The Jodi Picoult Collection #2 Read online

  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, I 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