Jodi Picoult - Sing You Home

“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.”