although it takes four to six weeks to
fully recover. And that doesn't even include the long-term effects: an
increased chance of high blood pressure, a risk of complications with
pregnancy, a recommendation to refrain from activities where your lone
remaining kidney might be damaged.
Then again, when you get a wart removed or a cavity drilled, the only person
who benefits in the long run is yourself.
There is a knock on the door, and a familiar face peeks in. Vern Stackhouse
is a sheriff, and therefore a member of the same public servant community as my
father. He used to come over to our house every now and then to say hi or leave
off Christmas presents for us; more recently, he's saved Jesse's butt by
bringing him home from a scrape, rather than letting the justice system deal
with him. When you're part of the family with the dying daughter, people cut
you slack.
Vern's face is like a souffle, caving in at the most unexpected places. He
doesn't seem to know whether it's all right for him to enter the room.
“Uh,” he says. “Hi, Sara.”
“Vern!” My mother gets to her feet. “What are you doing at
the hospital? Everything all right?”
“Oh yeah, fine. I'm just here on business.”
“Serving papers, I suppose.”
“Um-hmm.” Vern shuffles his feet and stuffs his hand inside his
jacket, like Napoleon. “I'm real sorry about this, Sara,” he says,
and then he holds out a document.
Just like Kate, all the blood leaves my body. I couldn't move if I wanted
to.
“What the… Vern, am I being sued?” My mother's voice is far too
quiet.
“Look, I don't read them. I just serve them. And your name, it was
right there on my list. If, uh, there's anything I…” He doesn't even
finish his sentence. With his hat in his hands, he ducks back out the door.
“Mom?” Kate asks. “What's going on?”
“I have no idea.” She unfolds the papers. I'm close enough to read
them over her shoulder. THE STATE OF RHODE ISLAND AND PROVIDENCE PLANTATIONS,
it says right across the top, official as can be. FAMILY COURT FOR PROVIDENCE
COUNTY. IN RE: ANNA FITZGERALD, A.K.A. JANE DOE.
PETITION FOR MEDICAL EMANCIPATION.
Oh shit, I think. My cheeks are on fire; my heart starts to pound.
I feel like I did the time the principal sent home a disciplinary notice
because I drew a sketch of Mrs. Toohey and her colossal butt in the margin of
my math textbook. No, actually, scratch that—it's a million times worse.
That she gets to make all future medical decisions.
That she not be forced to submit to medical treatment which is not in
her best interests or for her benefit.
That she not be required to undergo any more treatment for the benefit
of her sister, Kate.
My mother lifts her face to mine. “Anna,” she whispers, “what
the hell is this?”
It feels like a fist in my gut, now that it's here and happening. I shake my
head. What can I possibly tell her?
“Anna!” She takes a step toward me.
Behind her, Kate cries out. “Mom, ow, Mom… something hurts, get the
nurse!”
My mother turns halfway. Kate is curled onto her side, her hair spilling
over her face. I think that through the fall of it, she's looking at me, but I
cannot be sure. “Mommy,” she moans, “please.”
For a moment, my mother is caught between us, a soap bubble. She looks from
Kate to me and back again.
My sister's in pain, and I'm relieved. What does that say about me?
The last thing I see as I run out of the room is my mother pushing the
nurse's call button over and over, as if it's the trigger to a bomb.
I can't hide in the cafeteria, or the lobby, or anywhere else that they will
expect me to go. So I take the stairs to the sixth floor, the maternity ward.
In the lounge, there is only one phone, and it is being used. “Six pounds
eleven ounces,” the man says, smiling so hard I think his face might
splinter. “She's perfect.”
Did my parents do this when I came along? Did my father send out smoke
signals; did he count my fingers
fully recover. And that doesn't even include the long-term effects: an
increased chance of high blood pressure, a risk of complications with
pregnancy, a recommendation to refrain from activities where your lone
remaining kidney might be damaged.
Then again, when you get a wart removed or a cavity drilled, the only person
who benefits in the long run is yourself.
There is a knock on the door, and a familiar face peeks in. Vern Stackhouse
is a sheriff, and therefore a member of the same public servant community as my
father. He used to come over to our house every now and then to say hi or leave
off Christmas presents for us; more recently, he's saved Jesse's butt by
bringing him home from a scrape, rather than letting the justice system deal
with him. When you're part of the family with the dying daughter, people cut
you slack.
Vern's face is like a souffle, caving in at the most unexpected places. He
doesn't seem to know whether it's all right for him to enter the room.
“Uh,” he says. “Hi, Sara.”
“Vern!” My mother gets to her feet. “What are you doing at
the hospital? Everything all right?”
“Oh yeah, fine. I'm just here on business.”
“Serving papers, I suppose.”
“Um-hmm.” Vern shuffles his feet and stuffs his hand inside his
jacket, like Napoleon. “I'm real sorry about this, Sara,” he says,
and then he holds out a document.
Just like Kate, all the blood leaves my body. I couldn't move if I wanted
to.
“What the… Vern, am I being sued?” My mother's voice is far too
quiet.
“Look, I don't read them. I just serve them. And your name, it was
right there on my list. If, uh, there's anything I…” He doesn't even
finish his sentence. With his hat in his hands, he ducks back out the door.
“Mom?” Kate asks. “What's going on?”
“I have no idea.” She unfolds the papers. I'm close enough to read
them over her shoulder. THE STATE OF RHODE ISLAND AND PROVIDENCE PLANTATIONS,
it says right across the top, official as can be. FAMILY COURT FOR PROVIDENCE
COUNTY. IN RE: ANNA FITZGERALD, A.K.A. JANE DOE.
PETITION FOR MEDICAL EMANCIPATION.
Oh shit, I think. My cheeks are on fire; my heart starts to pound.
I feel like I did the time the principal sent home a disciplinary notice
because I drew a sketch of Mrs. Toohey and her colossal butt in the margin of
my math textbook. No, actually, scratch that—it's a million times worse.
That she gets to make all future medical decisions.
That she not be forced to submit to medical treatment which is not in
her best interests or for her benefit.
That she not be required to undergo any more treatment for the benefit
of her sister, Kate.
My mother lifts her face to mine. “Anna,” she whispers, “what
the hell is this?”
It feels like a fist in my gut, now that it's here and happening. I shake my
head. What can I possibly tell her?
“Anna!” She takes a step toward me.
Behind her, Kate cries out. “Mom, ow, Mom… something hurts, get the
nurse!”
My mother turns halfway. Kate is curled onto her side, her hair spilling
over her face. I think that through the fall of it, she's looking at me, but I
cannot be sure. “Mommy,” she moans, “please.”
For a moment, my mother is caught between us, a soap bubble. She looks from
Kate to me and back again.
My sister's in pain, and I'm relieved. What does that say about me?
The last thing I see as I run out of the room is my mother pushing the
nurse's call button over and over, as if it's the trigger to a bomb.
I can't hide in the cafeteria, or the lobby, or anywhere else that they will
expect me to go. So I take the stairs to the sixth floor, the maternity ward.
In the lounge, there is only one phone, and it is being used. “Six pounds
eleven ounces,” the man says, smiling so hard I think his face might
splinter. “She's perfect.”
Did my parents do this when I came along? Did my father send out smoke
signals; did he count my fingers
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