My Sister's Keeper Read Free Page B

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.”
     
    CAMPBELL
    WHEN YOU ONLY HAVE A HAMMER, everything looks like a nail.
    This is something my father, the first Campbell Alexander, used to say; it
is also in my opinion the cornerstone of the American civil justice system.
Simply put, people who have been backed into a corner will do anything to fight
their way to the center again. For some, this means throwing punches. For
others, it means instigating a lawsuit. And for that, I'm especially grateful.
    On the periphery of my desk Kerri has arranged my messages the way I
prefer—urgent ones written on green Post-its, less pressing matters on yellow
ones, lined up in neat columns like a double game of solitaire. One phone
number catches my eye, and I frown, moving the green Post-it to the yellow side
instead. Your mother called four times!!! Kerri has written. On second
thought, I rip the Post-it in half and send it sailing into the trash.
    The girl sitting across from me waits for an answer, one I'm deliberately
withholding. She says she wants to sue her parents, like every other teenager
on the planet. But she wants to sue for the rights to her own body. It
is exactly the kind of case I avoid like the Black Plague—one which requires
far too much effort and client baby-sitting. With a sigh, I get up. “What
did you say your name was?”
    “I didn't.” She sits a little straighter. “It's Anna
Fitzgerald.”
    I open the door and bellow for my secretary. “Kerri! Can you get the
Planned Parenthood number for Ms. Fitzgerald?”
    “What?” When I turn around, the kid is standing.
“Planned Parenthood?”
    “Look, Anna, here's a little advice. Instigating a lawsuit because your
parents won't let you get birth control pills or go to an abortion clinic is
like using a sledgehammer to kill a mosquito. You can save your allowance money
and go to Planned Parenthood; they're far better equipped to deal with your
problem.”
    For the first time since I've entered my office, I really, truly look at
her. Anger glows around this kid like electricity. “My sister is dying,
and my mother wants me to donate one of my kidneys to her,” she says
hotly. “Somehow I don't think a handful of free condoms is going to take
care of that.”
    You know how every now