Sing You Home (35 page)

“What about the millions of straight couples who aren’t married but have babies? Why isn’t anyone questioning
their
ability to raise a child?”

“Because Wade Preston is going to make sure this is viewed as a custody case even though we’re not talking about children, we’re talking about property. And anytime there’s a custody case, the morality of your relationship is going to be on the hot seat.”

Zoe shakes her head. “Biologically, it’s my baby.”

“By that argument, it’s also Max’s baby. He has as much legal right to the embryos as you do—and Preston is going to say he has a better moral plan for that unborn child.”

“Well, he’s not exactly the model Christian daddy,” I say. “He isn’t married. He’s a recovering alcoholic—”

“Good,” Angela mutters, writing on her pad. “That might help. But we don’t know yet what Max wants to do with the embryos. Our position is going to be to paint you as a loving, committed couple with strong roots in the community and respect in your individual professions.”

“Will that be enough?” Zoe asks.

“I don’t know. We aren’t going to be able to control the wild ride that Wade Preston’s about to launch, but we’ve got a strong case, and we’re not going to let him roll right over us. Now, let me get some background information from you. You were married when?”

“In April, in Fall River,” I say.

“And you’re presently living where?”

“Wilmington, Rhode Island.”

Angela writes this down. “You live in the same house?”

“Yes,” I say. “Zoe moved in with me.”

“Do you own the home?”

I nod. “It’s a three bedroom. We have plenty of room for kids.”

“Zoe,” Angela says, “I know you’ve struggled with infertility and don’t have any children—but Vanessa, what about you? Have you ever been pregnant?”

“No . . .”

“But she doesn’t have any fertility problems,” Zoe adds.

“Well, I
assume
I don’t. Lesbians are always shooting blanks, so you never really know.”

Angela grins. “Let’s talk about Max for a second. When you were married to him, did he drink?”

Zoe looks into her lap. “There were times I found alcohol hidden, but I’d throw it out. He knew—after all, he took the empty bottles out in the recycling. But we never talked about it. If I found a stash and emptied it down the sink, he’d start acting like the perfect husband, offering back rubs, taking me out to dinner. That would last until I found the next bottle hidden under the vacuum cleaner bags or behind the lightbulbs in the closet. It was almost as if we could have a whole conversation about him toeing the line without ever speaking a word.”

“Was Max ever abusive?”

“No,” Zoe says. “We went through hell trying to have a baby, but I never doubted that he loved me. The things coming out of his mouth now don’t even sound like Max. They sound like something his brother would say.”

“His brother?”

“Reid took care of Max before I met him, and got him into AA. He’s a member of the Eternal Glory Church, which Max goes to, now; and Max lives with him.”

“You know what you call a nun who’s passed her bar exam?” Angela says, idly scanning the legal complaint that I faxed to the office after my initial phone call. “A sister-in-law.”

Beside me, Zoe laughs.

“There you go,” Angela says. “As long as you can make a good lawyer joke, there’s still hope in the world. And I got a million of them.” She sets down the fax. “There’s a lot of religious language in here. Could Reid be a part of Max’s decision to file the lawsuit?”

“Or Clive Lincoln,” Zoe says. “He’s the pastor who runs it.”

“Lovely man,” Angela replies, rolling her eyes. “He threw a bucket of paint at me once on the steps of the Massachusetts State House. Was Max always religious?”

“No. When we got married, we even stopped going to Reid and Liddy’s house because we felt like we were being preached to.”

“What was Max’s attitude about homosexuality back then?” Angela asks.

Zoe blinks. “I don’t think we ever really talked about it. I mean, he wasn’t openly intolerant, but he wasn’t advocating for gay rights, either.”

“Does Max have a girlfriend now?”

“I don’t know.”

“When you told him that you wanted to use the embryos, did he say anything about wanting to use them himself?”

“No. He said he’d think about it,” Zoe says. “I came home and told Vanessa I thought we’d be good to go.”

“Well, we never know people as well as we think we do.” Angela puts down her pad. “Let’s talk a little about how this case is going to proceed. Zoe, you know you’re going to have to testify—and you, too, Vanessa. You’ll have to speak very openly and honestly about your relationship, though you might get flak for it even in this day and age. I called the clerk this morning and learned that the case has been assigned to Judge O’Neill.”

“Is that good?” I ask.

“No,” Angela replies flatly. “You know what you call a lawyer with an IQ of fifty, right? Your Honor.” She frowns. “Padraic O’Neill is about to retire—something I’ve personally been praying for for the past decade. He has a very traditional, conservative outlook.”

“Can we switch?” Zoe says.

“Unfortunately, no. If courts let us switch judges just because we don’t like who we’ve drawn, we’d be switching judges all the time. However, as conservative as O’Neill is, he still has to abide by the law. And legally, you have a strong case.”

“What’s happened before in Rhode Island with cases like this?”

Angela looks at me. “There are none. We’ll be making law.”

“So,” Zoe murmurs. “It could really go either way.”

“Look,” Angela says. “Judge O’Neill’s not the guy I would have picked, but it’s who we have, and we’ll tailor our case in a way that lets him see how you two are the best solution for the disposition of the embryos. Wade Preston’s entire argument is based on the protocol of the best traditional family, yet Max is single. He doesn’t even have his own home to raise a kid in. On the other hand, you two present the image of a committed, loving, intelligent couple. You were the first one to broach the subject of using the embryos with the clinic. Ultimately, this case will come down to you two versus Max—and even a judge like Padraic O’Neill will see the writing on the wall.”

There is a soft knock behind us, and a secretary opens the door. “Ange? Your eleven o’clock is here.”

“Great kid, you ought to meet him. He’s transgendered and wants to join the high school’s traveling soccer team, but he hasn’t had his surgery yet, and the coach says they can’t afford an extra separate hotel room. I am
so
gonna win this one.” She stands up. “I’ll let you know what’s next,” Angela says. “Unless you have any questions?”

“I do,” Zoe says, “but it’s sort of personal.”

“You want to know if I’m a lesbian.”

Zoe blushes. “Well. Yeah. But you don’t have to answer.”

“I’m straight as a two-by-four. My husband and I have three rugrats and a house full of constant chaos.”

“But you . . .” Zoe hesitates. “You work here?”

“I eat kung pao chicken like it’s going out of style, but I’m pretty sure I don’t have an Asian cell in my body. I love Toni Morrison novels and Tyler Perry movies although I’m not black.” Angela smiles. “I’m straight, Zoe, and I’m happily married. The reason I work here is because I think you deserve that, too.”

I’m not really sure when I began telling myself I’d never have kids. I’m still young, sure, but options are different when you’re a lesbian. The dating pool is smaller; chances are you will wind up going out with someone who already knows the last person who broke your heart. Plus, unlike straight people, who are almost expected to fall onto a track that leads to marriage and kids, a gay couple has to make a serious, expensive, invested effort to have a baby. Lesbians need a sperm donor, gays need a surrogate mother, or else we have to forge into the rough waters of adoption, where same-sex couples are often turned away.

I was never the kind of girl who dreamed of babies and who practiced swaddling my teddy bears. As an only child, I didn’t have a chance to help care for a younger sibling. I hadn’t had a serious relationship, before Zoe, for several years. I would have happily settled for love, without offspring, if that was my trade-off.

Besides, I told myself, I already had children. About six hundred of them, at Wilmington High School. I listened to them, and cried with them, and told them that tomorrow was always going to look a little better than today. Even the ones who have graduated I still think about, connect with on Facebook. I enjoy knowing that, like I promised, everything worked out okay.

But lately, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking.

What if I wasn’t just everyone’s substitute mother during the hours of eight and three but an actual one? What if there was an open school night I got to attend as an audience member instead of a speaker? What if I found myself on the other side of the school counselor’s desk one day, advocating for my daughter, who was desperate to be placed in an English class that was already overcrowded?

I have not experienced that butterfly beat of life inside me, not yet. But I bet it’s a little like hope. Once you feel it, you know the absence of it as well.

Zoe and I haven’t had our baby, but we’ve allowed ourselves to wish. And I’ll tell you—from that moment, I was a goner.

It has been a hellish morning. A sophomore was suspended for robotripping, drinking Robitussin cough syrup in order to get high. But right now, everything’s quiet. I would call Zoe, but I know she’s in the weeds. Taking time off to visit the GLAD offices meant missing a day at the hospital for her; because of that, she’s postponed her music therapy lesson with Lucy so that she can spend a few hours on the pediatric burn unit. It is May, and I have no shortage of work I could do, but instead of doing my job, I turn on my computer and Google “Pregnancy.”

I click on the first website.
Weeks 3 and 4,
I read.
Your baby is the size of a poppy seed.

Week 7. Your baby is the size of a blueberry.
Week 9. Your baby is the size of a green olive.
Week 19. Your baby is the size of a mango.
Week 26. Your baby is the size of an eggplant.
Delivery: Your baby is the size of a watermelon.

I press my hand against my abdomen. It seems inconceivable (pun intended) that this might be a home to someone, soon. Someone the size of a green olive, nonetheless. Why do they describe everything in terms of food? No wonder pregnant women are always starving.

Suddenly Lucy bursts into my office. “What the fuck?” she says.

“Language,” I reply.

She rolls her eyes. “You know, if I’m taking the time from my day to meet with her, she could at least have the courtesy to show up.”

I can easily translate Lucy’s anger—what she really means is that she’s disappointed her session’s been postponed. That—even if she’d rather die than admit it—she likes meeting with Zoe.

“I left a note on your locker,” I say. “Didn’t you get it?” It is the way we communicate in this school—by taping onto lockers notes for school counselor appointments and academic counseling sessions and even notices of field hockey championships.

“I don’t go near my locker. Last year someone put a dead mouse inside just to see what I’d do.”

That’s pretty appalling, but not surprising. Teenagers never fail to amaze me with the ingenuity of their cruelty. “Zoe’s work schedule was a little crazy this week, and she had to reschedule. She’ll be here for your next appointment.”

Lucy doesn’t ask me how I know this. She doesn’t know that I’m married to her music therapist. But hearing that Zoe hasn’t left for good seems to mollify her. “So she’s coming back,” Lucy repeats.

I tilt my head. “Is that what you want?”

“Well, if she ditches me, it sure as hell would fit the pattern of my life. Depend on someone, and they fuck you over.” Lucy looks up at me.
“Language,”
she says, at the exact same moment that I do.

“Your drumming session was pretty interesting,” I say, remembering the impromptu rock concert in the cafeteria. I had spent an hour in a closed session with my principal after that fiasco, trying to explain the merits of music therapy with suicidal kids, and why having to sterilize the pots and pans and soup ladles once more was a small trade-off for mental health.

“I’ve never had anyone do that for me before,” Lucy admits.

“What do you mean?”

“She knew she was going to get in trouble. But she didn’t care. Instead of making me do what I’m supposed to do, or be what everyone wants me to be, she did something totally crazy. It was . . .” Lucy stumbles, trying to find her words. “It was fucking brave, is what it was.”

“Maybe Zoe’s getting you to feel more comfortable being yourself.”

“Maybe you’re using the hour I would have spent in music therapy to play Freud.”

I grin. “You know all my tricks.”

“You’re about as hard to read as Elmo.”

“You know, Lucy,” I say. “School’s out in less than two months.”

“Tell me about it—I’m counting the days.”

“Well—if you have any plans to continue music therapy over the summer, it’s something we’ll need to arrange in advance.”

Lucy’s gaze flies up to meet mine. I can tell she hasn’t considered this—when school breaks in June, so do all school activities, including school-based counseling sessions.

“I’m sure Zoe would agree to meet with you over the summer,” I say smoothly. “And I’m happy to use my key to let you guys into the school for your sessions.”

She jerks her chin up. “We’ll see. It’s not like I really care one way or the other.”

But she does, desperately. She just won’t say so out loud. “You have to admit, Lucy,” I tell her, “you’ve already come a long way. You couldn’t wait to get out of the room during that first session with Zoe, and, well, look at you now. You’re angry because she had to reschedule.”

Lucy’s eyes flash, and I think she’s going to tell me to go do something anatomically impossible, but then she shrugs. “She kind of crept up on me. But . . . not like in a bad way. Like when you’re standing on the beach right down by the ocean, and you think you’ve got a handle on it, and then when you look down again you’ve sunk so far that the water’s up to your hips. And before you can get freaked out, you realize you actually don’t mind going swimming.”