Kate Fitzgerald Character Analysis

I was born because a scientist managed to hook up my mother’s eggs and my father’s sperm to create a specific combination of previous 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 explained 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 had 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.

I tap my pen on the desk, and Judge—my dog—sidles closer. “What happens if you don’t give your sister a kidney?”

“She’ll die.”

“And you’re okay with that?”

Anna’s mouth is set in a thin line. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Yes, you are. I’m just trying to figure out what made you want to put your foot down, after all this time.”

She looks over at the bookshelf. “Because,” she says simply, “it never stops.”

I think there are crossroads in our lives when we make grand, sweeping decisions without even realizing it. Like scanning the newspaper headline at a red light, and therefore missing the rogue van that jumps the line of traffic and causes an accident. Entering a coffee shop on a whim and meeting the man you will marry one day, while he’s digging for change at the counter. Or this one: instructing your husband to meet you, when for hours you have been convincing yourself this is nothing important at all.

“Providence Hospital doesn’t know anything,” he says fiercely. “Do you remember when the chief’s son broke his left arm, and they put a cast on the right one?”

I stare at the ceiling again. “Just so you know,” I say, more loudly than I’ve intended, “I’m not going to let Kate die.”

There is an awful sound beside me—an animal wounded, a drowning gasp. Then Brian presses his face against my shoulder, sobs into my skin. He wraps his arms around me and holds on as if he’s losing his balance. “I’m not,” I repeat, but even to myself, it sounds like I am trying too hard.

The baby’s head slips through the seal of my skin. The doctor’s hand holds her, slides that gorgeous cord free of her neck, delivers her shoulder by shoulder.

I struggle to my elbows to watch what is going on below. “The umbilical cord,” I remind him. “Be careful.” He cuts it, beautiful blood, and hurries it out to the room to a place where it will be cryogenically preserved until Kate is ready for it.

[Kate] sprinted, and nearly had it, but then Jesse took a running leap and slammed her to the ground, crushing her underneath him.

In that moment everything stopped. Kate lay with her arms and legs splayed, unmoving. My father was there in a breath, shoving at Jesse. “What the hell is the matter with you!”

“I forgot!”

My mother: “Where does it hurt? Can you sit up?”

But when Kate rolled over, she was smiling. “It doesn’t hurt. It feels great.”

My parents looked at each other. Neither of them understood like I did, like Jesse did—that no matter who you are, there is some part of you that always wishes you were someone else—and when, for a millisecond, you get that wish, it’s a miracle. “He forgot,” Kate said to nobody, and she lay on her back, beaming up at the cold hawkeye sun.

I could ask [Kate] if she has talked to the nephrologists about a kidney transplant, if she has any particular feelings about undergoing so many different, painful treatments. But this is exactly what Kate is expecting me to ask, which is probably why the question that comes out of my mouth is completely different. “What do you want to be when you grow up?”

“No one ever asks me that.” She eyes me carefully. “What makes you think I’m going to grow up?”

“What makes you think you’re not? Isn’t that why you’re doing all this?”

Just when I think she isn’t going to answer me, she speaks. “I always wanted to be a ballerina.” Her arm goes up, a weak arabesque. “You know what ballerinas have? […] Absolute control. When it comes to their bodies, they know exactly what’s going to happen, and when.”

“You are allowed to take a break, you know. No one has to be a martyr twenty-four/seven.”

But I hear her wrong. “I think once you sign on to be a mother, that’s the only shift they offer.”

“I said martyr,” Zanne laughs. “Not mother.”

I smile a little. “Is there a difference?”

“Did you want to get your crown of thorns out of the suitcase first? Listen to yourself, Sara, and stop being such a drama queen. Yes, you drew a bad lot of fate. Yes, it sucks to you.”

Bright color rises on my cheeks. “You have no idea what my life is like.”

“Neither do you,” Zanne says. “You’re not living, Sara. You’re waiting for Kate to die.”

I decided one day to force myself into imagining what it would be like after Kate died. That way, […] when it really happened, I’d be ready.

I kept at it for weeks. […] There were entire days when I did nothing but cry; others where I felt like I’d swallowed a lead plate; some more where I worked really hard at going through the motions of getting dressed and making my bed and studying my vocab words because it was easier than doing anything else.

But then, there were times when I let the veil lift a little, and other ideas would pop up. Like what it would be like to study oceanography at the University of Hawaii. Or try skydiving. Or move to Prague. Or any of a million other pipe dreams. I’d try to stuff myself into one of these scenarios, but it was like wearing a size five sneaker when your foot is a seven—you can get by for a few steps, and then you sit down and pull off the shoe because it plain hurts too much. I am convinced that there is a censor sitting on my brain with a red stamp, reminding me what I am not supposed to even think about, no matter how seductive it might be.

“I won’t let your sister take care of Kate,” Brian says. “I’m supposed to take care of Kate.” The hose falls to the ground, dribbles and spits at our feet. “Sara, she’s not going to live long enough to use that money for college.”

The sun is bright; the sprinkler twitches on the grass, spraying rainbows. It is far too beautiful a day for words like these. I turn and run into the house I lock myself in the bathroom.

A moment later, Brian bangs on the door. “Sara? Sara, I’m sorry.”

I pretend I can’t hear him. I pretend I haven’t heard anything he’s said.

The paper [Brian] has been scribbling on falls out of his hands and lands at my feet; before he can reach it I pick it up. It is full of tearstains, of cross-outs. She loved the way it smelled in Spring, I read. She could beat anyone at gin rummy. She could dance even if there wasn’t music playing. There are notes on the side, too: Favorite color: pink. Favorite time of day: twilight. Used to read Where the Wild Things Are, over and over, and still knows it by heart.

All the hairs stand up on the back of my neck. “Is this…a eulogy?”

By now, Brian is crying, too, “If I don’t do it now, I won’t be able to when it’s really time.”

I shake my head. “It’s not time.”

What if I was the one who was sick? What if Kate had been asked to do what I’ve done? What if one of these days, some marrow or blood or whatever actually worked, and that was the end? What if I could look back on all this one day and feel good about what I did, instead of feeling guilty? What if the judge doesn’t think I’m right?

What if he does?

I can’t answer a single one of these, which is how I know that whether I’m ready or not, I’m growing up.

“Taylor already thinks you’re beautiful.”

“Well I don’t!” Kate cries. “I don’t, Mom, and maybe I want to just once.”

[…]

“We’ll sew something,” I suggest. “You can design it.”

“You don’t know how to sew,” Kate sighs.

“I’ll learn.”

“In a day?” She shakes her head. “You can’t fix it every time, Mom. How come I know that, and you don’t?”

I don’t tell Kate something else Jenna Ambrose said—that afterward, she went inside and stared at her son, who wasn’t her son anymore. That she sat for five whole hours, sure he was going to wake up. That even now she hears noise overhead and thinks Taylor is moving around his room, that the half-second she is gifted before she remembers the truth is the only reason she gets up each morning.

Can you tell me what the right answer is here? […] Because I don’t know where to look for it. I know what’s right. I know what’s fair. But neither of those apply here. I can sit, and I can think about it, and I can tell you what should be and what ought to be. I can even tell you there’s got to be a better solution. But it’s been thirteen years, Mr. Alexander, and I still haven’t found it.

“I’m sick of waiting for something that’s going to happen anyway. I think I’ve fucked up everyone’s life long enough, don’t you?”

“But everyone’s worked so hard just to keep you alive. You can’t kill yourself.”

All of a sudden Kate started to cry. “I know. I can’t.”

It took me a few moments to realize this meant she’d already tried before.

There might be a morning when I wake up and her face isn’t the first thing I see. Or a lazy August afternoon when I can’t quite recall anymore where the freckles were on her right shoulder. Maybe one of these days, I will not be able to listen to the sound of snow falling and hear her footsteps.

When I start to feel this way I go into the bathroom and I lift up my shirt and touch the white lines of my scar. I remember how, at first, I thought the stitches seemed to spell out her name. I think about her kidney working inside me and her blood running through my veins. I take her with me, whenever I go.

I was born because a scientist managed to hook up my mother’s eggs and my father’s sperm to create a specific combination of previous 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 explained 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 had 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.

I tap my pen on the desk, and Judge—my dog—sidles closer. “What happens if you don’t give your sister a kidney?”

“She’ll die.”

“And you’re okay with that?”

Anna’s mouth is set in a thin line. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Yes, you are. I’m just trying to figure out what made you want to put your foot down, after all this time.”

She looks over at the bookshelf. “Because,” she says simply, “it never stops.”

I think there are crossroads in our lives when we make grand, sweeping decisions without even realizing it. Like scanning the newspaper headline at a red light, and therefore missing the rogue van that jumps the line of traffic and causes an accident. Entering a coffee shop on a whim and meeting the man you will marry one day, while he’s digging for change at the counter. Or this one: instructing your husband to meet you, when for hours you have been convincing yourself this is nothing important at all.

“Providence Hospital doesn’t know anything,” he says fiercely. “Do you remember when the chief’s son broke his left arm, and they put a cast on the right one?”

I stare at the ceiling again. “Just so you know,” I say, more loudly than I’ve intended, “I’m not going to let Kate die.”

There is an awful sound beside me—an animal wounded, a drowning gasp. Then Brian presses his face against my shoulder, sobs into my skin. He wraps his arms around me and holds on as if he’s losing his balance. “I’m not,” I repeat, but even to myself, it sounds like I am trying too hard.

The baby’s head slips through the seal of my skin. The doctor’s hand holds her, slides that gorgeous cord free of her neck, delivers her shoulder by shoulder.

I struggle to my elbows to watch what is going on below. “The umbilical cord,” I remind him. “Be careful.” He cuts it, beautiful blood, and hurries it out to the room to a place where it will be cryogenically preserved until Kate is ready for it.

[Kate] sprinted, and nearly had it, but then Jesse took a running leap and slammed her to the ground, crushing her underneath him.

In that moment everything stopped. Kate lay with her arms and legs splayed, unmoving. My father was there in a breath, shoving at Jesse. “What the hell is the matter with you!”

“I forgot!”

My mother: “Where does it hurt? Can you sit up?”

But when Kate rolled over, she was smiling. “It doesn’t hurt. It feels great.”

My parents looked at each other. Neither of them understood like I did, like Jesse did—that no matter who you are, there is some part of you that always wishes you were someone else—and when, for a millisecond, you get that wish, it’s a miracle. “He forgot,” Kate said to nobody, and she lay on her back, beaming up at the cold hawkeye sun.

I could ask [Kate] if she has talked to the nephrologists about a kidney transplant, if she has any particular feelings about undergoing so many different, painful treatments. But this is exactly what Kate is expecting me to ask, which is probably why the question that comes out of my mouth is completely different. “What do you want to be when you grow up?”

“No one ever asks me that.” She eyes me carefully. “What makes you think I’m going to grow up?”

“What makes you think you’re not? Isn’t that why you’re doing all this?”

Just when I think she isn’t going to answer me, she speaks. “I always wanted to be a ballerina.” Her arm goes up, a weak arabesque. “You know what ballerinas have? […] Absolute control. When it comes to their bodies, they know exactly what’s going to happen, and when.”

“You are allowed to take a break, you know. No one has to be a martyr twenty-four/seven.”

But I hear her wrong. “I think once you sign on to be a mother, that’s the only shift they offer.”

“I said martyr,” Zanne laughs. “Not mother.”

I smile a little. “Is there a difference?”

“Did you want to get your crown of thorns out of the suitcase first? Listen to yourself, Sara, and stop being such a drama queen. Yes, you drew a bad lot of fate. Yes, it sucks to you.”

Bright color rises on my cheeks. “You have no idea what my life is like.”

“Neither do you,” Zanne says. “You’re not living, Sara. You’re waiting for Kate to die.”

I decided one day to force myself into imagining what it would be like after Kate died. That way, […] when it really happened, I’d be ready.

I kept at it for weeks. […] There were entire days when I did nothing but cry; others where I felt like I’d swallowed a lead plate; some more where I worked really hard at going through the motions of getting dressed and making my bed and studying my vocab words because it was easier than doing anything else.

But then, there were times when I let the veil lift a little, and other ideas would pop up. Like what it would be like to study oceanography at the University of Hawaii. Or try skydiving. Or move to Prague. Or any of a million other pipe dreams. I’d try to stuff myself into one of these scenarios, but it was like wearing a size five sneaker when your foot is a seven—you can get by for a few steps, and then you sit down and pull off the shoe because it plain hurts too much. I am convinced that there is a censor sitting on my brain with a red stamp, reminding me what I am not supposed to even think about, no matter how seductive it might be.

“I won’t let your sister take care of Kate,” Brian says. “I’m supposed to take care of Kate.” The hose falls to the ground, dribbles and spits at our feet. “Sara, she’s not going to live long enough to use that money for college.”

The sun is bright; the sprinkler twitches on the grass, spraying rainbows. It is far too beautiful a day for words like these. I turn and run into the house I lock myself in the bathroom.

A moment later, Brian bangs on the door. “Sara? Sara, I’m sorry.”

I pretend I can’t hear him. I pretend I haven’t heard anything he’s said.

The paper [Brian] has been scribbling on falls out of his hands and lands at my feet; before he can reach it I pick it up. It is full of tearstains, of cross-outs. She loved the way it smelled in Spring, I read. She could beat anyone at gin rummy. She could dance even if there wasn’t music playing. There are notes on the side, too: Favorite color: pink. Favorite time of day: twilight. Used to read Where the Wild Things Are, over and over, and still knows it by heart.

All the hairs stand up on the back of my neck. “Is this…a eulogy?”

By now, Brian is crying, too, “If I don’t do it now, I won’t be able to when it’s really time.”

I shake my head. “It’s not time.”

What if I was the one who was sick? What if Kate had been asked to do what I’ve done? What if one of these days, some marrow or blood or whatever actually worked, and that was the end? What if I could look back on all this one day and feel good about what I did, instead of feeling guilty? What if the judge doesn’t think I’m right?

What if he does?

I can’t answer a single one of these, which is how I know that whether I’m ready or not, I’m growing up.

“Taylor already thinks you’re beautiful.”

“Well I don’t!” Kate cries. “I don’t, Mom, and maybe I want to just once.”

[…]

“We’ll sew something,” I suggest. “You can design it.”

“You don’t know how to sew,” Kate sighs.

“I’ll learn.”

“In a day?” She shakes her head. “You can’t fix it every time, Mom. How come I know that, and you don’t?”

I don’t tell Kate something else Jenna Ambrose said—that afterward, she went inside and stared at her son, who wasn’t her son anymore. That she sat for five whole hours, sure he was going to wake up. That even now she hears noise overhead and thinks Taylor is moving around his room, that the half-second she is gifted before she remembers the truth is the only reason she gets up each morning.

Can you tell me what the right answer is here? […] Because I don’t know where to look for it. I know what’s right. I know what’s fair. But neither of those apply here. I can sit, and I can think about it, and I can tell you what should be and what ought to be. I can even tell you there’s got to be a better solution. But it’s been thirteen years, Mr. Alexander, and I still haven’t found it.

“I’m sick of waiting for something that’s going to happen anyway. I think I’ve fucked up everyone’s life long enough, don’t you?”

“But everyone’s worked so hard just to keep you alive. You can’t kill yourself.”

All of a sudden Kate started to cry. “I know. I can’t.”

It took me a few moments to realize this meant she’d already tried before.

There might be a morning when I wake up and her face isn’t the first thing I see. Or a lazy August afternoon when I can’t quite recall anymore where the freckles were on her right shoulder. Maybe one of these days, I will not be able to listen to the sound of snow falling and hear her footsteps.

When I start to feel this way I go into the bathroom and I lift up my shirt and touch the white lines of my scar. I remember how, at first, I thought the stitches seemed to spell out her name. I think about her kidney working inside me and her blood running through my veins. I take her with me, whenever I go.