by Jodi Picoult
So although I don’t condone violence any more than I am truly meretricious and deviant, in that moment I sort of wish I had Sharron Smith’s balls.
“I’m calling that son of a bitch,” Zoe announces.
I don’t know if I’ve ever seen her this upset. Her face is flushed a dark red; she is crying and spitting mad all at once. She punches the buttons so hard on the telephone handset that it tumbles out of her hands. I pick it up, hit the speakerphone button, and set it on the counter so that we can both listen.
To be honest, I’m surprised Max even picks up.
“I can’t talk to you. My lawyer told me not to—”
“Why?” Zoe interrupts. “Why would you do this to me?”
There is a long pause—so long that I think Max may have disconnected the call. “I’m not doing this to you, Zoe. I’m doing it for our kids.”
When we hear the dial tone on the other end of the line, Zoe picks up the phone and throws it across the kitchen. “He doesn’t even want kids,” she cries. “What is he going to do with the embryos?”
“I don’t know.” But it’s clear to me that this might not be about the babies, to Max. That it’s about Zoe, and the lifestyle she’s living.
Or in other words, punishment for just being herself.
I have a sudden flashback of my mother bursting into tears, once, when she took me to the doctor’s office for vaccinations. I was five or so, and clearly I was terrified of needles. I’d practically been hyperventilating the whole morning in anticipation of how painful this would be, and, sure enough, I was twisting my tiny body into knots to get away from the nurse practitioner. The sound of my mother’s sobbing, though, immediately made me stop. It wasn’t as if she was getting the shot, after all.
It hurts me, she tried to explain, when you hurt.
I was too young and too literal to understand it at the time, and, until now, I hadn’t loved someone enough to know what she meant. But seeing Zoe like this, knowing that what she wants most in the world is being yanked out of her grasp—well, I can’t breathe. I can’t see anything but fire.
So I leave her standing in the kitchen, and I walk into the bedroom. I fall to my knees in front of my nightstand and start rummaging through past issues of unread School Counselor magazines and recipes I’ve clipped from the Wednesday newspaper that I keep meaning to cook and never quite get around to. Buried several layers down is an issue of the Options Newsletter, a publication for the transgender, lesbian, gay, bi, and questioning. In the back are all the classified ads.
GLAD. Gay & Lesbian Advocates & Defenders. Winter Street, Boston.
I grab the newsletter and carry it back into the kitchen, where Zoe has wilted at the table. I pick up the telephone from where it’s landed beneath a windowsill and dial the number in the advertisement.
“Hi,” I say brusquely. “My name’s Vanessa Shaw. My wife has just been served with a lawsuit by her ex-husband. He’s trying to gain custody and control of frozen embryos we had hoped to use to start a family, and he’s making it into an evangelical, right-wing, gay-bashing, precedent-setting case. Can you help us?” The words come out in a furious flood, until Zoe has lifted her head from the table and is staring at me, wide-eyed. “Yes,” I tell the receptionist. “I’ll hold.”
Muzak fills my ear. Zoe was the one who told me that the company that invented all that awful elevator music went bankrupt in 2009. She called it musical karma.
She walks toward me, taking the newsletter out of my hand and glancing down at the ad for legal services.
“If Max wants a fight,” I tell her, “then that’s what he’s going to get.”
When I was twenty-four I broke my ankle playing pond hockey the day after Christmas. I snapped clear through the fibula, and a surgeon affixed a metal plate to my bone (the last time, I like to say, that a man will ever screw me). Although my teammates got me to the ER, my mother had to come stay in my apartment because I was completely incapacitated. I could hobble around on my crutches but couldn’t get on and off the toilet. I couldn’t hoist myself out of the bathtub. I couldn’t go anywhere at all, because my crutches slipped and skidded on the ice outside.
If not for my mother, I probably would have wasted away on saltines, tap water, and bad soap operas.
Instead, my mother stoically helped me in and out of the bathroom. She washed my hair in the tub so I wouldn’t lose my balance. She drove me to and from the doctor’s appointments and stocked my fridge and cleaned my house.
In return I bitched and moaned at her because I was really furious at myself. Finally, I hit a nerve. She threw down the plate of food she’d made me—it was a grilled cheese sandwich, I remember, because I complained about it being American cheese and not Swiss—and walked out the door.
Fine, I told myself. I don’t need her.
And I didn’t. Not for the first three hours, anyway. And then I really had to pee.
At first I hobbled on my crutches to the bathroom. But I couldn’t lever myself down off them onto the toilet without the fear of falling. I wound up balancing on one foot and urinating into an empty coffee mug, and then I collapsed back on the bed and called my mother.
I’m sorry, I sobbed. I’m helpless.
That’s where you’re wrong, she told me. You’re not helpless. You need help. There’s a big difference.
On Angela Moretti’s desk is a sealed glass jar, and swimming inside is what looks like a dried prune.
“Oh,” she says, when she sees me looking at it. “That’s from my last case.”
Zoe and I have taken the day off from work to meet with Angela at her office in downtown Boston. She reminds me of Tinker Bell on speed—tiny, talking a mile a minute. Her black curls bounce as she lifts the jar and moves it closer to me.
“What is it?”
“A testicle,” Angela says.
No wonder I didn’t recognize it. Beside me, Zoe chokes and starts coughing.
“Some asshole got it bitten off in a barroom brawl.”
“And he saved it?” I say.
“In formaldehyde.” Angela shrugs. “He’s a guy,” she replies, by way of explanation. “I represented his ex-wife. She’s got a same-sex spouse now, and the jerk wouldn’t let her see her kids. She brought it to me for safekeeping because she said this is the most important thing in the world to him and she wanted it as collateral. I kept it because I liked the idea of having the plaintiff by the balls.”
I like Angela Moretti already—and not just because she keeps a reproductive organ on her desk. I like her because Zoe and I walked into this office and nobody batted an eye to see us holding hands—out of solidarity and nerves, I suppose. I like Angela because she’s on our side, and I didn’t even have to try to convince her.
“I’m really scared,” Zoe says. “I just can’t believe Max is doing this.”
Angela whips out a pad of paper and an expensive-looking fountain pen. “You know, life changes people sometimes. My cousin Eddie, he was the biggest bastard north of New Jersey until he shipped out during the Gulf War. I don’t just mean cranky—he was the kind of guy who tried to hit the squirrel with his car when it ran across the road. I don’t know what he saw in that desert, but when Eddie came home, he became a monk. God’s honest truth.”
“Can you help us?” I ask.
Zoe bites her lip. “And can you tell us what it’s going to cost?”
“Not a dime,” Angela says. “And by that I mean, not a dime. GLAD is a nonprofit organization. We’ve been in New England for over thirty years protecting the civil rights of people who are gay, lesbian, trans-gender, bisexual, and questioning. We brought to court the precedent-setting case of Goodridge v. Department of Public Health, which said it was unconstitutional to not allow gay people to marry—and as a result Massachusetts became the first state in the country to allow gay marriage, back in 2004. We’ve fought for gay adoption rights, so that the unmarried partner of a child’s biological parent can adopt that child and become a second
legal parent—without the biological parent having to relinquish her rights. We have challenged the federal Defense of Marriage Act. Your case fits into our agenda completely,” Angela says, “just like your ex-husband’s case fits in with Wade Preston’s agenda.”
“You know his lawyer?” I ask.
She snorts. “You know the difference between Wade Preston and a vulture? Frequent flier miles. He’s a homophobic nutbag who travels around the country trying to get states to amend their constitutions so that gay couples can’t marry. He’s this millennium’s Anita Bryant and Jesse Helms all rolled up into one and stuffed in an Armani suit. But he also plays hard and tough, and it’s going to get ugly. He’s going to drag in the media and put the courthouse in an uproar because he’ll want to get the public on his side. He’s going to make you the poster children for unmarried heathens who aren’t fit to raise a baby.” Angela looks from me to Zoe. “I need to know that you two are in this for the long haul.”
I reach for Zoe’s hand. “Absolutely.”
“But we are married,” Zoe points out.
“Not according to the great state of Rhode Island. If your case was being brought to a Massachusetts court, you’d have a much stronger position than you do in your home state.”
“What about the millions of straight couples who aren’t married but have babies? Why isn’t anyone questioning their ability to raise a child?”
“Because Wade Preston is going to make sure this is viewed as a custody case even though we’re not talking about children, we’re talking about property. And anytime there’s a custody case, the morality of your relationship is going to be on the hot seat.”
Zoe shakes her head. “Biologically, it’s my baby.”
“By that argument, it’s also Max’s baby. He has as much legal right to the embryos as you do—and Preston is going to say he has a better moral plan for that unborn child.”
“Well, he’s not exactly the model Christian daddy,” I say. “He isn’t married. He’s a recovering alcoholic—”
“Good,” Angela mutters, writing on her pad. “That might help. But we don’t know yet what Max wants to do with the embryos. Our position is going to be to paint you as a loving, committed couple with strong roots in the community and respect in your individual professions.”
“Will that be enough?” Zoe asks.
“I don’t know. We aren’t going to be able to control the wild ride that Wade Preston’s about to launch, but we’ve got a strong case, and we’re not going to let him roll right over us. Now, let me get some background information from you. You were married when?”
“In April, in Fall River,” I say.
“And you’re presently living where?”
“Wilmington, Rhode Island.”
Angela writes this down. “You live in the same house?”
“Yes,” I say. “Zoe moved in with me.”
“Do you own the home?”
I nod. “It’s a three bedroom. We have plenty of room for kids.”
“Zoe,” Angela says, “I know you’ve struggled with infertility and don’t have any children—but Vanessa, what about you? Have you ever been pregnant?”
“No . . .”
“But she doesn’t have any fertility problems,” Zoe adds.
“Well, I assume I don’t. Lesbians are always shooting blanks, so you never really know.”
Angela grins. “Let’s talk about Max for a second. When you were married to him, did he drink?”
Zoe looks into her lap. “There were times I found alcohol hidden, but I’d throw it out. He knew—after all, he took the empty bottles out in the recycling. But we never talked about it. If I found a stash and emptied it down the sink, he’d start acting like the perfect husband, offering back rubs, taking me out to dinner. That would last until I found the next bottle hidden under the vacuum cleaner bags or behind the lightbulbs in the closet. It was almost as if we could have a whole conversation about him toeing the line without ever speaking a word.”
“Was Max ever abusive?”
“No,” Zoe says. “We went through hell trying to have a baby, but I never doubted that he loved me. The things coming out of his mouth now don’t even sound like Max. They sound like something his brother would say.”
“His brother?”
“Reid took care of Max before I met him, and got him into AA. He’s a member of the Eternal Glory Church, which Max goes to, now; and Max lives with him.”
“You know what you call a nun who’s passed her bar exam?” Angela says, idly scanning the legal complaint that I faxed to the office after my initial phone call. “A sister-in-law.”
Beside me, Zoe laughs.
“There you go,” Angela says. “As long as you can make a good lawyer joke, there’s still hope in the world. And I got a million of them.” She sets down the fax. “There’s a lot of religious language in here. Could Reid be a part of Max’s decision to file the lawsuit?”
“Or Clive Lincoln,” Zoe says. “He’s the pastor who runs it.”
“Lovely man,” Angela replies, rolling her eyes. “He threw a bucket of paint at me once on the steps of the Massachusetts State House. Was Max always religious?”
“No. When we got married, we even stopped going to Reid and Liddy’s house because we felt like we were being preached to.”
“What was Max’s attitude about homosexuality back then?” Angela asks.
Zoe blinks. “I don’t think we ever really talked about it. I mean, he wasn’t openly intolerant, but he wasn’t advocating for gay rights, either.”
“Does Max have a girlfriend now?”
“I don’t know.”
“When you told him that you wanted to use the embryos, did he say anything about wanting to use them himself?”
“No. He said he’d think about it,” Zoe says. “I came home and told Vanessa I thought we’d be good to go.”
“Well, we never know people as well as we think we do.” Angela puts down her pad. “Let’s talk a little about how this case is going to proceed. Zoe, you know you’re going to have to testify—and you, too, Vanessa. You’ll have to speak very openly and honestly about your relationship, though you might get flak for it even in this day and age. I called the clerk this morning and learned that the case has been assigned to Judge O’Neill.”
“Is that good?” I ask.
“No,” Angela replies flatly. “You know what you call a lawyer with an IQ of fifty, right? Your Honor.” She frowns. “Padraic O’Neill is about to retire—something I’ve personally been praying for for the past decade. He has a very traditional, conservative outlook.”
“Can we switch?” Zoe says.
“Unfortunately, no. If courts let us switch judges just because we don’t like who we’ve drawn, we’d be switching judges all the time. However, as conservative as O’Neill is, he still has to abide by the law. And legally, you have a strong case.”
“What’s happened before in Rhode Island with cases like this?”
Angela looks at me. “There are none. We’ll be making law.”
“So,” Zoe murmurs. “It could really go either way.”
“Look,” Angela says. “Judge O’Neill’s not the guy I would have picked, but it’s who we have, and we’ll tailor our case in a way that lets him see how you two are the best solution for the disposition of the embryos. Wade Preston’s entire argument is based on the protocol of the best traditional family, yet Max is single. He doesn’t even have his own home to raise a kid in. On the other hand, you two present the image of a committed, loving, intelligent couple. You were the first one to broach the subject of using the embryos with the clinic. Ultimately, this case will come down to you two versus Max—and even a judge like Padraic O’Neill will see the writing on the wall.”
There is a soft knock behind us, and a secretary opens the door. “Ange? Your eleven o’clock is here.”
“Great kid, you ought to meet him. He’s transgendered and wants to join the high school’s trave
ling soccer team, but he hasn’t had his surgery yet, and the coach says they can’t afford an extra separate hotel room. I am so gonna win this one.” She stands up. “I’ll let you know what’s next,” Angela says. “Unless you have any questions?”
“I do,” Zoe says, “but it’s sort of personal.”
“You want to know if I’m a lesbian.”
Zoe blushes. “Well. Yeah. But you don’t have to answer.”
“I’m straight as a two-by-four. My husband and I have three rugrats and a house full of constant chaos.”
“But you . . .” Zoe hesitates. “You work here?”
“I eat kung pao chicken like it’s going out of style, but I’m pretty sure I don’t have an Asian cell in my body. I love Toni Morrison novels and Tyler Perry movies although I’m not black.” Angela smiles. “I’m straight, Zoe, and I’m happily married. The reason I work here is because I think you deserve that, too.”
I’m not really sure when I began telling myself I’d never have kids. I’m still young, sure, but options are different when you’re a lesbian. The dating pool is smaller; chances are you will wind up going out with someone who already knows the last person who broke your heart. Plus, unlike straight people, who are almost expected to fall onto a track that leads to marriage and kids, a gay couple has to make a serious, expensive, invested effort to have a baby. Lesbians need a sperm donor, gays need a surrogate mother, or else we have to forge into the rough waters of adoption, where same-sex couples are often turned away.
I was never the kind of girl who dreamed of babies and who practiced swaddling my teddy bears. As an only child, I didn’t have a chance to help care for a younger sibling. I hadn’t had a serious relationship, before Zoe, for several years. I would have happily settled for love, without offspring, if that was my trade-off.
Besides, I told myself, I already had children. About six hundred of them, at Wilmington High School. I listened to them, and cried with them, and told them that tomorrow was always going to look a little better than today. Even the ones who have graduated I still think about, connect with on Facebook. I enjoy knowing that, like I promised, everything worked out okay.
