donated to charity. The
newspaper will run a story of her short and tragic life. Mark my words, it will
be on the front page.
Judge DeSalvo's wearing flip-flops, the kind soccer players wear when they
take off their cleats. I don't know why, but this makes me feel a little
better. I mean, it's bad enough I'm here in this courthouse, being led toward
his private room in the back; there's something nice about knowing that I'm not
the only one who doesn't quite fit the part.
He takes a can from a dwarf fridge and asks me what I'd like to drink.
“Coke would be great,” I say.
The judge opens the can. “Did you know that if you leave a baby tooth
in a glass of Coke, in a few weeks it'll completely disappear? Carbonic acid.”
He smiles at me. “My brother is a dentist in Warwick. Does that trick
every year for the kindergartners.”
I take a sip of the Coke, and imagine my insides dissolving. Judge DeSalvo
doesn't sit down behind his desk, but instead takes a chair right next to me.
“Here's the problem, Anna,” he says. “Your mom is telling me you
want to do one thing. And your lawyer is telling me you want to do another.
Now, under normal circumstances, I'd expect your mother to know you better than
some guy you met two days ago. But you never would have met this guy if you
hadn't sought him out for his services. And that makes me think that I need to
hear what you think about all this.”
“Can I ask you something?”
“Sure,” he says.
“Does there have to be a trial?”
“Well… your parents can just agree to medical emancipation, and that
would be that,” the judge says.
Like that would ever happen.
“On the other hand, once someone files a petition—like you have—then
the respondent—your parents—have to go to court. If your parents really believe
you're not ready to make these kinds of decisions by yourself, they have to
present their reasons to me, or else risk having me find in your favor by
default.”
I nod. I have told myself that no matter what, I'm going to keep cool. If I
fall apart at the seams, there's no way this judge will think I'm capable of
deciding anything. I have all these brilliant intentions, but I get
sidetracked by the sight of the judge, lifting his can of apple juice.
Not too long ago, when Kate was in the hospital to get her kidneys checked
out, a new nurse handed her a cup and asked for a urine sample. “It better
be ready when I come back for it,” she said. Kate—who isn't a fan of
snotty demands—decided the nurse needed to be taken down a peg. She sent me out
on a mission to the vending machines, to get the very juice that the judge is
drinking now. She poured this into the specimen cup, and when the nurse came
back, held it up to the light. “Huh,” Kate said. “Looks a little
cloudy. Better filter it through again.” And then she lifted it to her
lips and drank it down.
The nurse turned white and flew out of the room. Kate and I, we laughed
until our stomachs cramped. For the rest of that day, all we had to do was
catch each other's eye and we'd dissolve.
Like a tooth, and then there's nothing left.
“Anna?” Judge DeSalvo prompts, and then he sets that stupid can of
Mott's down on the table between us and I burst into tears.
“I can't give a kidney to my sister. I just can't.”
Without a word, Judge DeSalvo hands me a box of Kleenex. I wad some into a
ball, wipe at my eyes and my nose. For a while, he's quiet, letting me catch my
breath. When I look up I find him waiting. “Anna, no hospital in this
country will take an organ from an unwilling donor.”
“Who do you think signs off on it?” I ask. “Not the little
kid getting wheeled into the OR—her parents.”
“You're not a little kid; you could certainly make your objections
known,” he says.
“Oh, right,” I say, tearing up again. “When you complain
because someone's sticking a needle into you for the tenth time, it's
considered standard operating procedure. All the
newspaper will run a story of her short and tragic life. Mark my words, it will
be on the front page.
Judge DeSalvo's wearing flip-flops, the kind soccer players wear when they
take off their cleats. I don't know why, but this makes me feel a little
better. I mean, it's bad enough I'm here in this courthouse, being led toward
his private room in the back; there's something nice about knowing that I'm not
the only one who doesn't quite fit the part.
He takes a can from a dwarf fridge and asks me what I'd like to drink.
“Coke would be great,” I say.
The judge opens the can. “Did you know that if you leave a baby tooth
in a glass of Coke, in a few weeks it'll completely disappear? Carbonic acid.”
He smiles at me. “My brother is a dentist in Warwick. Does that trick
every year for the kindergartners.”
I take a sip of the Coke, and imagine my insides dissolving. Judge DeSalvo
doesn't sit down behind his desk, but instead takes a chair right next to me.
“Here's the problem, Anna,” he says. “Your mom is telling me you
want to do one thing. And your lawyer is telling me you want to do another.
Now, under normal circumstances, I'd expect your mother to know you better than
some guy you met two days ago. But you never would have met this guy if you
hadn't sought him out for his services. And that makes me think that I need to
hear what you think about all this.”
“Can I ask you something?”
“Sure,” he says.
“Does there have to be a trial?”
“Well… your parents can just agree to medical emancipation, and that
would be that,” the judge says.
Like that would ever happen.
“On the other hand, once someone files a petition—like you have—then
the respondent—your parents—have to go to court. If your parents really believe
you're not ready to make these kinds of decisions by yourself, they have to
present their reasons to me, or else risk having me find in your favor by
default.”
I nod. I have told myself that no matter what, I'm going to keep cool. If I
fall apart at the seams, there's no way this judge will think I'm capable of
deciding anything. I have all these brilliant intentions, but I get
sidetracked by the sight of the judge, lifting his can of apple juice.
Not too long ago, when Kate was in the hospital to get her kidneys checked
out, a new nurse handed her a cup and asked for a urine sample. “It better
be ready when I come back for it,” she said. Kate—who isn't a fan of
snotty demands—decided the nurse needed to be taken down a peg. She sent me out
on a mission to the vending machines, to get the very juice that the judge is
drinking now. She poured this into the specimen cup, and when the nurse came
back, held it up to the light. “Huh,” Kate said. “Looks a little
cloudy. Better filter it through again.” And then she lifted it to her
lips and drank it down.
The nurse turned white and flew out of the room. Kate and I, we laughed
until our stomachs cramped. For the rest of that day, all we had to do was
catch each other's eye and we'd dissolve.
Like a tooth, and then there's nothing left.
“Anna?” Judge DeSalvo prompts, and then he sets that stupid can of
Mott's down on the table between us and I burst into tears.
“I can't give a kidney to my sister. I just can't.”
Without a word, Judge DeSalvo hands me a box of Kleenex. I wad some into a
ball, wipe at my eyes and my nose. For a while, he's quiet, letting me catch my
breath. When I look up I find him waiting. “Anna, no hospital in this
country will take an organ from an unwilling donor.”
“Who do you think signs off on it?” I ask. “Not the little
kid getting wheeled into the OR—her parents.”
“You're not a little kid; you could certainly make your objections
known,” he says.
“Oh, right,” I say, tearing up again. “When you complain
because someone's sticking a needle into you for the tenth time, it's
considered standard operating procedure. All the
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