look on Sara's face, this is news to her, too. “Do you need a
ride back to the hospital?” Julia asks.
She shakes her head and peers through the glass doors, where the reporters
have rallied. “Is there a back way out?”
At my side, Judge begins to stick his muzzle into my hand. Damn.
Julia steers Sara Fitzgerald toward the rear of the building. “I need
to talk to you,” she calls over her shoulder to me.
I wait for her to turn her back. Then I promptly grab Judge's harness and
haul him down a corridor.
“Hey!” A moment later, Julia's heels strike the tile behind me.
“I said I wanted to talk to you!”