Jodi Picoult - Sing You Home

He stands up and walks toward his desk. “It’s a strange world, Max. We have megachurches. We have Christian satellite television and Christian bands on the pop charts. We have The Shack, for goodness’ sake. Christ is more visible than He’s ever been, with even more influence than ever before. So why do abortion clinics still thrive? Why is the divorce rate climbing? Why is pornography rampant?” He pauses, but I don’t think he’s waiting for an answer from me. “I’ll tell you why, Max. It’s because the moral weakness we see outside the church has invaded it as well. Look no further than Ted Haggard or Paul Barnes-there are sex scandals in our own leadership. The reason we can’t speak to the most critical issue of our time is because, morally, we’ve given up our authority.”

I frown, a little confused. I don’t really get what this has to do with Zoe.

“At prayer meeting we hear people say that they have cancer, or that they need a job. We never hear someone confess to looking up Internet porn, or to having gay fantasies. Why is that? Why is church not a safe place to come if you’re tempted by sin-any sin? If we can’t be that safe place, we share the responsibility when those people fall. You know, Max, of all people, how it feels to sit at a bar and not be judged-to just have a drink and let it all hang out. Why can’t the church be more like that? Why can’t you walk in and say, Oh, God, it’s just you. Cool. I can be myself, now. Not in a way that ignores our sins-but in a way that makes us accountable for them. You see where I’m headed with this, Max?”

“No, sir,” I admit. “Not really…”

“You know what brought you to me today?” Pastor Clive says.

“Zoe?”

“No. Jesus Christ.” A smile breaks over Pastor Clive’s face. “You were sent here to remind me that we can’t get so wrapped up in the battle we forget the war. Alcoholics get recovery medallions to commemorate the time they’ve been sober. We in the church need to be that token for the homosexual who wants to change.”

“I don’t know if Zoe wants to change-”

“We’ve already learned that you can’t tell a pregnant woman not to have an abortion-you have to help her do what’s right, by offering counseling and support and adoption possibilities. So we can’t just say that being gay is wrong. We have to also be willing to bring these people into the church, to show them how to do the right thing.”

What the pastor is talking about, I realize, is becoming a guide. It is as if Zoe’s been lost in the woods. I may not be able to get her to come with me right away, but I can offer her a map. “You think I should talk to her?”

“Exactly, Max.”

Except we have a history.

And I have hardly been at this born-alive-in-Christ thing long enough to be persuasive.

And.

(Even if it hurts me)

(Even if it makes me feel like less of a man)

(Who am I to say that she’s wrong?)

But I can’t even admit this last thought to myself, much less to Pastor Clive.

“I don’t think she really wants to hear what the church has to say.”

“I never said it would be an easy conversation, Max. But this isn’t about sexual ethics. We’re not anti-gay,” Pastor Clive says. “We’re pro-Christ.”

When it’s put that way, everything becomes clear. I’m not going after Zoe because she hurt me or because I’m angry. I’m just trying to save her soul. “So what do I do?”

“You pray. Zoe has to confess her sin. And if she can’t, you pray for that to happen. You can’t drag her to us, you can’t force counseling. But you can make her see that there’s an alternative.” He sits down at his desk and starts flipping through a Rolodex. “There are some of our members who’ve struggled with unwanted same-sex attraction but who hold to a Christian worldview instead.”

I think about the congregation-the happy families, the bright faces, the glow in their eyes that I know comes from the Holy Spirit. These people are my friends, my family. I try to figure out who has lived a gay lifestyle. Maybe Patrick, the hairdresser whose Sunday ties always match his wife’s blouse? Or Neal, who is a pastry chef at a five-star restaurant downtown?

“You’ve met Pauline Bridgman, I assume?” Pastor Clive says.

Pauline?

Really?

Pauline and I were cutting carrots just yesterday while preparing the chicken pies for the church supper. She is tiny, with a nose that turns up at the end and eyebrows plucked too thin. When she talks, she uses her hands a lot. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her not wearing pink.

When I think of lesbians, I picture women who look tough and scrappy, with spiked hair and baggy jeans and flannel shirts. Sure, this is a stereotype… but still, there’s nothing about Pauline Bridgman that suggests she used to be gay.

Then again, nothing about Zoe tipped me off, either.

“Pauline sought the help of Exodus International. She used to speak at Love Won Out conferences about her experience becoming ex-gay. I think, if we asked, she’d be more than happy to share her story with Zoe.”

Pastor Clive writes Pauline’s number down on a Post-it note. “I’ll think about it,” I hedge.

“I would say, What do you have to lose? Except that’s not what’s important here.” Pastor Clive waits until I am looking directly at him. “It’s all about what Zoe has to lose.”

Eternal salvation.

Even if she’s not my wife anymore. Even if she never really loved me.

I take the Post-it note from Pastor Clive, fold it in half, and slip it into my wallet.

That night I dream that I am still married to Zoe, and she is in my bed, and we are making love. I slide my hand up her hip, into the curve of her waist. I bury my face in her hair. I kiss her mouth, her throat, her neck, her breast. Then I look down at my hand, splayed across her belly.

It is not my hand.

For one thing, there is a ring on the thumb-a thin gold band.

And there’s red nail polish.

What’s the matter? Zoe asks.

There’s something wrong, I tell her.

She grabs my wrist and pulls me closer. There’s nothing wrong.

But I stumble into the bathroom, turn on the lights. I look into the mirror, and find Vanessa staring back at me.

When I wake up, the sheets are drenched with sweat. I get out of Reid’s guest room bed, and in the bathroom (careful not to look into the mirror) I wash my face and dunk my head under the faucet. There’s no way I’ll fall back asleep now, so I head to the kitchen for a snack.

To my surprise, though, I’m not the only one awake at three in the morning.

Liddy is sitting at the kitchen table, shredding a napkin. She’s wearing a thin white cotton robe over her nightgown. Liddy actually wears nightgowns, the kind made out of fine cotton with tiny embroidered roses at the collar and the hem. Zoe usually slept naked, and if she wore anything at all, it was one of my T-shirts and a pair of my boxers.

“Liddy,” I say, and she jumps at the sound of my voice. “Are you all right?”

“You scared me, Max.”

She’s always seemed fragile to me-sort of like the way I picture angels, gauzy and delicate and too pretty to look at for long periods of time. But right now, she looks broken. There are blue half-moons under her eyes; her lips are chapped. Her hands, when they’re not tearing the paper napkin, are shaking. “You need help getting back to bed?” I ask gently.

“No… I’m fine.”

“You want a cup of tea?” I ask. “Or I could make you some soup…?”

She shakes her head. Her waterfall of gold hair ripples.