"How can you ask me to separate those?" Vanessa says, exasperated. "Of course I'm doing it for Zoe. But I'm also doing it for me."
Felicity writes something down on her pad. It makes me nervous. "What makes you think you'd be a good parent?"
"I'm patient," I reply. "I have a lot of experience helping people with problems express themselves in a different way. I know how to listen."
"And she loves harder than anyone I've ever known," Vanessa adds. "She'd do anything for her child. And I--well, I'm a school counselor. I have to believe that will come in handy eventually with my own kid."
"She's also smart, confident, and empathetic," I say. "An amazing role model."
"So Ms. Shaw--you work with teenagers. Did you ever babysit when you were younger? Have any younger siblings you helped raise?"
"No," Vanessa says, "but I'm pretty sure I can Google how to change a diaper if I get stumped."
"She's also funny," I interject. "Great sense of humor!"
"You know, I've come across a few teen mothers during my career," Vanessa points out. "They're close enough to childhood to remember it intimately, but I wouldn't say that makes them better equipped for parenting . . ."
Felicity looks up at her. "Are you always this sensitive?"
"Only when I'm talking to someone who's a--"
"What else?" I say brightly. "You must have some other questions for us."
"How are you going to explain to your child why she has two moms, and no dad?" Felicity asks.
I was expecting this question. "I'd start by telling her that there are lots of different kinds of families, and that one isn't any better than another."
"Children, as you know, can be cruel. What if a classmate makes fun of her for having two mothers?"
Vanessa crosses her legs. "I'd go and beat up the kid who teased her."
I stare at her. "You did not just say that."
"Oh, fine. We'd deal with it. We'd talk our kid through it," Vanessa says. "And then I'd go beat up the bully."
I grit my teeth. "What she means is that we would speak to the bully's parents and try to explain a way to get their child to be a little more tolerant--"
The phone rings, and the social worker answers it. "I'm sorry," she says to us. "Will you excuse me for a moment?"
As soon as Felicity Grimes steps out of her office, I turn to Vanessa. "Really? Did you really just say that to a social worker who is going to decide whether or not we get to use these embryos?"
"She's not deciding. Judge O'Neill is. And besides--these questions are ludicrous! There are plenty of deadbeat dads in the world who are reason enough to glorify lesbian parents."
"But the social worker has to give us the green light before the clinic will start any procedure," I point out. "You don't know how to play this game, Vanessa, but I do. You say anything and do anything you have to in order to get her to sign off on us."
"I'm not going to let someone judge me just because I'm gay. Isn't it bad enough that our relationship is being dragged through the court system? Do I really have to sit here and smile while Pam Ewing here tells me I can't be both a lesbian and a good parent?"
"She never said that," I argue. "That's just what you heard."
I imagine Felicity Grimes listening in on the other side of the door, and putting a big red X through our file. Couple can't even see eye to eye during an hour-long interview. Unfit to parent.
Vanessa shakes her head. "I'm sorry, but I won't play this game like Max did. I can't pretend to be someone I'm not, Zoe. I spent half my life doing that."
In that moment, the anger I feel toward Max bubbles up like blisters on my tongue. It is one thing for him to take away my right to use these embryos. It's another thing to take away what makes me happy.
"Vanessa," I say, "I want a baby. But not if it means losing you."
She looks up at me as the social worker sails through the door again. "My apologies, again. Everything looks good on my end."
Vanessa and I look at each other. "You mean we're done?" I ask. "We passed?"
She smiles. "It's not a test. We don't expect you to have the right answers. We just want you to have answers, period."
Vanessa stands up and shakes the social worker's hand. "Thank you."
"Good luck."
I gather my coat and purse, and we walk out of the office. For a moment, we just stand in the hallway, and then Vanessa grabs me and hugs me so hard I am lifted off my feet. "I feel like I just won the Super Bowl."
"More like the first game of the season," I point out.
"Still. It feels good to have someone say yes instead of no."
Her arm is draped over my shoulders as we walk down the hall. "For the record," I say, "when you went to beat up that hypothetical bully? I may not have wanted to tell the social worker, but I would have been right behind you."
"That's why I love you."
We've reached the elevator, and I press the button. When the bell sounds, Vanessa and I step away from each other.
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 comple
tely 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."
She glances up, her face so raw and open that, for a moment, I forget what I was saying.
"So what do you do? You sabotage the therapeutic relationship we've built, because that way, you get to tell yourself you were right. That this is a load of bullshit. That it would never work. It doesn't matter how you do it or what you tell yourself is the reason we're in a fight. You ruin the one good thing you've got going because if you ruin it, then you don't have to deal with being disappointed later on."
Lucy stands abruptly. Her fists are clenched at her sides, and her mouth is a livid red slash. "Why can't you just take a hint? Why the fuck are you still here?"
"Because there's nothing you can do or say or any way you can act that will drive me away, Lucy. I am not leaving you."
She freezes. "Never?" The word is like tempered glass, broken and full of beauty.
I know how hard it is for her to lay herself bare, to expose the soft center under that hard shell. So I promise. I'm not surprised when the tears come, when she collapses against me. I do what anyone else would do, in that situation: I hold Lucy until she can hold herself.
The bell rings, but Lucy makes no move to go to class. It crosses my mind that someone may need to use this space, but when a teacher comes in--her prep period finished--she sees Lucy sitting with her head down on the desk, my hand lightly rubbing her back. We make eye contact, and the teacher slips out of the room.
"Zoe?" Lucy's voice is slow and round, as if she's spinning underwater. "Promise me?"
"I already did."
"That you won't ever play Barney again."
She looks at me sideways. Her eyes are red and swollen, her nose running, but there's her smile. I brought that back for her, I think.
I pretend to consider her demand. "You drive such a hard bargain," I say.
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Ordinary Life (3:04)
MAX
Nothing makes a church look better than a crisis situation. Give them a dying relative, a child having surgery, a cancer diagnosis--and suddenly everyone pitches in. You will find casseroles at your door, you will find your name on a prayer list in the bulletin. Ladies will show up at your house to clean, or watch your kids. You will know that whatever corner of Hell you are walking through, you're not alone.
For weeks now, I have been the subject of prayer for the Eternal Glory Church, so that by the time I go to court God will have gotten an earful from nearly a hundred parishioners. Today, I am sitting in the school auditorium as Pastor Clive begins his sermon.
The children of the congregation are down the hall in the art room, gluing pictures of animals into a Xeroxed copy of an ark. I know this because, last night, I helped Liddy draw the giraffes and hippos and squirrels and aardvarks for the kids to color and cut out during Sunday School. And it's a good thing they're not here, because today Pastor Clive is talking about sex.
"Brothers and sisters in Christ," he says, "I have a question for you. You know how some things just seem to go together? You can't say one without automatically thinking of its other natural half. Like salt and pepper. Peanut butter and jelly. Rock and roll. Hugs and kisses. If you only have one of the two, it feels like a wobbly stool, doesn't it? Incomplete. Unfinished. And if you hear another word--like if I said cats and parrots, instead of cats and dogs, it sounds just plain wrong, doesn't it? For example, if I say mother, you'd say . . . ?"
"Father," I murmur, along with every
one else.
"Husband?"
"Wife!"
Pastor Clive nods. "You'll notice I did not say mother and mother. I did not say husband and husband, or wife and wife. I did not say those things because when we hear them, we just know deep inside they are wrong. I believe this is especially true when it comes to understanding why God's plan does not include a homosexual lifestyle."
He looks at the congregation. "There are those who will tell you the Bible has nothing to say about homosexuality--but that is not true. Romans 1:26-27, Because of this God gave them over to shameless lusts. Even their women exchanged natural relations for unnatural ones. In the same way the men also abandoned natural relations with women and were inflamed with lust for one another. Men committed indecent acts with other men and received in themselves the due penalty for their perversion. Some naysayers--the ones who tell us God has nothing to say about homosexuality--will tell you that Paul is talking about what went on at pagan temples in Greece. These naysayers will tell you we are missing the big picture. I say, my friends, that we do see the big picture." He pauses, making eye contact with all of us. "God hates homosexuality," he says.
Pastor Clive reads aloud the verse that's written in the bulletin today. It's from 1 Corinthians 6:9-10: "Neither the sexually immoral, nor idolaters, nor adulterers, nor male prostitutes, nor homosexual offenders, nor thieves, nor the greedy, nor drunkards, nor slanderers, nor swindlers, will inherit the kingdom of God. I ask you, friends. Could God have been any clearer? There is no eternal life for those who are deviant. Now, those naysayers, they'll tell you that the problem is the translation of the Bible. That the word homosexual doesn't really mean 'homosexual' in this passage; that it's Greek for 'effeminate call boy.' They will tell you it wasn't until 1958 that some random translator made the arbitrary decision to even type the word homosexual into the English-language Bible.
"Well, I tell you that decision wasn't arbitrary at all. These passages describe a society that has lost the ability to tell right from wrong. And in fact, time after time, when homosexuality is mentioned in the Scriptures, it is condemned."
Liddy slips into the pew beside me. She gets the Sunday School classes started with their teachers and then comes up for Pastor Clive's sermon. I can feel the heat of her skin, inches away from my arm.