Jodi Picoult - Sing You Home

It’s second nature.

It’s so that the people inside have nothing to stare at.

On Tuesday mornings I go to a hospice and do music therapy with people who are dying by degrees. It is brutal, soul-draining work. And yet, I’d far rather be there than sitting next to Angela Moretti again, this time for a hearing on an emergency motion that was filed by Wade Preston just before the close of business last night. Angela is so angry, in fact, she’s not even making lawyer jokes at Preston’s expense.

Judge O’Neill stares daggers at Preston. “I have before me an emergency motion filed by you asking to disqualify Angela Moretti as Zoe Baxter’s attorney, and a Rule Eleven motion to strike this motion, filed by Ms. Moretti. Or, as I like to call it, a whole bottle of Excedrin before noon. What’s going on, Counselor?”

“Judge, I take no pleasure in bringing this information to the court. But as you can see from the attached photograph, which I’d like to enter as Exhibit A, Ms. Moretti is not only a lesbian sympathizer… she is engaged in this deviant lifestyle herself.”

He holds up a grainy eight-by-ten that shows Angela and me, embracing. I have to squint to figure out where on earth this was taken. Then I see the chain-link fence and the lamppost and realize it is the high school parking lot.

Angela and I didn’t have a scheduled meeting that day.

Which means Preston has had someone following me.

Wade Preston shrugs. “A picture’s worth a thousand words.”

“He’s right,” Angela says. “And this fallacious photo speaks for itself.”

“If this is what they’re willing to do in public, imagine what they do in private…”

“Oh, my God,” Angela mutters.

“It’s a little late to start praying now, darlin’. Clearly the defendant and her attorney are embroiled in an improper relationship that’s in violation of the ethical rules governing attorneys in the state of Rhode Island,” Preston says.

Ben Benjamin slowly comes out of his seat. “Um, actually, Wade? In Rhode Island, you can have sex with your client.”

Preston whips around and looks at him. “You can?”

I blink at Angela. “You can?”

Benjamin nods. “As long as it’s not in lieu of legal fees.”

Undaunted, Preston faces the judge again. “Your Honor, Rhode Island notwithstanding, we all know there are ethical standards in the practice of law, and a counselor would have to be morally bereft to have a relationship with a client that crosses the boundaries of propriety as indicated by Exhibit A. Clearly, Ms. Moretti is not fit to represent her client impartially in this matter.”

The judge turns to Angela. “I assume you have something to add here?”

“I absolutely, unequivocally deny that I am having an affair with my client, whose wife is sitting behind me even now. What Mr. Preston’s paparazzi witnessed was an innocent embrace that followed a meeting with my client, when she became distraught after learning about Wade Preston’s attempt to distort justice by filing a motion to appoint a guardian ad litem for zygotes. Although I completely understand why Mr. Preston would not recognize common human kindness when he sees it-since that presumes he is indeed human-he has completely misinterpreted the situation. In addition, Your Honor, this begs the question why there was someone taking a photograph of my client in the first place.”

“She was in a public place, in a parking lot, in plain view,” Preston argues.

“Is that a wedding ring you’re wearing?” the judge asks Angela.

“Yes.”

“Are you married, Ms. Moretti?”

She narrows her eyes. “Yes.”

“To a man or a woman?” Wade Preston interrupts.

Angela rounds on him. “Objection! This is completely unsupportable, Your Honor. This is slander and defamation-”

“Enough,” Judge O’Neill roars. “Motion denied. I’m not awarding counsel fees or sanctions to either party. Both of you, stop wasting my time.”

The minute he is off the bench, Angela crosses to the plaintiff’s table and shouts up at Wade Preston, who is at least eight inches taller than she is. “I swear, you malign my character like that again and I’m going to slap a civil lawsuit on you so fast you’ll be knocked into next week.”

“Malign your character? Why, Ms. Moretti, are you suggesting that being homosexual is an insult?” He tsks. “Shame, shame. GLAAD may have to revoke your lifetime membership card.”

She jabs a finger into his skinny lapel and looks like she’s going to breathe fire but, suddenly steps away and holds up her palms, a concession. “You know what? I was going to say fuck you, but then I decided I’d just wait for the trial to start, so you can go fuck yourself.”

She spins on her heel and marches through the gate, up the aisle, and out of the courtroom. Vanessa looks at me. “I’ll make sure she’s not setting his car on fire,” she says, and she hurries after Angela. Meanwhile, Wade Preston turns to his entourage. “Mission accomplished, my friends. When they’re running defense, they can’t mount an offense.”

He and Ben Benjamin walk off together, speaking in muted whispers. They leave behind the stack of books that shows up every time Wade Preston does, and Max, who sits with his head bowed in his hands.

When I stand up, Max does, too. There is a clerk somewhere in the courtroom, and a pair of bailiffs, but for that moment, everyone else falls away and it is just us. I notice the first gray glints in the stubble of his beard. His eyes are the color of a bruise. “Zoe. About that. I’m sorry.”

I try to remember what Max said to me the day we lost our son. Maybe I was on sedatives, maybe I wasn’t myself, but I cannot remember a single word of comfort. In fact, I cannot remember one concrete thing he ever said to me, not even I love you. It’s as if every conversation in our past has grown mummified, an ancient relic that crumbles into thin air if you get too close.

“You know, Max,” I say, “I don’t think you really are.”

For two more music therapy sessions, Lucy arrives late, ignores me, and leaves. At the third, I decide I’ve had it. We are in a math classroom, and there are symbols on the board that are making me dizzy and slightly nauseated. When Lucy arrives, I ask her how her day’s been, like usual, and, like usual, she doesn’t answer. But this time, I take out my guitar and play Air Supply, “All Out of Love.”

I follow that with an encore performance of Celine Dion’s “My Heart Will Go On.”

I play anything that I think will either put Lucy into a diabetic coma or make her rip the instrument out of my hands. At this point, I’d consider that a successful interaction. But Lucy won’t break.

“I’m sorry,” I say finally. “But you’ve left me no other resort than to pull out the big guns.”

I place my guitar back in its case and take out a ukulele instead. Then I begin to strum the theme song to Barney & Friends.

For the first three choruses, Lucy ignores me. And then finally, in one swift move, she grabs the neck of the ukulele and clamps down with her fingers so that I can’t play it. “Just leave me alone,” she cries. “It’s what you want anyway.”

“If you’re going to put words in my mouth, then I’m going to put some in yours,” I say. “I know what you’re doing, and I know why you’re doing it. I realize you’re mad.”

“Thank you, Captain Obvious,” Lucy mutters.

“But you’re not mad at me. You’re mad at yourself. Because against all odds, in spite of the fact that you were so damn sure that you would hate working with me and going to music therapy sessions, they started to work. And you like coming.” I put the ukulele down on a desk beside me and stare at Lucy. “You like being around me .”