Jodi Picoult - Sing You Home

“Thank you, nothing further,” Angela says.

Wade Preston taps his finger on the plaintiff’s table, considering the doctor before he goes in for the kill. “Dr. Fourchette,” he says, “you say the embryos that aren’t ‘good’ are discarded. Incinerated?”

“That’s correct.”

“Incinerated means ‘burned,’ does it not?”

“Yes.”

“Which is in fact,” he says, standing, “what we sometimes do with people who die. Cremate them. Right?”

“True, but these embryos are not people.”

“And yet they’re treated in the same manner as a deceased person. You don’t flush them down the toilet-you reduce them to ash.”

“It’s important to note that sixty-five percent of embryos actually are abnormal and die on their own,” the doctor says. “And that both parties in this lawsuit actually signed a contract with the clinic agreeing to the incineration of embryos that were not appropriate to be transferred or frozen, among other things.”

At the word contract, Wade Preston turns. Angela, in front of me, snaps erect. And Judge O’Neill leans toward Dr. Fourchette. “Excuse me? There’s a contract?”

He asks to see it, and Dr. Fourchette hands over the document. The judge scans it for a few moments in silence. “According to this contract, in the event of divorce of these parties, any embryos that remain shall be destroyed by the clinic. Dr. Fourchette, why was this contract not carried out?”

“The clinic was unaware of the Baxters’ divorce,” the doctor says. “By the time we learned of it, it was clear that a lawsuit was about to be filed.”

The judge glances up. “Well. This makes my job a lot easier.”

“No,” Zoe breathes, at the same time that both Angela and Wade Preston leap up, shouting their objections.

“Your Honor, we need a recess-” Angela says.

“A chambers conference,” Preston interrupts.

Judge O’Neill shakes his head. “I do believe enough of my time has been wasted. Counsel, approach the bench.”

Zoe turns around, frantic. “He wouldn’t do that, would he? I can’t lose this baby to a technicality.”

“Ssh,” I say, but I’m not just trying to comfort her. The lawyers are in a heated discussion, and I’m close enough to hear. “Why did counsel not know about this contract?” the judge demands.

“My client never said anything about it, Your Honor,” Angela replies.

“Nor did mine. We didn’t even know this contract existed,” Preston adds.

“And yet both of your clients initialed this,” the judge points out. “I can’t just ignore the fact that a contract exists.”

“Circumstances have changed since the time it was signed,” Preston says.

“And there’s case law-”

The judge holds up his hand. “You have one day. Tomorrow at nine A.M. we’ll reconvene in a hearing about the enforceability of the contract.”

Angela reels back. “What?”

“We need more time,” Preston insists.

“You know what I need?” the judge storms. “I need attorneys who actually do their homework before walking into my courtroom. I need counselors who know basic contract law, something a 1L student would have easily flagged in this case. What I do not need are two whining, contentious attorneys who could be using their time to better advantage!” The clerk scrambles forward to make his announcement as Judge O’Neill strides off the bench, so that we all rise, too, like some magnetic aftereffect of his anger.

Angela finds a small conference room on the upper level of the courthouse and Zoe, Dara, and I follow her into it. “Talk,” she demands, sitting across from Zoe, who is a mess.

“He can’t really order the clinic to destroy the embryos if we both want them, right?” Zoe sobs.

“A contract’s a contract,” Angela says flatly.

“But this was a consent form. Like when you have anesthesia and they make you sign something just before you go under. All we wanted to do was have a baby. I figured we had to check off all the boxes if we were even going to be considered.”

Angela raises her brows. “So you didn’t read through the whole thing?”

“It was twenty pages long!”

Angela closes her eyes and shakes her head. “Great. Fabulous.”

“How long could this postpone the judge’s decision?” I ask. “That could affect the embryos, too.”

“He might be incredibly speedy,” Angela says. “He might just follow the damn contract and be done with it by nine-fifteen tomorrow morning. This certainly gives him an easy out, a legal precedent to follow. And it wouldn’t hurt his reputation any to have his judgment compared to the judgment of Solomon.” She stands and grabs her briefcase. “I’m outta here. I have a shitload to do before tomorrow morning.”

As the door closes behind her, Zoe buries her face in her hands. “We were so close,” she whispers.

Dara leans down to kiss the crown of Zoe’s head. “You need something to eat,” she says. “There is very little in this world that Oreos cannot solve.”

She goes to forage in a vending machine downstairs. Meanwhile I rub Zoe’s back, feeling utterly helpless. “Who the fuck is Solomon?” I ask.

A small laugh bubbles up from Zoe’s throat. “Really?”

“What? Is he some famous lawyer or politician I should know?”

She sits up, wiping her eyes. “He was a biblical king. Super smart. When two women came to him with a baby, each claiming to be the mom, Solomon suggested cutting the baby in two with a sword so they could each have a piece. One woman got hysterical and said she’d rather give up the baby than kill it, and that’s how Solomon figured out who was the real mother.” Zoe hesitates. “I’d do that, you know. I’d give Max these embryos before I’d let them be destroyed.” She wipes her eyes. “You would have been such a fantastic mom, Vanessa.”

“It ain’t over till it’s over,” I reply.

I say this, because it’s what Zoe needs to hear.

But I’m already missing something I never even had.

When I come upstairs to the kitchen the next morning, Wade Preston is pouring maple syrup on a waffle. He looks well rested and sharp, which is more than I can say for me. I don’t think I got five minutes of sleep last night. Then again, I’m sure Wade has minions to do his legal research for him. He probably watched Leno and called it a night.

“Morning, Max,” Wade says. “I was explaining contract law to Reid, here.”

I smell mango and mint, like summertime, as Liddy leans over me to set a plate down. She is wearing a bathrobe. All the hair on the back of my neck stands up.

I wonder briefly why Wade is explaining his legal strategy to my brother instead of me. “If the old goat decides to follow the letter of the contract,” Wade says, “I can mobilize every pro-life group in this country. He’ll retire in the middle of the biggest shitstorm imaginable. He knows I’ve got that kind of pull, which leads me to believe that he’ll think twice before giving his ruling.”

“Then again,” Reid says, “if the church is the victim in this, it puts us in a very sympathetic light.”

I look at him. “Not the church.”

“I beg your pardon?” Wade asks.

“Not the church. Me. These are my embryos. My pre-born children.”

“Now, Max.” Wade takes a long sip of coffee, staring at me over the rim of his mug. “Don’t let the judge hear talk like that. You have no attachments here. These babies are destined to belong to your brother and his wife.”

There is a clatter in the sink. Liddy has dropped a spoon. She places it on the dish rack and turns to find us all staring at her. “I need to get dressed,” she says, and she leaves the kitchen without meeting my gaze. While Wade continues talking, I stare at the sunlight that fills the space where she stood.