The Jodi Picoult Collection #2 Read online

  I take a deep breath. “In my life, though, that building was on fire, one of my children was in it—and the only opportunity to save her was to send in my other child, because she was the only one who knew the way. Did I know I was taking a risk? Of course. Did I realize it meant maybe losing both of them? Yes. Did I understand that maybe it wasn’t fair to ask her to do it? Absolutely. But I also knew that it was the only chance I had to keep both of them. Was it legal? Was it moral? Was it crazy or foolish or cruel? I don’t know. But I do know it was right.”

  Finished, I sit down at my table. The rain beats against the windows to my right. I wonder if it will ever let up.

  CAMPBELL

  I GET TO MY FEET, look at my notecards, and—like Sara—toss them into the trash. “Like Mrs. Fitzgerald just said, this case isn’t about Anna donating a kidney. It isn’t about her donating a skin cell, a single blood cell, a rope of DNA. It’s about a girl who is on the cusp of becoming someone. A girl who is thirteen—which is hard, and painful, and beautiful, and difficult, and exhilarating. A girl who may not know what she wants right now, and she may not know who she is right now, but who deserves the chance to find out. And ten years from now, in my opinion, I think she’s going to be pretty amazing.”

  I walk toward the bench. “We know that the Fitzgeralds were asked to do the impossible—make informed health-care decisions for two of their children, who had opposing medical interests. And if we—like the Fitzgeralds—don’t know what the right decision is, then the person who has to have the final say is the person whose body it is . . . even if that’s a thirteen-year-old. And ultimately, that too is what this case is about: the moment when perhaps a child knows better than her parents.

  “I know that when Anna made the choice to file this lawsuit, she did not do it for all the self-centered reasons you might expect of a thirteen-year-old. She didn’t make this decision because she wanted to be like other kids her age. She didn’t make this decision because she was tired of being poked and prodded. She didn’t make this decision because she was afraid of the pain.”

  I turn around, and smile at her. “You know what? I wouldn’t be surprised if Anna gives her sister that kidney after all. But what I think doesn’t matter. Judge DeSalvo, with all due respect, what you think doesn’t matter. What Sara and Brian and Kate Fitzgerald think doesn’t matter. What Anna thinks does.” I walk back toward my chair. “And that’s the only voice we ought to be listening to.”

  • • •

  Judge DeSalvo calls for a fifteen-minute recess to render his decision, and I use it to walk the dog. We circle the little square of green behind to the Garrahy building, with Vern keeping an eye on the reporters who are waiting for a verdict. “Come on already,” I say, as Judge makes his fourth loop around, in search of the ultimate spot. “No one’s watching.”

  But this turns out to not be entirely true. A kid, no older than three or four, breaks away from his mother and comes crashing toward us. “Puppy!” he yells. He stretches out his hands in hot pursuit, and Judge steps closer to me.

  His mother catches up a moment later. “Sorry. My son’s going through a canine stage. Can we pet him?”

  “No,” I say automatically. “He’s a service dog.”

  “Oh.” The woman straightens, pulls her son away. “But you aren’t blind.”

  I’m epileptic, and this is my seizure dog. I think about coming clean, for once, for the first time. But then again, you have to be able to laugh at yourself, don’t you? “I’m a lawyer,” I say, and I grin at her. “He chases ambulances for me.”

  As Judge and I walk off, I’m whistling.

  • • •

  When Judge DeSalvo comes back to the bench he brings a framed picture of his dead daughter, which is how I know that I’ve lost this case. “One thing that has struck me through the presentation of the evidence,” he begins, “is that all of us in this courtroom have entered into a debate about the quality of life versus the sanctity of life. Certainly the Fitzgeralds have always believed that having Kate alive and part of the family was crucial—but at this point the sanctity of Kate’s existence has become completely intertwined with the quality of Anna’s life, and it’s my job to see whether those two can be separated.”

  He shakes his head. “I’m not sure that any of us is qualified to decide which of those two is the most important—least of all myself. I’m a father. My daughter Dena was killed when she was twelve years old by a drunk driver, and when I rushed to the hospital that night, I would have given anything for another day with her. The Fitzgeralds have had fourteen years of being in that position—of being asked to give anything to keep their daughter alive a little bit longer. I respect their decisions. I admire their courage. I envy the fact that they even had these opportunities. But as both attorneys have pointed out, this case is no longer about Anna and a kidney, it’s about how these decisions get made and how we decide who should make them.”

  He clears his throat. “The answer is that there is no good answer. So as parents, as doctors, as judges, and as a society, we fumble through and make decisions that allow us to sleep at night—because morals are more important than ethics, and love is more important than law.”

  Judge DeSalvo turns his attention to Anna, who shifts uncomfortably. “Kate doesn’t want to die,” he says gently, “but she doesn’t want to live like this, either. And knowing that, and knowing the law, there’s really only one decision I can make. The sole person who should be allowed to make that choice is the very one who lies at the heart of the issue.”

  I exhale heavily.

  “And by that, I don’t mean Kate, but Anna.”

  Beside me, she sucks in her breath. “One of the issues brought up during these past few days has involved whether or not a thirteen-year-old is capable of making choices as weighty as these. I’d argue, though, that age is the least likely variable here for basic understanding. In fact, some of the adults here seem to have forgotten the simplest childhood rule: You don’t take something away from someone without asking permission. Anna,” he asks, “will you please stand up?”

  She looks at me, and I nod, standing up with her. “At this time,” Judge DeSalvo says, “I’m going to declare you medically emancipated from your parents. What that means is that even though you will continue to live with them, and even though they can tell you when to go to bed and what TV shows you can’t watch and whether you have to finish your broccoli, with regards to any medical treatment, you have the last word.” He turns toward Sara. “Mrs. Fitzgerald, Mr. Fitzgerald—I’m going to order you to meet with Anna and her pediatrician and discuss the terms of this verdict so that the doctor understands he needs to deal directly with Anna. And just so that she has additional guidance, should she need it, I’m going to ask Mr. Alexander to assume medical power of attorney for her until age eighteen, so that he may assist her in making some of the more difficult decisions. I’m not in any way suggesting that these decisions should not be made in conjunction with her parents—but I am finding that the final decision will rest with Anna alone.” The judge pins his gaze on me. “Mr. Alexander, will you accept this responsibility?”

  With the exception of Judge, I have never had to take care of anyone or anything before. And now I will have Julia, and I will have Anna. “I’d be honored,” I say, and I smile at her.

  “I want those forms signed before you leave the courthouse today,” the judge orders. “Good luck, Anna. Stop by every now and then, and let me know how you are.”

  He bangs his gavel, and we rise as he leaves the courtroom. “Anna,” I say, when she remains still and shocked beside me. “You did it.”

  Julia reaches us first and leans over the gallery railing to hug Anna. “You were very brave.” Over Anna’s shoulder she grins at me. “And so were you.”

  But then Anna steps away, and finds herself facing her parents. There is a foot between them, and a universe of time and comfort. It isn’t until that moment that I realize I have begun alread