Sing You Home: A Novel

by Jodi Picoult

  But Elkin appears with his cart. “Man, we’re good to go.” He jerks his chin at Zoe. “Hi.”

  “Zoe, this is Elkin. Elkin, Zoe.” I look at her. “We’re having a church supper tonight—chicken pie. All homemade. You ought to come.”

  Something freezes behind her features. “Yeah. Maybe.”

  “Well then.” I smile at her. “It’s good to see you.”

  “You, too, Max.” She pushes her cart past me and goes to join Vanessa near the Swiss chard. I see them arguing, but I am too far away to hear anything they are saying.

  “Let’s go,” Elkin says. “The ladies’ auxiliary gets really steamed when we don’t get the ingredients back on time.”

  The whole time Elkin is loading the items onto the conveyor belt of the checkout counter, I am trying to figure out what didn’t seem quite right about Zoe. I mean, she looked great, and she sounded happy. She obviously had found friends to hang out with, just like I had. And yet there was something off the mark, something that I could not put my finger on. As the cashier scans the items, I find myself glancing at the aisles behind us, for another glimpse of Zoe.

  We head to my truck and start loading the groceries into the flatbed. It’s started to pour. “I’ll bring the cart back,” Elkin yells, and he pushes it toward one of the receptacle cages two rows behind us. I am about to get into my truck when I am stopped by Zoe.

  “Max!” She’s run out of the grocery store, her hair flying out behind her like the tail of a kite. Rain pelts her face, her sweater. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

  On our fifth date, we had gone camping in the White Mountains with a tent I’d borrowed from a guy whose lawn I cared for. But it was dark by the time we arrived and we wound up missing the campsite and just going off into the woods to pitch our tent. We’d crawled into our little space, zipped it shut, and had just about managed to get undressed when the tent collapsed on us.

  Zoe had burst into tears. She’d curled up in a ball on the muddy ground, and I’d put my hand on her shoulder. It’s okay, I’d said, although that was a lie. I couldn’t make the rain stop. I couldn’t fix this. She’d rolled over and looked at me, and that’s when I realized that she was laughing, not crying. She was laughing so hard she couldn’t catch her breath.

  I think that was the moment I really knew I wanted to be with her for the rest my life.

  Every time Zoe cried after she found out she wasn’t pregnant, I always looked twice, hoping it would turn out to be something other than tears. Except it wasn’t.

  I don’t know why I’m thinking of that right now, as the rain straightens her hair and sets off the light in her eyes. “That woman I’m with,” Zoe says, “Vanessa. She’s my new partner.”

  When we were married, Zoe was always talking about how hard it was to find people who understood that music therapy is a valid tool for healing, how nice it would have been to have a community of therapists like she’d known when she was studying at Berklee. “That’s great,” I say, because it seems to be what she needs to hear. “You always wanted someone to go into business with.”

  “You don’t understand. Vanessa is my partner.” She hesitates. “We’re together.”

  In that instant I realize what wasn’t quite adding up for me inside the store. Zoe and this woman had been shopping with the same cart. Who goes grocery shopping together unless they share a refrigerator?

  I stare at Zoe, not sure what I am supposed to say. Building behind my eyes is a headache, and it comes with words:

  The wicked will not inherit the kingdom of God. Do not be deceived: 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.

  It’s from 1 Corinthians 6:9–10, and to me it’s a pretty clear comment on God’s opinion of a gay lifestyle. I open my mouth to tell Zoe this, but instead, what I say is “But you were with me.” Because the two must be, have to be, mutually exclusive.

  Elkin pounds on his side of the pickup, so that I will unlock it and let him get out of the rain. I push the button on the keypad and hear his door open and close, but I still stand there, stunned by Zoe’s revelation.

  There are so many layers to the paralysis I feel that I can barely begin to count them. Shock, for what she’s told me. Disbelief, because I cannot believe she was faking her relationship with me for nine years. And pain, because even though we are not married now, I can’t stand the thought of her being left behind when Christ comes back. I wouldn’t wish that horror on anyone.

  Elkin honks the horn, startling me. “Well,” Zoe says with a little half smile, the kind that used to make me fall for her on a daily basis. She turns and sprints back toward the awning of the grocery store, where Vanessa is waiting with the cart.

  As she runs, her pocketbook slips off her shoulder and catches in the hook of her elbow. As Zoe starts to push their cart into the parking lot, Vanessa adjusts the purse, so it sits where it belongs.

  It’s a casual, intimate gesture. The same kind of thing, once, I would have done for Zoe.

  I can’t tear my eyes away as they unload the groceries into the back of an unfamiliar car—a vintage convertible. I keep staring at my newly gay ex-wife although I am getting drenched to the core, although this rain keeps me from seeing her clearly.

  Because the Eternal Glory Church makes its home in the auditorium of a middle school, the actual offices are in a different location. It’s a small former law office in a strip mall that adjoins a Dunkin’ Donuts. There is a waiting area with a receptionist, a copy machine/break room with a small table and a minifridge and coffeemaker, a chapel, and Pastor Clive’s office.

  “You can go in now,” says Alva, his secretary. She is small and bent like a question mark, with a sparse dusting of white pin curls on her scalp. Reid jokes that she’s been here since the Flood, but there’s a part of me that thinks he might be right.

  Pastor Clive’s office is warm and worn, with floral couches and an abundance of plants and a bookshelf filled with inspirational texts. A lectern holds an oversize, open Bible. Behind the desk is a huge painting of Jesus riding a phoenix as it rises from the ashes. Pastor Clive once told me that Christ had come to him in a dream and told him that his ministry would be like that of the mythical bird, that it would soar from a cesspool of immorality into grace. The next morning he’d gone out and had the artwork commissioned.

  The pastor is bent over a spider plant that has seen better days. The tips of all the leaves are brown and brittle. “No matter how much I take care of this little baby,” he says, “she always seems to be dying.”

  I step up to the plant and stick my finger into the soil to check the hydration. “Does Alva water it?”

  “Faithfully.”

  “With tap water, I’m guessing. Spider plants are sensitive to the chemicals in tap water. If you switch to distilled water, and trim off the tips of the leaves, everything will go back to a healthy, normal green.”

  Pastor Clive smiles at me. “You, Max, are a true gift.”

  At his words, I feel like there’s a fire glowing inside me. I’ve screwed up so much in my life that hearing praise is still a rarity. He leads me to the couch on the far side of the room and offers me a seat and then a bowl of licorice. “Now,” he says, “Alva tells me you were pretty upset on the phone.”

  I don’t know how to say what I need to say—I only know that I have to say it. And the person I’d normally confide in, Reid, has got his own problems right now. Liddy’s better, but she’s by no means a hundred percent.

  “I can assure you,” Pastor Clive says gently, “your brother and Liddy are going to come through this latest challenge even stronger than they were before. God’s got a plan for them, even if He hasn’t seen fit to let us in on the secret yet.”

  Hearing the pastor talk about the miscarriage makes me squirm—I should be praying for my brother, not wallowing in m
y own confusion about a woman I willingly divorced. “This isn’t about Reid,” I say. “I saw my ex-wife yesterday, and she told me she’s gay.”

  Pastor Clive sinks back against the cushions of his chair. “Ah.”

  “She was at the grocery store with a woman—her partner. That’s what she called it.” I look down at my lap. “How could she? She loved me, I know she did. She married me. She and I—we—well, you know. I would have been able to tell if she was just going through the motions. I would have known.” I stop to catch my breath. “Wouldn’t I?”

  “Maybe you did,” Pastor Clive muses, “and that’s ultimately what made you realize that your marriage was over.”

  Is that possible? Could I have gotten vibes from Zoe, could I have known about her even before she knew herself?

  “I imagine you’re feeling . . . inadequate,” the pastor says. “Like maybe if you had been more of a man, this would never have happened.”

  I can’t look him in the eye, but my cheeks are flaming.

  “And I imagine you’re angry. You probably feel as if everyone who hears about her new lifestyle is going to be judging you, for being played the fool.”

  “Yes!” I explode. “I just don’t—I can’t—” The words jam in my throat. “I don’t understand why she’s doing this.”

  “It’s not her choice,” Pastor Clive says.

  “But . . . no one’s born gay. You say that all the time.”

  “You’re right. And I’m right, too. There are no biological homosexuals—we’re all heterosexual. But some of us, for a variety of reasons, find ourselves struggling with a homosexual problem. No one chooses to be attracted to someone of the same sex, Max. But we do choose how we’ll act on those feelings.” He leans forward, his hands between his knees. “Little boys aren’t born gay—they’re made queer, by mothers who are too smothering, or who rely on their sons for their own emotional satisfaction; or by fathers who are too distant—which leads the boy to find male acceptance in another, incorrect way. Likewise, little girls whose mothers are too detached might never get the model they need to develop their femininity; and their fathers were usually absent as well.”

  “Zoe’s dad died when she was little . . . ,” I say.

  Pastor Clive looks at me. “What I’m saying, Max, is don’t be angry at her. She doesn’t need your anger. What she needs—what she deserves—is your grace.”

  “I . . . I don’t understand.”

  “When I was a young man, I served in the ministry of a pastor who was as conservative as they come. It was during the AIDS crisis, and Pastor Wallace started visiting gay patients who were hospitalized. He’d pray with them if they felt comfortable, and he’d just hang out with them if they didn’t. Well, eventually, a local homosexual radio station got wind of what Pastor Wallace was doing, and they asked him to come on the air. When he was asked for his opinion on homosexuality, he said flat out that it was a sin. The DJ admitted he didn’t like that—but he liked Pastor Wallace himself. The next weekend, a few gay men came to his church service. The week after that, the number had doubled. The congregation got skittish, and asked what they were supposed to do with all these homosexuals around. And Pastor Wallace replied, ‘Why, let them sit on down.’ The homosexuals, he said, could join the gossips and the fornicators and the adulterers and all the other sinners among us.”

  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 b
aggy 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.