IF YOU LISTEN TO ENOUGH INFOMERCIALS you start to believe some crazy things: that Brazilian honey canbe used as leg wax, that knives can cut metal, that the power of positive thinking can work like a pair ofwings to get you where you need to be. Thanks to a little bout of insomnia and way too many doses of TonyRobbins, I decided one day to force myself into imagining what it would be like after Kate died. That way, orso Tony vowed, when it really happened, I’d be ready.

I kept at it for weeks. It is harder than you think to keep yourself in the future, especially when my sister waswalking around at the time being her usual pain-in-the-butt self. My way of dealing with this was to pretendKate was already haunting me. When I stopped talking to her, she figured she’d done something wrong,which she probably had, anyway. There were entire days where I did nothing but cry; others where I felt likeI’d swallowed a lead plate; some more where I worked really hard at going through the motions of gettingdressed 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 belike to study oceanography at the University of Hawaii. Or try skydiving. Or move to Prague. Or any of amillion other pipe dreams. I’d try to stuff myself into one of these scenarios, but it was like wearing a sizefive sneaker when your foot is a seven—you can get by for a few steps, and then you sit down and pull offthe shoe because it just plain hurts too much. I am convinced that there is a censor sitting on my brain with ared stamp, reminding me what I am not supposed to even think about, no matter how seductive it might be.

It’s probably a good thing. I have a feeling that if I really try to figure out who I am without Kate in theequation, I’m not going to like who I see.

My parents and I are sitting together at a table in the hospital cafeteria, although I use the word togetherloosely. It’s more like we’re astronauts, each wearing a separate helmet, each sustained by our own privatesource of air. My mother has the little rectangular container of sugar packets in front of her. She is organizingthem with ruthlessness, the Equal and then the Sweet ’n Low and then the nubbly brown natural crystals. Shelooks up at me. “Honey.”

Why are terms of endearment always foods? Honey, cookie, sugar, pumpkin. It’s not like caring aboutsomeone is enough to actually sustain you.

“I understand what you’re trying to do here,” my mother continues. “And I agree that maybe your father andI need to listen to you a little bit more. But Anna, we don’t need a judge to help us do this.”

My heart is a soft sponge at the base of my throat. “You mean it’s okay to stop?”

When she smiles, it feels like the first warm day of March—after an eternity of snow, when you suddenlyremember how summer feels on the backs of your bare calves and in the part of your hair. “That’s exactlywhat I mean,” my mother says.

No more blood draws. No granulocytes or lymphocytes or stem cells or kidney. “If you want, I’ll tell Kate,” Ioffer. “So you don’t have to.”

“That’s all right. Once Judge DeSalvo knows, we can pretend it never happened.”

In the back of my mind, a hammer trips. “But…won’t Kate ask why I’m not her donor anymore?”

My mother goes very still. “When I said stop, I meant the lawsuit.”

I shake my head hard, as much to give her an answer as to dislodge the knot of words tangled in my gut.

“My God, Anna,” my mother says, stunned. “What have we done to you to deserve this?”

“It’s not what you’ve done to me.”

“It’s what we haven’t done, right?”

“You aren’t listening to me!” I yell, and at that very moment, Vern Stackhouse walks up to our table.

The deputy looks from me to my mother to my father and forces a smile. “Guess this isn’t the best time tointerrupt,” he says. “I’m real sorry about this, Sara. Brian.” He hands my mother an envelope, nods, andwalks off.

She pulls out the paper inside and reads it, then turns to me. “What did you say to him?” she demands.

“To who?”

My father picks up the notice. It is full of legal language, which might as well be Greek. “What’s this?”

“A motion for a temporary restraining order.” She grabs it from my father. “Do you realize you’re asking tohave me kicked out of the house, and to have no contact with you? Is that really what you want?”

Kick her out? I can’t breathe. “I never asked for that.”

“Well, an attorney wouldn’t have filed it on his own behalf, Anna.”

Do you know how sometimes—when you are riding your bike and you start skidding across sand, or whenyou miss a step and start tumbling down the stairs—you have those long, long seconds to know that you aregoing to be hurt, and badly? “I don’t know what’s going on,” I say.

“Then how can you think you’re qualified to make decisions for yourself?” My mother stands so abruptly herchair clatters to the cafeteria floor. “If this is what you want, Anna, we can start right now.” Her voice, it’sthick and rough as rope the moment before she leaves me.

spaceAbout three months ago, I borrowed Kate’s makeup. Okay, so borrowed wouldn’t be the right word, exactly:

stole. I didn’t have any of my own; I wasn............