When I was little, the great mystery to me wasn't how babieswere made, but why. The mechanics I understood – my older brother Jesse had filled me in — although at the time I was
sure he'd heard half of it wrong. Other kids my age were busy looking up the words penis and vagina in the classroom dictionary when the teacher had her back turned, but I paid
attention to different details. Like why some mothers only had one child, while others seemed to multiply before your eyes. Or how the new girl in school, Sedona, told anyone
who'd listen that she was named for the place where her parents were vacationing when they made her ("Good thing they weren't staying in Jersey City,"my father used to
say).
Now that I am thirteen, these distinctions are only more complicated: the eighth grader who dropped out of school because she got into trouble; a neighbor who got herself pregnant in the hopes it would keep her husband from filing for divorce. I'm telling you, if aliens landed on
earth today and took a good hard look at why babies get born, they'd conclude that most people have children by accident, or because they drink too much on a certain night, or because birth control isn't 100%, or for a thousand other reasons that really aren't very flattering.
On the other hand, I was born for a very specific purpose. I wasn't the result of a cheap bottle of wine or a full moon or the heat of the moment. I was born because a scientist managed to hook up my mother's eggs and my father's sperm and come up with a specific combination of
precious genetic material. In fact, when Jesse told me how babies get made and I, the great disbeliever, decided to ask my parents the truth; I got more than I bargained for. They
sat me down and told me all the usual stuff, of course —
but they also explained that they chose little embryonic me, specifically, because I could save my sister Kate. "We loved you even more,"my mother made sure to say,"because
we knew what exactly we were getting."
It made me wonder, though, what would have happened if Kate been healthy. Chances are, I'd still be floating up in Heaven or wherever, waiting to be attached to a body to
spend some time on Earth. Certainly I would not be part of this family. See, unlike the rest of the free world, I didn't get here by accident. And if your parents have you for a reason, then that reason better exist. Because once it's gone, so are you. Pawn shops may be full of junk, but they're also a breeding ground for stories, if you ask me, not that you did. What happened to make a person trade in the Never Before Used Diamond Solitaire? Who needed money so badly
they'd sell a teddy bear missing an eye? As I walk up to the counter, I wonder if someone will look at the locket I'm about to give up, and ask these same questions. The man at the cash register has a nose the shape of a turnip, and eyes sunk so deep I can't imagine how he sees
well enough to go about his business."Need something?"he asks.
It's all I can do to not turn around and walk out the door; pretend I've come in by mistake. The only thing that keeps me steady is knowing I am not the first person to stand in front of this counter holding the one item in the world I never thought I'd part with. "I have something to sell,"I tell him. "Am I supposed to guess what it is?" "Oh." Swallowing, I pull the locket out of the pocket of my jeans. The heart falls on the glass counter in a pool of its own chain."It's fourteen–karat gold,"I pitch. "Hardly ever worn." This is a lie; until this morning, I
haven't taken it off in seven years. My father gave it to me when I was six after the bone marrow harvest, because he said anyone who was giving her sister such a major present
deserved one of her own. Seeing it there, on the counter, my neck feels shivery and naked.
The owner puts a loop up to his eye, which makes it seem almost normal size."I'll give you twenty."
"Dollars?"
"No, pesos. What did you think?"
"It's worth five times that!" I'm guessing.
The owner shrugs."I'm not the one who needs the
money."
I pick up the locket, resigned to sealing the deal, and the strangest thing happens – my hand, it just clamps shut like the Jaws of Life. My face goes red with the effort to peel apart my fingers. It takes what seems like an hour for that locket to spill into the owner's outstretched palm.
His eyes stay on my face, softer now.
"Tell him you lost it,"he offers, advice tossed in for free. If Mr. Webster had decided to put the word freak in his dictionary, Anna Fitzgerald would be the best definition
he could give. It's more than just the way I look: refugee–skinny with absolutely no chest to speak of, hair the color of dirt, connect–the–dot freckles on my cheeks that, let me tell you, do not fade with lemon juice or sunscreen or even, sadly, sandpaper. No, God was obviously
in some kind of mood on my birthday, because he added to this fabulous physical combination the bigger picture; the household into which I was born. My parents tried to make things normal, but that's a relative term. The truth is, I was never really a kid. To be honest, neither were Kate and Jesse. I guess maybe my brother had his moment in the sun for the three years he was alive before Kate got diagnosed, but ever since then, we've been too busy looking over our shoulders to run headlong into growing up. You know how most little kids think they're
like cartoon characters – if an anvil drops on their heads they can peel themselves off the sidewalk and keep going?
Well, I never once believed that. How could I, when we practically set a place for Death at the dinner table? Kate has acute promyelocytic leukemia. Actually, that's not quite true – right now she doesn't have it, but it's hibernating under her skin like a bear, until it decides to roar again. Molecular relapse and granulocyte and portacath – these words are part of my vocabulary, even
though I'll never find them on any SAT. I'm an allogeneic donor – a perfect sibling match. When Kate needs leukocytes or stem cells or bone marrow to fool her body into thinking it's healthy, I'm the one who provides them. Nearly every time Kate's hospitalized, I wind up there too.
None of which means anything, except that you shouldn't believe what you hear about me, least of all that which I tell you myself.
As I am coming up the stairs, my mother comes out of her room wearing another ball gown."Ah,"she says, turning her back to me."Just the girl I wanted to see."
I zip it up and watch her twirl. My mother could be beautiful, if she were parachuted into someone else's life. She has long dark hair and the fine collarbones of a princess, but the corners of her mouth turn down, like she's swallowed bitter news. She doesn't have much free time,
since a calendar is something that can change drastically if my sister develops a bruise or a nosebleed, but what she does have she spends at Bluefly.com, ordering ridiculously fancy evening dresses for places she is never going to go.
"What do you think?"she asks.
The gown is all the colors of a sunset, and made out of material that swishes when she moves. It's strapless, what a star might wear sashaying down a red carpet – totally not the dress code for a suburban house in Upper Darby, RI.
My mother twists her hair into a knot and holds it in place.
On her bed are three other dresses – one slinky and black,
one bugle–beaded, one that looks impossibly small."You
look… "
Tired. The word bubbles right under my lips.
My mother goes perfectly still, and I wonder if I've
said it without meaning to. She holds up a hand, shushing
me, her ear cocked to the open doorway."Did you hear that?"
"Hear what?"
"Kate."
"I didn't hear anything."
But she doesn't take my word for it, because when it
comes to Kate she doesn't take anybody's word for it. She
marches down the hall and opens up our bedroom door to find
my sister hysterical on her bed, and just like that the
world collapses again. My father, a closet astronomer, has
tried to explain black holes to me, how they are so heavy
they absorb everything, even light, right into their center.
Moments like this, they're the same kind of vacuum; no
matter what you cling to, you wind up being sucked in.
"Kate!" My mother sinks down to the ground, that
stupid skirt a cloud around her."Kate, honey, what hurts?"
Kate hugs a pillow to her stomach, and tears keep
streaming down her face. Her pale hair is stuck to her face
in damp streaks, her breathing's too tight. I stand frozen
in the doorway of my own room, waiting for instructions:
Call Daddy. Call 911. Call Dr. Chance. My mother goes so far
as to shake a better explanation out of Kate, grabbing her
shoulders, but Kate only wipes her face and tries to speak.
"It's Preston,"she sobs."He's leaving Serena for good."
That's when we notice the TV. On the screen, a blond
hottie gives a longing look to a woman crying almost as hard
as my sister, and then he slams the door."But what hurts?"
my mother asks, surely there has to be more to it than this.
"Oh my God,"Kate says, sniffling."Do you have any
idea how much Serena and Preston have been through? Do
you?"
That fist inside me relaxes, now that I know it's all
right. Normal, in our house, is like a blanket too short for
a bed – sometimes it covers you just fine, and other times
it leaves you cold and shaking; and worst of all, you never
know which of the two it's going to be. I sit down on the
end of Kate's bed. She's sixteen, but I'm taller than her
and every now and then people mistakenly assume I'm the one
who's older. At different times this summer she has been
crazy for Callahan, Wyatt, and Liam, the male leads on this
soap. Now, I guess, it's all about Preston."There was the
kidnapping scare,"I volunteer. I actually followed that
story line; Kate made me tape the show during her dialysis
sessions.
"And the time she almost married his twin by mistake,"
Kate adds.
"Don't forget when he died in the boat accident. For
two months, anyway." My mother joins the conversation, and
I remember that she used to watch this soap too, sitting
with Kate in the hospital.
For the first time, Kate seems to notice my mother's
outfit."What are you wearing?"
"Oh. Something I'm sending back." She gets up,
standing in front of me so that I can undo her zipper again.
I wonder if it's putting on someone else's skin for a while
that my mom likes so much, or if it's the option of being
able to mail back a circumstance that just doesn't suit you.
"You're sure nothing hurts?"
After my mother leaves, Kate sinks a little. That's
the only way to describe it – how fast color drains from her
face, how she disappears against the pillows. As she gets
sicker, she fades a little, until I am afraid one day I will
wake up and not be able to see her at all."Move,"Kate
orders."You're blocking the picture."
So I go to sit on my own bed."It's only the coming
attractions."
"Well, if I die tonight I want to know what I'm
missing."
I fluff my pillows up under my head. Kate, as usual,
has swapped so that she has all the funchy ones that don't
feel like rocks under your neck. She's supposed to deserve
this, because she's three years older than me or because
she's sick or because the moon is in Aquarius – there's
always a reason. I squint at the television, wishing I could
flip through the stations, knowing I don't have a prayer.
"Preston looks like he's made out of plastic."
"Then why did I hear you whispering his name last
night into your pillow?"
"Shut up,"I say.
"You shut up." Then Kate smiles at me."He probably
is gay, though. Quite a waste, considering the Fitzgerald
sisters are –"Wincing, she breaks off mid–sentence, and I
roll toward her.
"Kate?"
She rubs her lower back."It's nothing."
It's her kidneys."Want me to get Mom?"
"Not yet." She reaches between our beds, which are
just far enough for us to reach each other if we both try. I
hold out my hand too. When we were little we'd make this
bridge and try to see how many Barbies we could get to
balance on it.
Lately, I have been having nightmares, where I'm cut
into so many pieces that there isn't enough of me to be put
back together.
My father says that a fire will burn itself out,
unless you open a window and give it fuel. I suppose that's
what I'm doing, when you get right down to it; but then
again, my dad also says that when flames are licking at your
heels you've got to break a wall or two if you want to
escape. So when Kate falls asleep from her meds I take the
leather binder I keep between my mattress and box spring and
go into the bathroom for privacy. I know Kate's been
snooping – I rigged up a red thread between the zipper's
teeth to let me know who was prying into my stuff without my
permission, but even though the thread's been torn there's
nothing missing inside. I turn on the water in the bathtub
so it sounds like I'm in there for a reason, and sit down on
the floor to count.
If you add in the twenty dollars from the pawn shop, I
have $136.87. It's not going to be enough, but there's got
to be a way around that. Jesse didn't have $2900 when he
bought his beat–up Jeep, and the bank gave him some kind of
loan. Of course, my parents had to sign the papers too, and
I doubt they're going to be willing to do that for me, given
the circumstances. I count the money a second time, just in
case the bills have miraculously reproduced, but math is
math and the total stays the same. And then I read the
newspaper clippings.
Campbell Alexander. It's a stupid name, in my opinion.
It sounds like a bar drink that costs too much, or a
brokerage firm. But you can't deny the man's track record.
To reach my brother's room, you actually have to leave
the house, which is exactly the way he likes it. Jesse moved
into the attic over the garage three years ago — a perfect
arrangement, since he didn't want my parents to see what he
was doing and my parents didn't really want to see. Blocking
the stairs to his place are four snow tires, a small wall of
cartons, and an oak desk tipped onto its side. Sometimes I
think Jesse sets up these obstacles himself, just to make
getting to him more of a challenge.
I crawl over the mess and up the stairs, which vibrate
with the bass from Jesse's stereo. It takes nearly five
whole minutes before he hears me knocking."What?"he snaps,
opening the door a crack.
"Can I come in?"
He thinks twice, then steps back to let me enter. The
room is a sea of dirty clothes and magazines and leftover
Chinese take–out cartons; it smells like the sweaty tongue
of a hockey skate. The only neat spot is the shelf where
Jesse keeps his special collection – a Jaguar's silver
mascot, a Mercedes symbol, a Mustang's horse – hood
ornaments that he told me he just found lying around,
although I'm not dumb enough to believe him.
Don't get me wrong – it isn't that my parents don't
care about Jesse or whatever trouble he's gotten himself
mixed up in. It's just that they don't really have time to
care about it, because it's a problem somewhere lower on the
totem pole.
Jesse ignores me, going back to whatever he was doing
on the far side of the mess. My attention is caught by a
crock pot – one that disappeared out of the kitchen a few
months ago – which now sits on top of Jesse's TV with a
copper tube threaded out of its lid and down through a
plastic milk jug filled with ice, emptying into a glass
Mason jar. Jesse may be a borderline delinquent, but he's
brilliant. Just as I'm about to touch the contraption, Jesse
turns around."Hey!" He fairly flies over the couch to
knock my hand away."You'll screw up the condensing coil."
"Is this what I think it is?"
A nasty grin itches over his face."Depends on what
you think it is." He jimmies out the Mason jar, so that
liquid drips into the carpet."Have a taste."
For a still made out of spit and glue, it produces
pretty potent whiskey. An inferno races so fast through my
belly and legs I fall back onto the couch. I lose my voice
again, for nearly a whole minute."Disgusting,"I gasp.
Jesse laughs and takes a swig, too, although for him
it goes down easier."So what do you want from me?"
"How do you know I want something?"
"Because no one comes up here on a social call,"he
says, sitting on the arm of the couch."And if it was
something about Kate, you would've already told me."
"It is about Kate. Sort of." I stare into my lap. I
can still taste the fire."Remember that time you came home
trashed and I dragged you up here? You owe me."
"Owe you what?"
I press the newspaper clippings into my brother's
hand; they'll do a better job explaining than I ever could.
He scans them, then looks me right in the eye. His are the
palest shade of silver, so surprising that sometimes when he
stares at you, you can completely forget what you were
planning to say.
"Don't mess with the system, Anna,"he says bitterly.
"We've all got our scripts downpat. Kate plays the martyr.
I'm the Lost Cause. And you, you're the Peacekeeper."
He thinks he knows me, but it goes both ways – and
when it comes to friction, Jesse is an addict. I look right
at him."Says who?"
Jesse agrees to wait for me in the parking lot. It's
one of the few times I can recall him doing anything I tell
him to do. I walk around to the front of the building, which
has two gargoyles guarding its entrance.
Campbell Alexander, Esquire's office is on the third
floor. The walls are paneled with wood the color of a
chestnut mare's coat, and the Oriental rug on the floor is
so thick my sneakers sink an inch. The secretary is wearing
black pumps so shiny I can see my own face in them. I glance
down at my cutoffs and the Keds that I tattooed last week
with Magic Markers when I was bored.
The secretary has perfect skin and perfect eyebrows
and honeybee lips, and she's using them to scream bloody
murder at whoever's on the other end of the phone."You
cannot expect me to tell a judge that. Just because you
don't want to hear Kleman rant and rave doesn't mean that I
have to… no, actually, that raise was for the exceptional
job I do and the crap I put up with on a daily basis, and as
a matter of fact while we're on –" She holds the phone
away from her ear; I can make out the buzz of disconnection.
"Bastard,"she mutters, and then seems to realize I'm
standing three feet away."Can I help you?"
She looks me over from head to toe, rating me on a
general scale of first impressions, and finding me severely
lacking. I lift my chin and pretend to be far more cool than
I actually am."I have an appointment with Mr. Alexander. At
four o'clock."
"Your voice,"she says."On the phone, you didn't
sound quite so… "
Young?
She smiles uncomfortably."We don't try juvenile
cases, as a rule. If you'd like I can offer you the names of
some practicing attorneys who –"
I take a deep breath."Actually,"I interrupt,"you're
wrong. Smith v. Whately, Edmunds v. Womens and Infants
Hospital, and Jerome v. the Diocese of Providence all
involved litigants under the age of eighteen. All three
resulted in verdicts for Mr. Alexander's clients. And those
were just in the past year."
The secretary blinks at me. Then a slow smile toasts
her face, as if she's decided she just might like me after
all."Come to think of it, why don't you just wait in his
office?"she says, and she stands up to show me the way.
Even if I spend every minute of the rest of my life
reading, I do not believe that I will ever manage to consume
the sheer number of words routed high and low on the walls
of Campbell Alexander, Esquire's office. I do the math – if
there are 400 words or so on every page, and each of those
legal books are 400 pages, and there are twenty on a shelf
and six shelves per bookcase – why, you're pushing nineteen
million words, and that's only partway across the room.
I'm alone in the office long enough to note that his
desk is so neat, you could play Chinese football on the
blotter; that there is not a single photo of a wife or a kid
or even himself; and that in spite of the fact that the room
is spotless, there's a coffee cup sitting on the floor.
I find myself making up explanations: it's a swimming
pool for an army of ants. It's some kind of primitive
humidifier. It's a mirage.
I've nearly convinced myself about that last one, and
am leaning over to touch the cup and see if it's real, when
the door bursts open. I practically fall out of my chair and
that puts me eye–to–eye with an incoming German shepherd,
which spears me with a look and then marches over to the mug
and starts to drink the water inside.
Campbell Alexander comes in too. He's got black hair
and he's at least as tall as my dad – six feet – with a
right–angle jaw and eyes that look frozen over. He shrugs
out of a suit jacket and hangs it neatly on the back of the
door, then yanks a file out of a cabinet before moving to
his desk. He never makes eye contact with me, but he starts
talking all the same."I don't want any Girl Scout cookies,"
Campbell Alexander says."Although you do get Brownie points
for tenacity. Ha." He smiles at his own joke.
"I'm not selling anything."
He glances at me curiously, then pushes a button on
his phone."Carrie,"he says when the secretary answers.
"What is this doing in my office?"
"I'm here to retain you,"I say.
The lawyer releases the intercom button."I don't
think so."
"You don't even know if I have a case."
I take a step forward; so does the dog. For the first
time I realize it's wearing one of those vests with a red
cross on it, like a St. Bernard that might carry rum up a
snowy mountain. I automatically reach out to pet him.
"Don't,"Alexander says."Judge is a service dog."
My hand goes back to my side."But you aren't blind."
"Thank you for pointing that out to me."
"So what's the matter with you?"
The minute I say it, I want to take it back. Haven't I
watched Kate field this question from hundreds of rude
people?
"I have an iron lung,"Campbell Alexander says curtly,
"and the dog keeps me from getting too close to magnets.
Now, if you'd do me the exalted honor of leaving, my
secretary can find you the name of someone who –"
But I can't go yet."Did you really sue God?" I take
out all the newspaper clippings; smooth them on the bare
desk.
A muscle tics in his cheek, and then he picks up the
article lying on top."I sued the Diocese of Providence, on
behalf of a kid in one of their orphanages who needed an
experimental treatment involving fetal tissue, which they
felt violated Vatican II. However, it makes a much better
headline to say that a nine–year–old is suing God for being
stuck with the short end of the straw in life." I just
stare at him."Dylan Jerome,"the lawyer admits,"wanted to
sue God for not caring enough about him."
A rainbow might as well have cracked down the middle
of that big mahogany desk."Mr. Alexander,"I say,"my
sister has leukemia."
"I'm sorry to hear that. But even if I were willing to
litigate against God again, which I'm not, you can't bring a
lawsuit on someone else's behalf."
There is way too much to explain – my own blood
seeping into my sister's veins; the nurses holding me down
to stick me for white cells Kate might borrow; the doctor
saying they didn't get enough the first time around. The
bruises and the deep bone ache after I gave up my marrow;
the shots that sparked more stem cells in me, so that
there'd be extra for my sister. The fact that I'm not sick,
but I might as well be. The fact that the only reason I was
born was as a harvest crop for Kate. The fact that even now,
a major decision about me is being made, and no one's
bothered to ask the one person who most deserves it to speak
her opinion.
There's way too much to explain, and so I do the best
I can."It's not God. Just my parents,"I say."I want to
sue them for the rights to my own body."
Sabrina The teenage witch : Haunts in the house
