The Jodi Picoult Collection #2 Read online

  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,