My Sister's Keeper by Jodi Picoult Page B

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.”
    When 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