by Jodi Picoult
“Objection!” Wade says. “Prejudicial!”
“Withdrawn. If this court gives your brother and sister-in-law the embryos,” Angela Moretti asks, “where do you fit in?”
“I . . . I’m going to be an uncle.”
“Ah. How are you going to be the uncle if you’re the biological father?”
“It’s like an adoption,” I say, flustered. “I mean, it is an adoption. Reid becomes the father and I’m the uncle.”
“So you’re going to give up your parental rights to these children at birth?”
Ben Benjamin said that, no matter what you sign, at any point, grown children might come find you. Confused, I look at him, sitting at our table. “I thought you said I couldn’t ever really do that?”
“You want these embryos to go to a traditional Christian family?” the lawyer says.
“Yes.”
“But instead you’re suggesting that the court give them to a biological father who is called the uncle and is living in the basement of the home of the parents who are raising him. Does that sound like a traditional Christian family, Mr. Baxter?”
“No! I mean, yes . . .”
“Which is it?”
Her words are like bullets. I wish she’d talk more slowly. I wish she’d give me time to think. “It’s . . . it’s a family—”
“When you created these embryos with Zoe, you intended at the time to raise these children with her, correct?”
“Yes.”
“Yet Zoe is still ready, willing, and able to take these embryos and raise them as her children. On the other hand, you left.”
“I didn’t leave—”
“Did she file for divorce, or did you?”
“I did. But I left my marriage, not my children—”
“No, those you’re just giving away,” Angela says. “You also testified that between the time when you got divorced and when Zoe came to talk to you about using the embryos, you hadn’t thought about them?”
“I didn’t mean it like that—”
“But that’s what you said. What else have you said that you don’t really mean, Mr. Baxter?” She takes a step toward me. “That you’re fine with giving these embryos to your brother and taking a backseat in their upbringing? That you’re a completely changed man? That you aren’t instigating this entire lawsuit as a means of getting revenge on your ex-wife, whose new relationship makes you feel like less of a man?”
“Objection!” Wade roars, but by that time I am standing, shaking, my face red and a hundred angry answers caught behind my teeth.
“That’s all, Mr. Baxter,” Angela Moretti says, with a smile. “That’s plenty.”
Wade calls for a recess, to let me get control of myself again. As I leave the courtroom, the members of the Westboro church applaud. It makes me feel a little dirty. It’s one thing to love Jesus with all your heart; it’s another to protest outside temples because you believe Jews killed our Savior. “Can you get rid of them?” I whisper to Wade.
“Not a chance,” he murmurs back. “They’re fantastic press. You’ve gotten through the hardest part, Max. Seriously, you know why that lawyer had to get you all riled up? Because she didn’t have anything else to work with. Not the law of this land, and certainly not the law of God.”
He leads me into a tiny room that has a table, two chairs, a coffee-maker, and a microwave. Wade walks over to the microwave and bends down until his face is level with the glossy black door. He smiles so that he can see his teeth, uses his thumb to pick something out from between two of them, and then grins again. “If you think that cross-examination was ruthless, you just sit back and enjoy what I’m planning to do to Zoe.”
I’m not sure why this makes me feel worse.
“Can you do me a favor?” I ask. “Can you get Pastor Clive for me?”
Wade hesitates. “As long as you’re talking to him as your spiritual counselor, and not as a sequestered witness . . .”
I nod. The last thing I want to do right now is rehash that last hour in court.
Wade leaves, taking all the air with him. I sink into a plastic chair and put my head down between my knees, sure that I’m going to pass out. A few minutes later, the door opens again and I see Pastor Clive’s white linen suit. He drags a chair beside mine. “Let’s pray,” he says, and he bows his head.
His words run over me, catching on all the rough patches and wearing them down. Prayer is like water—something you can’t imagine has the strength or power to do any good, and yet give it time and it can change the lay of the land. “Max, you look like you’re struggling,” he says.
“I just . . .” Looking away, I shake my head. “I don’t know. Maybe I should just give them to Zoe.”
“What’s making you doubt yourself?” Pastor Clive asks.
“What her lawyer said. That I’m really the father, but I have to be like an uncle. If I’m confused already, how is a kid going to be able to sort it all out?”
He clasps his hands, nodding. “You know, actually, I remember a situation very similar to this one. I can’t believe I haven’t thought of it before.”
“Really?”
“Yes. A biological dad, whose child was raised by another couple. They were handpicked by this man—just like what you’re doing—because the father wanted to do what was best for his child. Yet he still managed to have a say in his child’s upbringing.”
“Did you know them?”
“Very well,” Pastor Clive says, smiling. “And so do you. God gave Jesus to Mary to bear, and Joseph to raise. He knew it had to be done. And Jesus—well, clearly, he was able to sort it all out.”
But I am not God. I’m just someone who’s screwed up time and time again, who is trying hard not to make another mistake.
“It’s all going to work out, Max,” Pastor Clive promises.
I do what I always do when I’m around him. I believe what he tells me.
When Reid enters the courtroom, I have to admit, my doubts start to fade. He’s dressed in one of his fancy Savile Row suits, with hand-sewn Italian loafers. His black hair is trimmed precisely; I know for a fact that he had a real barber do his shave early this morning. He is the sort of man who draws attention when he enters a room, not just because he’s good-looking but because he is so sure of himself. As he passes by me to take the witness stand, I smell aftershave and something else. Not cologne—Reid doesn’t wear any. It’s the scent of money.
“Can you state your name for the record?” Wade asks.
“Reid Baxter.”
“And where do you live, Mr. Baxter?”
“Newport. One-forty Ocean Drive.”
“What is your relationship to the plaintiff, Max Baxter?”
Reid smiles. “I’m his big brother.”
“Are you married, Mr. Baxter?”
“To my lovely bride of eleven years, Liddy.”
“Got any children?” Wade asks.
“God hasn’t blessed us with children,” he says. “Though—I confess—it’s not for want of trying.”
“Tell me a little about your home,” Wade asks.
“It’s a forty-five-hundred-square-foot house on the ocean. There are four bedrooms, three and a half baths. We’ve got a basketball hoop and a huge yard. The only things missing are kids.”
“What do you do for a living?”
“I’m a portfolio manager with Monroe, Flatt & Cohen,” Reid says. “I’ve worked for them for seventeen years, and I’m a senior partner. I manage, invest, and reinvest other people’s money in order to preserve and increase their wealth.”
“What’s your net worth, Mr. Baxter?”
Reid looks modestly into his lap. “A bit over four million dollars.”
Holy shit.
I knew my brother was well off, but four million dollars?
At the very best, the most I could offer a kid was a partnership in a crappy landscaping business and all my knowledge about how to grow roses in a difficult climate. Not exactly a trust fund.
“Does your wife, Liddy, work, too?” Wade asks.
“She does volunteer work in various organizations. She’s the Sunday School coordinator for our church; she serves meals at a local homeless shelter; she’s involved with the Newport Hospital Women’s League. She’s on the board of the Preservation Society as well. But it’s always been our plan for her to be a stay-at-home mom, so that she could be the one raising our children.”
“Do you consider yourself a religious man?” Wade asks.
“I do,” Reid says.
“What church do you attend, Mr. Baxter?”
“The Eternal Glory Church. I’ve been a member for fifteen years.”
“Do you hold any offices or positions within the church’s hierarchy?”
“I’m the treasurer,” Reid replies.
“Do you and your wife attend church on a regular basis?”
He nods. “Every Sunday.”
“Do you consider yourself a born-again Christian?”
“If you mean, have I accepted Jesus as my personal savior, then yes,” Reid says.
“I’d like to direct your attention to the plaintiff in this case, Max Baxter.” Wade gestures at me. “How would you describe your relationship with him?”
Reid thinks for a minute. “Blessed,” he says. “It is so incredible to have my little brother back in my life, and on a path that’s good for him.”
In my first memory, I am about three years old, and jealous of Reid’s secret club. It was located in his tree house, a special hideaway where he could escape with his school friends. I was too young to climb up into it, or so I was told repeatedly by my parents and by Reid, who didn’t want some pesky little brother tagging along. I used to dream at night about what the inside of that tree house looked like. I pictured psychedelic walls, stockpiles of candy, MAD magazines. One day, even though I knew I’d get in trouble, I climbed up into the tree house while Reid was still at school. To my surprise, it was just rough wood, with some spots where he and his buddies had drawn in crayon. There was a newspaper on the floor and a few busted caps from a cap gun.
I thought it was the most magical place I’d ever seen—but then again, that’s pretty much what anyone thinks about the things that are off-limits. So I hid, even though I heard my mom calling my name over and over. When Reid came home from school, like usual, he climbed up the ladder to the tree house before he even went into the house.
What are you doing here? he asked, just as my mother’s voice rang out, and a minute later, her head popped up through the little trapdoor.
How did Max get up here? she cried. He’s not big enough to climb that tree . . .
It’s okay, Reid said. I helped him.
I didn’t know why he was lying for me. I didn’t know why he wasn’t mad about me being in his tree house.
My mother bought it, although she said that she would come back to help me climb down because the last thing she needed was a trip to the emergency room. Then Reid looked at me. If you want to be part of the club, you have to play by the rules.
I make all the rules, he said.
I think my whole life, all I’ve wanted is to be part of whatever club my brother belongs to.
Wade is still questioning him when I focus my attention again. “How long have you known Zoe Baxter?”
“She sang at my wedding to Liddy. That was the first time we met, and she went on to date my brother.”
“How did you two get along?” Wade asks.
Reid smiles sheepishly. “Let’s just say we have different philosophies of life.”
“Did you see Zoe often during her marriage to your brother?” Wade continues.
“Not more than a couple of times each year.”
“Did you have knowledge of their fertility problems?”
“Yes,” Reid says. “In fact, at one point my brother even came to me for help.”
I feel my pulse start to race. I had not been present at Wade’s sessions with Reid, the ones where he instructed him on what to say in response to these questions. If I had, I’d have known what was about to come.
“We met for lunch,” Reid explains. “I knew that he and Zoe had done in vitro a couple of times, and Max told me that not only was it taking a huge emotional toll on them as a couple . . . but it was taking an enormous financial toll on them as well.” He looks up at me. “Max had told Zoe that he’d find a way to pay for a fifth cycle of IVF, but he didn’t know how. He couldn’t remortgage his house, because he was a renter. He’d already sold off some of his business equipment. He needed ten thousand dollars to give the clinic, and he didn’t know where else to go.”
I do not look at her, but I can feel Zoe’s hot glare on my cheek. I never told her about this lunch. I never told her anything, except that I’d find a way for her to have that baby, no matter what.
“What did you do, Mr. Baxter?”
“What any brother would have done,” Reid says. “I wrote him a check.”
Angela Moretti asks for a recess. Mostly because I think she’s afraid that Zoe is about to come at me with her claws bared.
It wasn’t like I was trying to lie to her, or hide the fact that Reid gave us the money for that last fresh cycle we did at the clinic. But we were buried in debt; I couldn’t put another ten thousand on a credit card or find any other way to leverage the cost. I also couldn’t stand the thought of telling her we’d run out of money. What kind of loser would that have made me?
I just wanted to make her happy. I didn’t want her thinking about what we’d owe if and when we ever had that baby.
It’s not like Reid ever asked me for the money back, either. I think we both knew it wasn’t a loan, more like a donation. What he said to me, as he scrawled his name across the bottom of the check, was I know if the situation were reversed, Max, you’d do anything you could to help me.
When Zoe comes back to the courtroom, she doesn’t make eye contact with me. She stares straight ahead at a spot to the right of the judge, while her lawyer gets up to cross-examine Reid. “So you’re buying a baby,” Angela Moretti begins.
“No. That money was a gift.”
“But you did give your brother ten thousand dollars, which was used to create those embryos whose custody you’re now seeking, correct?”
“Yes.”
“And you have a right to these embryos because you bought them, don’t you?” Angela presses.
“I have a moral responsibility to make sure they’re raised properly,” he says.
“That’s not what I asked. You believe you have a right to these embryos because you bought them, isn’t that correct, Mr. Baxter?”
In all the time we have been talking about Reid and Liddy having these babies, Reid has never brought up that check he wrote me. He’s never said anything to make me feel like I owe him now because of what he did for me then.
Reid looks down, carefully working through his words before he speaks them. “If it weren’t for me,” he says finally, “these children wouldn’t even exist.”
When the judge decides he’s had enough for one day, I jump up before Wade can stop me and I run out of the courtroom. I have to shove past a group of Westboro folks, who call out that they are on my side.
When did this become a war?
As soon as I burst out of the courthouse, a mob of reporters surges forward. When I hear Wade’s voice at my back, my knees nearly buckle with relief. “My client has no comment,” he says, and he puts his hand on my shoulder and steers me through the walkway toward the parking lot. “Don’t you ever do that again to me,” he hisses in my ear. “You go nowhere until I tell you you can go. I am not going to let you fuck this up, Max.”
I stop walking and stretch to my full six feet. I jab a finger in his fancy-ass tailored shirt. “You,” I say, “work for me.”
But this isn’t one hundred percent true, either. Because Reid paid for Wade, too.
This makes me want to smash my fist into something, anything. Wade’s face is t
empting, but instead, I flatten my hand against his chest and give him a shove, enough to make him stumble. I head to my truck and I don’t look back.
I think I know where I’m going even before I get there. There is a spot in Newport near Ruggles Avenue where there are some rocks, and on days when the surf is firing, it’s got the most incredible break I’ve ever seen.
It’s also a place where you might get totally pounded.
My shortboard is in the back of my truck. I strip down to my underwear and get into the wet suit that I always keep in the backseat, just in case. Then I work my way down through the rocks and into the water, careful to keep from getting axed on the inside.
There aren’t any groms bobbing in the water—it’s just me, and the most beautiful curls I’ve ever seen.
I don’t know why the problems I have on land look different in the ocean. Maybe it’s the way I’m so much smaller than what’s around me. Maybe it’s knowing that, even if I get trashed, I can paddle out and do it all over again.
If you haven’t surfed, you can’t understand the pull of the sport. No matter what Pastor Clive does or says, it’s the closest I’ve ever felt to God. It’s the strangest combination of absolute serenity and mad exhilaration. There you are, in the lineup waiting until you see a wave take off. You pump your arms, paddling like crazy, until like magic the foam becomes a wing underneath you and the wave takes over. And you’re flying. You’re flying, and then, just when you think your heart is going to burst outside your skin, it’s over.
A swell rises underneath my board, and I turn to see a tube forming behind me. I pull myself upright and sneak into the shoulder end, riding the barrel as the wave shuts down around me, and then I am falling, tumbling, underwater, not sure which way is up.
I break the surface, my lungs on fire, my hair matted down, and my ears throbbing from the cold. This, I understand. This, I am good at.
Very intentionally, I stay out after sunset. I wrap myself in a blanket and sit on the edge of the rocks and watch the moon take a few turns riding the waves. My head is pounding and my shoulder aches from a nasty fall and I’ve swallowed about a gallon of salt water. I cannot even begin to describe how thirsty I am, how much I’d kill for a beer. But I also know, if I get into my truck, I’ll head right to a bar and have that beer, so instead I wait until it’s past last call at most places, and then allow myself to drive back home.
