by Jodi Picoult
Wade Preston reaches into the pocket inside his suit jacket and pulls out his card. “Why don’t we meet next week?” he suggests. “We have a lot to discuss to get this ball rolling.” As Pastor Clive leads him away to meet some of the other congregants, he flashes that million-dollar smile at me again.
I have six doughnuts on my plate, and I don’t even want to eat one anymore. I feel sick, actually.
Because the truth is: the ball’s been set in motion.
It’s halfway down the hill already.
The night before I am supposed to meet Wade Preston at Pastor Clive’s office—he thought we might appreciate the privacy—I have a dream. Liddy is pregnant already, and, instead of just Reid being in the delivery room, there are dozens of people, all wearing hospital scrubs and blue masks. You can’t make out who anyone is, except for their eyes.
Pastor Clive is sitting between Liddy’s legs and acting as the doctor. He reaches down to catch the baby. “You’re doing great,” he tells her as she screams, pushing this bloody mess of baby into the world.
A nurse takes the baby and swaddles it, and when she does she gasps. She calls over Pastor Clive, who looks into the folds of the blue blanket and says, “Sweet Jesus.”
“What’s wrong?” I ask, pushing through the crowd. “What’s the matter?”
But they don’t hear me. “Maybe she won’t notice,” the nurse whispers, and she hands Liddy the baby. “Here’s your son,” she coos.
Liddy lifts up the corner of the blanket draping the newborn and starts to shriek. She nearly drops the baby, and I rush forward to pick him up.
That’s when I see it: he has no face.
Instead there’s just a mottled oval of lumps and boils, a seam where a mouth should have been.
“I don’t want it!” Liddy cries. “He’s not really mine!”
One of the masked observers steps forward. She takes the baby from me and begins to pinch the flesh into false features—a hill of a nose, two thumbprint eyes—as if the baby is made of clay. She gazes down as if it is the most beautiful thing she has ever seen. “There,” she says. She pulls off her mask and smiles, and that’s when I see it is Zoe.
I’m sweating when I walk into Pastor Clive’s office to meet with Wade, so much that I’ve nearly soaked through my shirt, and I’m figuring he’ll think either I’m a freak or I have some weird metabolic disorder, when in fact I’m just a little scared to tell him what I’ve been thinking all morning.
Namely, that I may be making a mistake. Sure, I want to help Liddy and Reid . . . but I don’t want to hurt Zoe.
Wade’s wearing another perfectly tailored suit, this one with a faint silver shine to it that makes him look the way Jesus always does in paintings—glowing, a little brighter than everyone else around Him.
“It’s good to see you, Max,” Wade says, pumping my hand up and down. “I gotta tell you, since I talked with you on Sunday, you’ve been at the forefront of my mind.”
“Oh,” I say. “Well.”
“Now, we’ve got a lot of background to cover, so I’m just going to ask you questions, and you do your best to answer them.”
“Can I ask you one first?” I say.
He looks up, nods. “Absolutely.”
“It’s not so much of a question, really. It’s more of a statement. I mean, I know I have a right to decide what happens to these embryos. But Zoe does, too.”
Wade sits down on the edge of Pastor Clive’s desk. “You are a hundred percent right, at least when you look at this issue superficially. You and Zoe both have an equal gametic claim to these embryos. But let me ask you this: Did you intend to raise these pre-born children in a heterosexual relationship with your ex-wife?”
“Yeah.”
“Yet, unfortunately, your marriage didn’t last.”
“That’s exactly it,” I burst out. “Nothing worked out the way we planned. And finally, she seems to be happy. It may not be what I’d do, or what you’d do, but why should I ruin that for her? I always believed she’d be a good mom. And she’s said that I don’t have to pay child support—”
“Whoa.” Wade holds up a hand. “Let’s unpack this a bit. First of all, if you did give Zoe the pre-born children, you’re still the father. These little people, they already exist, Max. You can’t remove your biological responsibility to them. So even if they’re raised in this lesbian household, you’re going to be on the hook for child support. And even if your ex-wife doesn’t ask for it now, at any point in that child’s life he can come back to you saying he needs financial or emotional support. Zoe may say you don’t have to have a relationship with this baby, but that’s not her decision to make.” He folds his arms. “Now you say your ex-wife would make a good parent—and I have no doubt that’s true. What about your brother and sister-in-law?”
I look at Pastor Clive. “They’d be the best parents I could ever imagine.”
“And what about your wife’s lesbian lover?”
“I don’t know very much about her—”
“Except for the fact that she wants to take your children away from you,” Wade points out.
Here’s all I know about Vanessa: I had a wife, a wife who loved me and made love with me, and now all of a sudden she’s sleeping with some woman who seduced her.
Pastor Clive walks toward an oversize Bible on a lectern and starts reading aloud:
“Because of this, God gave them over to shameful 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.
“That’s what God has to say about homosexuals in Romans 1:26–27,” the pastor says. “Homosexuality—it’s a perversion. Something to be punished for.”
“What if that pre-born child is a little boy, Max?” Wade asks. “You realize he has an overwhelming chance of becoming homosexual himself if you let him be raised by two lesbians. Frankly, even if Zoe is the Mother of the Year, who’s going to be the daddy in that household? How’s your son going to learn how to be a man?”
I shake my head. I don’t have an answer for that. If the baby goes to Reid and Liddy, he’ll have a great father figure. The same one I’ve looked up to my whole life.
“The best parental decision you can make,” Wade says, “even if it’s the only parental decision you make—is to ask yourself what’s really best for your child.”
I close my eyes.
“I understand from Pastor Clive that you and Zoe lost a number of babies while you were trying to get pregnant,” Wade says. “Including one that was nearly at term.”
I can feel my throat tighten. “Yes.”
“How did you feel when he died?”
I press my thumbs into the corners of my eyes. I don’t want to cry. I don’t want them to see me crying. “It hurt like hell.”
“If you felt that way about losing one child,” Wade asks, “how are you going to feel about losing three more?”
I’m sorry, I think, and I don’t even know who I’m apologizing to anymore. “Okay,” I mutter.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Okay,” I repeat, looking up at Wade. “What do we do next?”
Liddy is in the kitchen when I come home from my meeting. She’s baking a blueberry pie, even though blueberries are totally out of season. It’s my favorite.
She’s making her own crust, too. Zoe never made her own crust. She said it was pointless, when Pillsbury had already put all that hard work into it.
“It’s called pro hac vice,” I explain. “It means that Wade Preston is an out-of-state attorney who’s allowed to represent me because of the experience he has in the field.”
“So you have two lawyers?” Liddy asks.
“I guess. I haven’t met this Ben Benjamin guy yet, but Wade says he knows the judges in the state and can help come up with the best strategy.
He used to clerk for Judge O’Neill, and there’s a chance he can even get the case in front of him.”
Liddy leans into the countertop, rolling the dough between two sheets of plastic wrap. The ball flattens into a perfect circle, which she flips into a ceramic pie plate. “It sounds complicated.”
“Yeah, but they know what they’re doing.” I don’t want her worrying about this. I want her to believe it’s all going to happen just the way she wants. A positive frame of mind is just as important as any reproductive plumbing when it comes to pregnancy. At least that’s what Zoe’s OB used to say.
Liddy spoons the filling—there are berries in there, which she’s tried to keep me from swiping—and some sugar and that white powdery crap that’s not flour—into the crust. She puts a few pats of butter on top. Then she takes the second ball of dough out of the fridge so that she can roll the top crust.
She lifts up the Saran Wrap and pulls the sheet out. But instead of rolling, she jackknifes, leaning on the counter and covering her face with her hands.
She’s sobbing.
“Liddy? What’s wrong?”
She shakes her head, waving me off.
I start to panic. I ought to call Reid. I ought to call 911.
“I’m fine, Max,” she chokes. “Honestly.”
“You’re crying!”
She looks up at me. Her eyes are the color of sea glass, the kind you find on the beach and keep in your pocket. “Because I’m happy. You’ve made me so unbelievably happy.”
It doesn’t make sense to me, but neither does the way I feel when she leans against me for a second. She gives me a quick hug and then moves back to the pie, rolling the pastry dough as if the world has not just shifted on its axis.
Ben Benjamin has little round glasses and a mouth pursed like a funnel. He’s sitting across from me in the church office conference room writing down everything I say, as if there’s going to be a quiz later. “How did you divide your assets?” he asks.
“We just kind of split everything.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, Zoe took the musical instruments, and I took my landscaping equipment. We said we’d each take care of our own debt. We didn’t have a house or anything.”
“Did you address the issue of the embryos in your final judgment?”
“Well, no. It wasn’t like they were property.”
Wade leans forward, hands clasped. “Of course not. They’re people.”
Ben makes a note on his pad. “So while you were representing yourselves during the divorce, the two of you just made an honest mistake. You forgot to talk about those little . . . people . . . in their frozen time capsules during the divorce decree. Right?”
“I guess so,” I say.
“No, you know so,” Ben corrects. “Because that’s how we’re going to open this up. You didn’t realize this needed to be addressed during the divorce, so we bring it back to family court again by filing an action.”
“What if Zoe files one first?” I ask.
“Believe me,” Wade says, “the clinic isn’t going to make a single move without having consent from both of you—or a court order. In fact, I’m going to give counsel for the clinic a call just to make sure of it.”
“But even if we go to court, won’t the judge think I’m scum for wanting to give my babies away? I mean, Zoe wants them for herself.”
“That’s a compelling argument,” Ben agrees, “except you both have an equal biological claim to the embryos—”
“Pre-born children,” Wade interrupts.
Ben glances up. “Right. The children. You have just as much right to say what happens to them as your ex-wife does. Even if you wanted to have them destroyed—”
“Which he doesn’t,” Pastor Clive says.
“No, but if you did, the court would have to consider your legal right to do so.”
“The court cares about the best interests of the children,” Wade adds. “You’ve heard that term. And the choices here are a traditional Christian family or a unit that doesn’t even come close to approximating that definition.”
“We’ll have your brother and sister-in-law testify. They’re going to be a very central part of this trial,” Ben says.
I run my thumbnail along a groove in the table. Last night, Liddy and Reid had been online looking up baby names. Joshua’s nice, Reid had said, and Liddy had said maybe Mason.
Too trendy, Reid had said.
And Liddy had said, Well, what does Max think? He ought to have a say in this, too.
I flatten my hands on the table. “About this trial . . . I probably should have brought this up before. But I can’t afford one lawyer, much less two of you.”
Pastor Clive puts his hand on my shoulder. “Don’t you worry about that, son. The church is taking care of it. After all, this is going to bring us a lot of attention.”
Wade leans back, a smile unraveling across his face. “Attention,” he says, “is what I do best.”
ZOE
I like Emma. And Ella. And Hannah.
“Does every baby name have to be a palindrome?” Vanessa asks.
“No,” I tell her, as we sprawl across the living room floor, surrounded by every single baby name book stocked by the local bookstore.
“Florals?” Vanessa says. “Rose? Lily? Or Daisy. I’ve always liked Daisy.”
“Amanda Lynn?” I wait to see if she’ll get the joke.
Vanessa smirks. “Well, it’s better than Tuba or Banjo . . .”
“How about girl names that are also boy names?” I say. “Like Stevie. Or Alex.”
“It would save us half the work here,” Vanessa admits.
I have been pregnant three times and have avoided doing just this: hoping. It’s a lot easier to not be disappointed when you have no expectations. And yet this time I almost can’t help myself. There was something about the way I left things with Max that makes me believe this might actually happen.
After all, he didn’t say no right away, which is what I expected.
Which means he’s still thinking.
And that has to be good, right?
“Joey,” Vanessa suggests. “That’s kind of cute.”
“If you’re a kangaroo . . .” I roll over onto my back and look up at the ceiling. “Clouds.”
“No way. I’m not doing the hippie thing. No Clouds or Rain or Meadow. I mean, imagine the poor kid when she’s ninety and in a nursing home.”
“I wasn’t talking about a name,” I say. “I was thinking about the nursery. I’ve always thought it would be peaceful to fall asleep staring up at clouds painted on your ceiling.”
“That’s cool. You think Michelangelo is listed in the yellow pages?”
The doorbell rings as I toss a pillow at her. “You expecting anyone?” I ask.
Vanessa shakes her head. “Are you?”
A man is standing on the porch, smiling. He’s wearing a red baseball cap and a Red Sox sweatshirt and doesn’t strike me as a serial killer, so I open the door. “Are you Zoe Baxter?” he asks.
“Yes . . .”
He pulls a sheaf of blue papers out of his back pocket. “These papers are for you,” he says. “You’ve been served.”
I open the folded document and words leap off the page at me:
Pray this Honorable Court . . .
. . . award him full possession and custody of his pre-born children . . .
. . . wishes to provide them with an appropriate two-parent family . . .
I sink to the floor and read.
In support thereof, it is hereby stated:
1. The plaintiff is the biological father of these pre-born children, which were conceived during a heterosexual, God-condoned, constitutional marriage for the purposes of being raised in a heterosexual, God-condoned, constitutional marriage.
2. Since these pre-born children were conceived the parties have divorced.
3. Since the final judgment the defendant has engaged in a meretricious, deviant,
homosexual lifestyle.
4. The defendant has contacted the clinic for possession of the pre-born children for the purpose of having them transferred to her lesbian lover.
“Zoe?”
Vanessa sounds like she is a thousand miles away. I hear her, but I cannot move.
“Zoe?” she says again, and she grabs the paper out of my hand. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. There is no language to describe a betrayal this big.
Vanessa starts flipping through the pages so quickly I expect them to burst into flame. “What is this garbage?”
Equilibrium is nothing more than smoke and mirrors. You can be punched without ever fielding a blow. “It’s from Max,” I say. “He’s trying to take away our baby.”
VANESSA
Just after Thanksgiving 2008, a woman on her deathbed confessed to killing two girls forty-two years earlier, who had bullied her for being a lesbian. Sharron Smith had gone into the ice cream shop in Staunton, Virginia, where they all were employed to say she couldn’t work the next day. According to the police transcript, one thing led to another, and she shot them.
I don’t know why she was packing a .25-caliber automatic handgun when she went into the ice cream store, but I understand her motivation. Especially while I am standing here, holding this ridiculous legal allegation from Zoe’s ex-husband.
One that calls me meretricious and deviant.
I am flooded with a feeling I thought I left behind in college, when I was called a freak by girls in the locker room, who would move away from my changing area because they were sure I was staring at them; when I was pinned into a dark corner at a dance and groped by some asshole on the football team, who had bet his friends he could turn me into a real girl. I was punished just because I was me, and what I wanted to say—what I never did say, until my throat was sore with the effort of silence—was Why do I matter to you? Why can’t you just worry about yourselves instead?
