How to Save a Life by Sara Zarr Read Free Book Online Page A

really talking to each other. Sometimes I got the feeling that even if I screamed and screamed no one would hear me.
    What kept me up last night was worrying about this appointment and whether afterward Robin is going to let me stay. I have to get it right. The appointment is a reminder of why I’m really here. I’m not here for me. Robin’s not here for me. The guest room isn’t here for me , and it doesn’t matter if Jill likes me , and all this is leading up to a moment when I’m gone. That’s the point. Me being gone. The baby staying here. That’s the part I don’t want to mess up.
    The doctor turns out to be a woman. Her name is Megan Yee, with an office in a hospital, and we’re all sitting at a small, round table in the exam room. She’s young and too pretty to be a doctor, with sleek hair in a ponytail and natural lip gloss on. I thought the doctor would be a man. I hoped. Men like me better than women do, all around. I answer Dr. Yee’s questions the same way I’ve been answering Robin’s all along.
    Amanda Madison Kalinowski.
    Eighteen.
    Thirty-seven weeks.
    A boy.
    The father can’t be located but, as far as I know, is in good, normal health.
    Yes, I’ve been taking my vitamins, going to appointments, and not drinking or smoking.
    Only a percentage of those things are true, but I try to say them all exactly the same way. Making eye contact but not too much eye contact. Breathing normally. Resting my hand on the baby and sometimes looking at the painting of lilies hanging on the wall behind Dr. Yee’s head. When I say “thirty-seven weeks,” she glances up from the laptop where she’s entering information, and her eyes flick to my belly, to my face, and to my belly again. Then back to the computer.
    “Have you had a glucose tolerance test?” she asks, typing.
    “Probably.”
    “You’d remember. They give you a drink? Tastes like flavored sugar water?”
    She could smile and be friendlier if she wanted her patients to relax. Every time I answer a question, I feel like it’s the wrong answer. “Maybe not.”
    Robin’s been sitting quietly in the chair next to mine. I’ve avoided looking at her, even though I would like to stare and stare, keep seeing the pieces of her add up. I want to add up for her, too, and don’t want to let her down, even though it’s bound to happen eventually. In all our e-mails since January, I’ve tried to be what she wanted me to be, because all that mattered was getting her to take the baby and getting away. Except she asked me so many questions, more questions about me than I’ve ever been asked by anyone in my whole entire life put together. Little things, like what kind of music do I like, and my favorite subjects at school; and bigger ones, like what is my idea of God and who are my heroes in history and if I could be anything I wanted, what would I be? One time she sent a short e-mail that said only There were magpies out in the snow when I was on a walk this morning. Have you ever seen Monet’s painting The Magpie? It’s one of my favorites .
    I didn’t know how to tell her that I’ve never even been to a museum. Maybe on a field trip once a long time ago, but I didn’t know if that counted.
    Questions like that, and like who my heroes in history are or what I want to be, I didn’t answer, because I don’t have an answer. I didn’t want her to think I’m dumb. I didn’t want to say the wrong thing. Her e-mails made me nervous sometimes, even though they were also exciting to get and to read. And even though none of this is supposed to be about me, it was hard not to let it be a little bit about me. I never talked to anyone who had so many thoughts about so many different things before. Everything felt like a test, and I must have kept passing because I’m here.
    Now this appointment feels like a test, too, and I’m sure I’m going to fail.
    “Stand up, please.” Dr. Yee takes a tape measure from around her neck and measures my belly.