My Sister's Keeper Read online

  I watched my father move in his yellow slicker. He didn't seem to notice it was raining; he certainly didn't want to crawl into a hole and clutch his sick stomach and die, like I did. "Campbell," he bellowed, "come about."

  But to turn into the wind meant to ride another roller coaster up and down. "Campbell," my father repeated, "now."

  A trough opened up in front of us; the boat dipped so sharply I lost my footing. My father lunged past me, grabbing for the rudder. For one blessed moment, the sails went still. Then the boom whipped across, and the boat tacked along an opposite course.

  "I need coordinates," my father ordered.

  Navigating meant going down into the hull where the charts were, and doing the math to figure out what heading we had to be on to reach the next race buoy. But being below, away from the fresh air, only made it worse. I opened a map just in time to throw up all over it.

  My father found me by default, because I hadn't returned with an answer. He poked his head down and saw me sitting in a puddle of my own vomit. "For Christ's sake," he muttered, and left me.

  It took all the strength I had to pull myself up after him. He jerked the wheel and yanked at the rudder. He pretended I was not there. And when he jibed, he did not call it. The sail whizzed across the boat, ripping the seam of the sky. The boom flew, clipped me on the back of the head and knocked me out.

  I came to just as my father was stealing the wind of another boat, mere feet from the finish line. The rain had mellowed to a mist, and as he put our craft between the airstream and our closest competitor, the other boat fell back. We won by seconds.

  I was told to clean up my mess and take the taxi in, while my father sailed the dory to the yacht club to celebrate. It was an hour later when I finally arrived, and by then he was in high spirits, drinking scotch from the crystal cup he had won. "Here comes your crew, Cam," a friend called out. My father lifted the victory cup in salute, drank deeply, and then slammed it down so hard on the bar that its handle shattered.

  "Oh," said another sailor. "That's a shame."

  My father never took his eyes off me. "Isn't it, though," he said.

  *

  On the rear bumper of practically every third car in Rhode Island you'll find a red-and-white sticker celebrating the victims of some of the bigger criminal cases in the state: My Friend Katie DeCubellis Was Killed by a Drunk Driver. My Friend John Sisson Was Killed by a Drunk Driver. These are given out at school fairs and fund-raisers and hair salons, and it doesn't matter if you never knew the kid who got killed; you put them on your vehicle out of solidarity and secret joy that this tragedy did not happen to you.

  Last year, there were red-and-white stickers with a new victim's name: Dena DeSalvo. Unlike the other victims, this was one I knew marginally. She was the twelve-year-old daughter of a judge, who reportedly broke down during a custody trial held shortly after the funeral and took a three-month leave of absence to deal with his grief. The same judge, incidentally, who has been assigned to Anna Fitzgerald's case.

  As I make my way into the Garrahy Complex, where the family court is housed, I wonder if a man carrying around so much baggage will be able to try a case where a winning outcome for my client will precipitate the death of her teenage sister.

  There is a new bailiff at the entrance, a man with a neck as thick as a redwood and most likely the brainpower to match. "Sorry," he says. "No pets."

  "This is a service dog."

  Confused, the bailiff leans forward and peers into my eyes. I do the same, right back at him. "I'm nearsighted. He helps me read the road signs." Stepping around the guy, Judge and I head down the hall to the courtroom.

  Inside, the clerk is being taken down a peg by Anna Fitzgerald's mother. That's my assumption, at least, because in actuality the woman looks nothing like her daughter, who stands beside her. "I'm quite sure that in this case, the judge would understand," Sara Fitzgerald argues. Her husband waits a few feet behind her, apart.

  When Anna notices me, a wash of relief rushes over her features. I turn to the clerk of the court. "I'm Campbell Alexander," I say. "Is there a problem?"

  "I've been trying to explain to Mrs. Fitzgerald, here, that we only allow attorneys into chambers."

  "Well, I'm here on behalf on Anna," I reply.

  The clerk turns to Sara Fitzgerald. "Who's representing your party?"

  Anna's mother is stricken for a moment. She turns to her husband. "It's like riding a bicycle," she says quietly.

  Her husband shakes his head. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

  "I don't want to do this. I have to do this."

  The words fall into place like cogs. "Hang on," I say. "You're a lawyer?"

  Sara turns. "Well, yes."

  I glance down at Anna, incredulous. "And you neglected to mention this?"

  "You never asked," she whispers.

  The clerk gives us each an Entry of Appearance form, and summons the sheriff.

  "Vern." Sara smiles. "Good to see you again."

  Oh, this just keeps getting better.

  "Hey!" The sheriff kisses her cheek, shakes hands with the husband. "Brian."

  So not only is she an attorney; she also has all the public servants in the palm of her hand. "Are we finished with Old Home Day?" I ask, and Sara Fitzgerald rolls her eyes at the sheriff: The guy's a jerk, but what are you gonna do? "Stay here," I tell Anna, and I follow her mother back toward chambers.

  Judge DeSalvo is a short man with a monobrow and a fondness for coffee milk. "Good morning," he says, waving us toward our seats. "What's with the dog?"

  "He's a service dog, Your Honor." Before he can say anything else, I leap into the genial conversation that heralds every meeting in chambers in Rhode Island. We are a small state, smaller still in the legal community. It is not only conceivable that your paralegal is the niece or sister-in-law of the judge with whom you're meeting; it's downright likely. As we chat, I glance over at Sara, who needs to understand which of us is part of this game, and which of us isn't. Maybe she was an attorney, but not in the ten years I've been one.

  She is nervous, pleating the bottom of her blouse. Judge DeSalvo notices. "I didn't know you were practicing law again."

  "I wasn't planning to, Your Honor, but the complainant is my daughter."

  At that, the judge turns to me. "Well, what's this all about, Counselor?"

  "Mrs. 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."

  Whe