Sing You Home: A Novel

by Jodi Picoult

  On her right wrist is a gauze pad, wrapped with what looks like duct tape.

  Lucy doesn’t make eye contact. She slings herself into a chair, pivots it so that it is facing away from me, and puts her head down on the desk.

  I get up and close the door to the room. “You want to talk about it?” I ask.

  She shakes her head, but doesn’t lift it up.

  “How did you get hurt?”

  Lucy brings her knees up, curling into herself, the smallest ball.

  “You know,” I say, mentally ditching my lesson plan, “maybe we should just listen to some music together. And if you feel like it, you can talk.” I walk toward my iPod, which is hooked up to a portable speaker, and scan through my playlists.

  The first song I play is “Hate on Me,” by Jill Scott. I want to find something that matches Lucy’s mood, that brings her back to me.

  She doesn’t even twitch a response.

  I move on to frenetic songs—the Bangles, Karen O. Spirituals. Even Metallica. When we reach our sixth song—“Love Is a Battlefield” by Pat Benatar—I finally admit defeat. “All right, Lucy. Let’s call it a day.” I hit the Pause button on the iPod.

  “Don’t.”

  Her voice is thin, thready. Her head is still tucked against her knees, her face hidden.

  “What did you say?”

  “Don’t,” Lucy repeats.

  I kneel beside her and wait until she turns and looks at me. “Why not?”

  Her tongue darts out, wets her lips. “That song. It’s how my blood sounds.”

  With its driving bass and insistent percussion, I can see why she’d feel this way. “When I’m pissed off,” I tell her, “this is what I play. Really loud. And I drum along to the beat.”

  “I hate coming here.”

  Her words cut through me. “I’m really sorry to hear—”

  “The special ed room? Seriously? I’m already the school’s biggest freak, and now everyone thinks I’m retarded, too.”

  “Mentally challenged,” I correct automatically, and Lucy gives me the look of death.

  “I think you need to play some percussion,” I announce.

  “And I think you need to go f_____.”

  “That’s enough.” I grab her wrist—the one that isn’t injured—and tug her to a standing position. “We’re going on a field trip.”

  At first I am dragging her, but by the time we are headed down the hallway, she is tagging along willingly. We pass couples plastered to lockers, making out; we skirt four giggling girls who are bent over a phone, staring at the screen; we weave between the overstuffed lacrosse players in their team jerseys.

  The only reason I even know where the cafeteria is, is because Vanessa’s taken me there for coffee other times when I’ve been at the school. It looks like every other school cafeteria I’ve ever seen—a life-size petri dish breeding social discontent, students sorting themselves into individual genuses: the Popular Kids, the Geeks, the Jocks, the Emos. At Wilmington High the hot lunch line and kitchen are tucked behind the tables, so we march right down the center of the caf and up to the woman who is slinging mashed potatoes onto plates. “I’m going to need you to clear this area,” I announce.

  “Oh, you are,” she says, and she raises a brow. “Who died and left you queen?”

  “I’m one of the school therapists.” This is not exactly true. I have no affiliation with the school. Which is why, when I get into trouble for doing this, it won’t really be devastating. “Just a little ten-minute break.”

  “I didn’t get a memo about this—”

  “Look.” I pull her aside and, in my best educator voice, say, “I have a suicidal girl here, and I’m doing some esteem building. Now, last time I checked, this school and every other school in the country had a suicide prevention initiative on the docket. Do you really want the superintendent to find out that you were impeding progress?”

  I am completely bluffing. I don’t even know the name of the superintendent. And Vanessa will either kill me when she hears I did this or congratulate me—I’m just not sure which.

  “I’m going to get the principal,” the woman huffs. Ignoring her, I move behind the counter and begin to grab hanging pots and pans and turn them over on the work surfaces. I gather ladles, spoons, spatulas.

  “You’re going to get reamed,” Lucy says.

  “I don’t work for the school,” I reply, shrugging. “I’m an outsider, too.” I set up two drumming stations—one makeshift high hat (an overturned skillet), a snare (an overturned pot), and leave the metal server door at our feet to be the bass drum. “We’re going to play the drums,” I announce.

  Lucy looks at the kids in the cafeteria—some of whom are watching us, most of whom are simply ignoring us. “Or not.”

  “Lucy, did you or did you not want to get out of that awful special ed room? Get over here and stop arguing with me.”

  To my surprise, she actually does. “On the floor is our kick drum. Four beats, even. Kick it with your left foot, because you’re a lefty.” As I count off, I hit my boot against the metal doors of the serving table. “You try it.”

  “This is really stupid,” Lucy says, but she tentatively kicks the metal, too.

  “Great. That’s four-four time,” I tell her. “Now your snare is at your right hand.” I hand her a metal spoon and point to the overturned pot. “Hit on beats two and four.”

  “For real?” Lucy asks.

  As an answer, I play the next beat—eighth notes on the high hat: one-and-two-and-three-and-four. Lucy keeps up her rhythm, and with her left hand copies what I’m doing. “Don’t stop,” I tell her. “That’s a basic backbeat.” Over the cacophony I pick up two wooden spatulas and do a drum solo.

  By now, the entire cafeteria is watching. A group of kids groove to a makeshift rap.

  Lucy doesn’t notice. She’s pouring herself into the rhythm as it shimmies through her arms and her spine. I start singing “Love Is a Battlefield,” the words raw, like flags ripping in a wind. Lucy can’t take her eyes off me. I sing through one chorus, and then on the second, she joins in.

  No promises. No demands.

  She’s grinning like mad, and I think that surely this breakthrough will be written up in the annals of music therapy—and then the principal walks into the cafeteria, flanked by the lunch lady on one side and Vanessa on the other.

  My spouse doesn’t look particularly happy, I might add.

  I stop singing, stop banging the pots and pans.

  “Zoe,” Vanessa says, “what on earth are you doing?”

  “My job.” I take Lucy’s hand and pull her in front of the serving station. She is absolutely mortified to be caught in the act. I hand the principal the spatula I’ve been drumming with and push past him without saying a word, until Lucy and I are facing the entire room of students. Quickly I raise our joined hands in a rock-band victory moment. “Thank you, Wilmington High!” I yell. “Peace out!”

  Without another word—and with the stares of the principal and Vanessa boring into my back—Lucy and I ride out of the cafeteria to a round of applause and high fives. “Zoe,” she says.

  I drag her through unfamiliar halls of the school, intent on getting as far away from the administration as possible.

  “Zoe—”

  “I’m going to get fired,” I mutter.

  “Zoe,” Lucy says. “Stop.”

  With a sigh, I turn to apologize. “I shouldn’t have put you on the spot like that.”

  But then I see that the flush in her cheeks wasn’t shame but excitement. Her eyes are sparkling, her smile infectious. “Zoe,” she breathes. “Can we do that again?”

  In spite of Wanda’s warning, I am still a little taken aback to open the door of Mr. Docker’s room at Shady Acres and find him shrunken and faded in his bed. Even when he was in one of his quiet, catatonic states before, he was able to be moved to a rocking chair or to the common room, but, according to Wanda, he hasn’t left his bed in the two weeks
since I’ve seen him. He hasn’t spoken, either.

  “Morning, Mr. Docker,” I say, taking my guitar out of its case. “Remember me? Zoe? I’m here to play some music with you.”

  I have seen this before with some of my patients—especially those in hospice care. There’s a cliff at the end point of a person’s life; most of us peer over the edge of it, hanging on. That’s why, when someone chooses to let go, it’s so dramatically visible. The body will seem almost transparent. The eyes will be looking at something the rest of us can’t see.

  I start finger picking and humming, an impromptu lullaby. Today isn’t the day to get Mr. Docker to engage. Today, music therapy is all about being the Pied Piper, taking him peacefully to the point where he can close his eyes and leave us all behind.

  As I play wordlessly for Mr. Docker, I find myself tearing up. The old man was a cranky, bitter bastard, but it’s the thorn in your side that leaves the biggest hole. I put down my guitar and reach for his hand. It feels like a bundle of sticks. His eyes, a rheumy blue, remain focused on the blank, black screen of the dormant television.

  “I got married,” I tell him, although I am sure he’s not listening.

  Mr. Docker doesn’t budge.

  “It’s strange, isn’t it, how we wind up in places we never would have imagined. I bet you never thought, when you were in your big corner office, that one day you’d be stuck here, in a room that overlooks a parking lot. You never imagined, when you were ordering everyone around, that one day there might not be someone to hear you. Well, I know what that’s like, Mr. Docker.” I look down at him, but he continues to stare straight ahead at nothing. “You fell in love once. I know you did, because you’ve got a daughter. So you know what I mean when I say that I don’t think anyone who falls in love has a choice. You’re just pulled to that person like true north, whether it’s good for you or bound to break your heart.”

  When I was married to Max, I mistook being a lifeline for being in love. I was the one who could save him; I was the one who could keep him sober. But there is a difference between mending someone who’s broken and finding someone who makes you complete.

  I don’t say it out loud, but this is how I know that Vanessa will not hurt me: she cares more about my well-being than she does about her own. She’d break her own heart before causing even the smallest hairline fracture in mine.

  This time when I glance down, Mr. Docker is looking right at me. “We’re going to have a baby,” I tell him.

  The smile starts deep inside of me, like a pilot light, and fans the flames of possibility.

  Saying it out loud, it’s suddenly real.

  Vanessa and I are standing at the reception window of the fertility clinic. “Baxter,” I say. “We’ve got a meeting to discuss a frozen embryo transfer?”

  The nurse finds my name on her computer. “There you are. Did you bring your husband today, too?”

  I feel my face flush. “I’m remarried. When I called, you said I needed to come in with my spouse.”

  The nurse looks up at me, and then at Vanessa. If she’s surprised, her face doesn’t register it at all. “Just wait here,” she says.

  Vanessa looks at me as soon as she leaves her desk. “What’s the problem?”

  “I don’t know. I hope there’s nothing wrong with the embryos . . .”

  “Did you read that article about the family that was given the wrong embryos?” Vanessa asks. “I mean, God, can you imagine?”

  I shoot her a pointed look. “Not helping.”

  “Zoe?” At the sound of my name, I turn to find Dr. Anne Fourchette, the clinic director, walking toward me. “Why don’t you two come into my office?”

  We follow her down the hall to the paneled, posh space that I must have been in before but have no recollection of seeing prior to this. Most of my visits were in treatment rooms. “Is there a problem, Dr. Fourchette? Did you lose them?”

  She is a striking woman with a fall of prematurely white hair, a bone-crushing handshake, and a drawl that extends my name by three or four extra syllables. “I’m afraid there was a misunderstanding,” she says. “Your ex-husband has to sign off on the release of the embryos. Once he does that, we can schedule a transfer.”

  “But Max doesn’t want them. He divorced me because he didn’t want to be a father.”

  “Then it’s really all academic,” Dr. Fourchette replies brightly. “It’s a legal technicality we need to cover before we can schedule your appointment with a social worker.”

  “Social worker,” Vanessa repeats.

  “It’s something we routinely do with same-sex couples, to address some of the issues that you might not have considered. If your partner has the baby, for example, Zoe, then once he’s born, you’ll have to formally adopt him.”

  “But we’re married—”

  “Not according to the state of Rhode Island.” She shakes her head. “Again, it’s nothing to worry about. We just have to get the ball rolling.”

  That familiar wave of disappointment floods me; once again this baby track is full of hurdles.

  “All right,” Vanessa says briskly. “Is there something Max has to sign? Some form?”

  Dr. Fourchette hands her a sheet of paper. “Just have him send it back to us, and as soon as we get it, we’ll call you.” She smiles at us. “And I’m really happy for you, Zoe. Congratulations to you both.”

  Vanessa and I don’t speak until we are outside the clinic, riding down together in an otherwise empty elevator. “You have to talk to him,” she says.

  “And say what? Hey, I’m married to Vanessa and we’d like you to be our sperm donor?”

  “It’s not like that,” Vanessa points out. “The embryos already exist. What plans does he have for them?”

  The doors slide open on the ground floor. A woman is waiting, with a baby in a stroller. The baby is wearing a white, hooded sweater with little bear ears sticking up.

  “I’ll try,” I say.

  I find Max at a client’s house, raking out mulch and twigs from the flower beds in preparation for spring landscaping. The snow has melted as quickly as it arrived, and it smells like spring. Max is wearing a shirt and tie, and he’s sweating. “Nice place,” I say appreciatively, looking around the grounds of this McMansion.

  Max wheels at the sound of my voice. “Zoe? What are you doing here?”

  “Liddy told me where to find you,” I say. “I was wondering if you’ve got a minute to talk?”

  He leans on the rake and wipes the perspiration from his forehead, nods. “Sure. You want to, uh, sit down?” He gestures to a stone bench in the center of a hibernating garden. The granite is cold through the fabric of my jeans.

  “What’s it like?” I ask. “When it’s blooming, I mean?”

  “Oh, it’s pretty awesome, actually. Tiger lilies. They should be up by the end of April, if I can keep the beetles off of them.”

  “I’m glad you’re still doing landscaping. I wasn’t sure.”

  “Why wouldn’t I be doing it?”

  “I don’t know.” I shrug. “I thought you might be working for your church.”

  “Well, on Mondays I do,” he says. “They’re one of my clients.” He rubs his jaw with his fist. “I saw a sign outside a bar, saying you’d be singing. You haven’t performed since before we got . . . well, for a long time.”

  “I know—I sort of fell back into it.” I hesitate. “You weren’t at the bar . . . ?”

  “No.” Max laughs. “I’m cleaner than soap these days.”

  “Good. I mean, that’s really good. And, yeah, I’ve been doing a little singing here and there. Acoustically. It keeps me on my toes for my therapy sessions.”

  “So you’re still doing that.”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  He shakes his head. “I don’t know. A lot about you has . . . changed.”

  It is so strange, to encounter an ex. It’s as if you’re in a foreign film, and what you’re saying face-to-face has nothing to do w
ith the subtitles flowing beneath you. We are so careful not to touch, although once upon a time, I slept plastered to him in our bed, like lichen on a rock. We are two strangers who know every shameful secret, every hidden freckle, every fatal flaw in each other.

  “I got married,” I blurt out.

  Since Max hasn’t been paying me alimony, there’s really no reason he would have known. For a second he looks completely baffled. Then his eyes widen. “You mean, you and . . . ?”

  “Vanessa,” I say. “Yes.”

  “Wow.” Max shifts, sliding centimeters away from me on the stone bench. “I, uh, didn’t realize it was so . . . real.”

  “Real?”

  “Serious, I mean. I figured it was some fling you had to get out of your system.”

  “You mean the same way you were a casual drinker?” As soon as I say the words, I regret them. I’m supposed to be here to win Max over to my side, not to antagonize him. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.”

  Max looks like he’s about to be sick. “I’m glad you told me face-to-face. It would have been really tough to hear that through the grapevine.”

  For a moment, I almost feel sorry for him. I can only imagine the flak he’ll get from his new church buddies about me. “There’s more,” I say, swallowing. “Vanessa and I want to start a family. Vanessa’s young and healthy, and there’s no reason she can’t have a baby.”

  “I can think of a pretty major one,” Max says.

  “Well, actually, that’s why I’m here.” I take a deep breath. “It would mean a lot to us if the baby Vanessa had was biologically mine. And there are three embryos left over from when you and I were trying. I’d like your permission to use them.”

  Max’s head snaps up. “What?”

  “I know this is a lot to take in at once—”

  “I told you I don’t want to be a father . . .”

  “And I’m not asking you to. No strings attached, Max. We’ll sign anything you want to guarantee that. We’re not expecting you to support a baby in any way—not with money, or with your name, nothing. You won’t have any obligations or responsibilities to the baby, if we’re lucky enough to have one.” I meet his gaze. “These embryos—they already exist. They’re just waiting. For how long? Five years? Ten? Fifty? Neither of us wants them destroyed, and you’ve already said you don’t want kids. But I do. I want them so bad that it hurts.”