Jodi Picoult - Sing You Home

“What happened next?”

“I called the clinic and asked to use the embryos. I was told that my spouse had to sign off on it. But they didn’t mean Vanessa-they meant Max. So I went to him and asked for his permission to use the embryos. I knew that he didn’t want a baby-that was why he’d asked for a divorce. I honestly believed he would understand.”

“Did he?”

“He said that he’d think about it.”

Angela folds her arms. “Did Max seem different to you at that meeting from the man you used to know?”

I look at him. “Max used to be a surfer dude. A laid-back guy who didn’t wear a watch and didn’t have an agenda and was always a half hour late. He’d get his hair cut only because I reminded him to do it; he never remembered to wear a belt. But when I went to talk to Max about the embryos, he was at work. And even though he was doing manual labor-landscaping-he was wearing a tie. On a Saturday.”

“Did Max get back to you regarding the embryos?”

“Yes,” I say bitterly. “He had papers served, suing me for the right to use them.”

“How did that make you feel?” Angela asks.

“I was angry. And confused. He didn’t want to be a father; he’d told me so himself. He didn’t even have a relationship with anyone, as far as I knew. He didn’t want the embryos. He just didn’t want me to have them.”

“When you were married to Max, did he have a problem with homosexuality?”

“We didn’t really talk about it. But I never knew him to be judgmental before.”

“During your marriage,” Angela asks, “did you often see his brother?”

“Not very often at all.”

“How would you describe your relationship with Reid?”

“Contentious.”

“And with Liddy?” Angela asks.

I shake my head. “I just don’t get that woman.”

“Did you know that Reid had paid for your fifth cycle of IVF?”

“I had no idea, until I heard him testify. It was a huge stress for us, because we didn’t know how we could afford it-and then one day Max came home and said he had it all figured out, that he had found a credit card with zero interest, and I believed him.” I hesitate, correct myself. “I was stupid enough to believe him.”

“Did Max at any point tell you that he wanted the embryos to go to his brother and sister-in-law?”

“No. I learned about that when a motion was filed.”

“And what was your reaction?”

“I couldn’t believe he’d do that to me,” I say. “I’m forty-one. Even if my eggs were still worth anything, insurance won’t cover fertility treatments for me to harvest them again. This is literally my only chance to have my own biological child with someone I love.”

“Zoe,” Angela says, “have you and Vanessa talked about what Max’s relationship to these embryos might be if you receive the court’s permission to gain custody, and you have children?”

“Whatever Max wants. Whatever he’s ready for. If he wants to be a part of the babies’ lives, we’d understand; and if he doesn’t want to, we will respect that.”

“So… you’re willing to let the children know that Max is the biological father?”

“Of course.”

“And be involved in their lives, as much as Max is comfortable doing so?”

“Yes. Absolutely.”

“Do you think you’d be given the same courtesy, if the court awards the embryos to Max?”

I look at Max; I look at Wade Preston. “I’ve spent two days hearing how deviant my lifestyle is, how vile I am for choosing it,” I reply. “They won’t let those kids within five miles of me.”

Angela looks up at the judge. “Nothing further,” she says.

Angela and I go to get a cup of coffee during the recess. She won’t let me travel through the courthouse alone, for fear I’ll be ambushed by one of Wade’s special interest groups. “Zoe,” she says, pushing the buttons on the vending machine, “you did great.”

“You were the easy part,” I tell her.

“That’s true,” she says. “Wade is going to come after you like Bill Clinton on an intern. But you sounded calm, and smart, and very sympathetic.” She hands me the first cup and is about to put coins in for the second cup when Wade Preston walks up and puts in fifty cents.

“I hear you’re not getting paid for this one, Counselor,” he says. “Consider this my contribution.”

Angela ignores him. “Hey, Zoe? You know the difference between Wade Preston and God?” She waits a beat. “God doesn’t think he’s Wade Preston.”

I laugh, like I always do at her jokes. But the laughter jams in my throat this time. Because two feet away from Reid, staring at me, is Liddy Baxter. She’s come down here with Max’s lawyer, presumably for the same reason I have.

“Zoe,” she says, taking a step forward.

Angela speaks on my behalf. “My client has nothing to say to you.” She steps between us.

In a completely uncharacteristic move, Liddy says, “But I have something to say to her.”

I don’t really know Liddy well. I never wanted to. Max always told me I was missing out-that she was funny and smart and knew all the dialogue to Attack of the Killer Tomatoes! for whatever that was worth-but I couldn’t see past a woman who, in this day and age, actually waited for her husband to come home from work so that she could ask him about his day and feed him a meal. Max used to say we should go out shopping, or to lunch, get to know each other-but I figured we’d run out of things to talk about before we’d backed out of her driveway.

She seems, though, to have developed a little bit of a spine. It’s amazing what taking away someone else’s embryos can do for one’s self-esteem, I guess.

“Thanks, but I’ve reached my prayer quota for the day,” I tell her.

“No prayers. Just… well…” She looks up at me. “Max isn’t trying to hurt you.”

“Yeah, I’m only collateral damage. I get it.”

“I know how you must be feeling.”

I am amazed at her nerve. “You have no idea how I’m feeling. You and I,” I spit out, “have absolutely nothing in common.”

I shove past Liddy, Angela hurrying beside me.

“You giving your clients lessons in charm, Counselor?” Wade calls out.

Liddy’s voice rings down the hallway after me. “We do have something in common, Zoe,” she says. “We both already love these babies.”

That stops me in my tracks. I turn around again.

“For what it’s worth,” Liddy says quietly, “I always thought you’d make a great mother.”

Angela loops her arm through mine and drags me down the hallway.

“Ignore them both,” she says. “You know the difference between a porcupine and Wade Preston driving in his car? The prick’s on the outside.”

But this time, I can’t even crack a smile.

I do not remember my mother going on many dates when I was growing up, but one sticks out in my mind. A man had come to the door bathed in more perfume than my own mother had on and took her out to dinner. I fell asleep on the couch watching The Love Boat and Fantasy Island and woke up sometime during Saturday Night Live to find her in her stocking feet, with mascara smudged under her eyes and her hair tumbling out of its updo. “Was he nice?” I remember asking, and my mother just snorted.

“Never trust a man who wears a pinkie ring,” she said.

I didn’t understand, back then. But now I agree: the only jewelry a guy should wear is a wedding band or a Super Bowl ring. Anything else is a clue that it isn’t going to work out: a high school ring says he never grew up; a cocktail ring says he’s gay and doesn’t know it yet. A pinkie ring says he’s too polished for his own good; a Truman Capote wannabe concerned more with how he looks than with how you do.