Sing You Home: A Novel

by Jodi Picoult

  But she had been sobbing, I want to say.

  It’s not what you think.

  I had played Barney’s theme song on the ukulele. I’d told Lucy that I knew the truth, that she was shutting me out so that I couldn’t shut her out. I’d told her I wouldn’t leave her. Ever.

  “The girl alleges,” Angela says, “that you told her you’re gay.”

  “Give me a break.” Vanessa shakes her head. “After all this media coverage, who doesn’t know? Whatever this is, whatever he’s got on Zoe—it’s all fabricated.”

  “I did tell her I was gay,” I confess. “The last time I saw her. It’s the last thing you’re ever supposed to do as a music therapist—bring yourself into the therapy—but she was so upset over what Pastor Clive was saying about homosexuality. She was talking about suicide again, and . . . I don’t know. I just had the sense that maybe she was questioning her own sexuality, and that it wasn’t something her family would really be supportive about. That maybe it would help her to realize that someone she respected—someone like me—could be a good person and still be a lesbian. I wanted to give her something to hang her hat on, you know, instead of the sermons she probably hears at church.”

  “She goes to Clive Lincoln’s church?” Angela asks.

  “Yes,” Vanessa says.

  “Well. That solves the mystery of how Pastor Clive got this scoop.”

  “So the accusation isn’t public yet?” Vanessa asks.

  “No,” Angela says. “And surprise, surprise. Wade says that he might be able to persuade the family to keep it private. Someone in Lucy’s family must have gone to the pastor for counseling. Maybe even brought Lucy there herself.”

  It’s not a boy, Lucy had said.

  It was a girl.

  Could it have been me? Had her attachment to me gone further than friendship? Could she have said something, sung something, written something that was misinterpreted by her parents?

  Or had Lucy done nothing at all, except finally gotten the courage to come out . . . only to have her parents twist it into a lie that was easier for them to accept?

  “What’s the mother like?” Angela asks.

  Vanessa glances up. “Meek. Does what her husband says. I’ve never met him.”

  “Has Lucy got siblings?”

  “Three younger ones coming up through the middle school,” Vanessa says. “It’s a second marriage, from what I understand. Lucy’s biological father died when she was a baby.”

  I turn to her. “You believe me, don’t you? You know I’d never do what she’s saying I did?”

  “I believe you,” Angela says. “Maybe even the judge will believe you. But by that time, Zoe, you’ll have been dragged through the coals in a courtroom. The allegation will be all over the newspapers. And even if the case comes out in our favor, the fact that you were accused might be what sticks in everyone’s minds.”

  I get up from my seat. “I need to talk to Lucy. If I could just—”

  “I don’t want you anywhere near her,” Angela yells. “Do you know what a field day Wade will have with that?”

  Stunned into silence, I fall back into my chair.

  “You have a lot to think about, Zoe,” she says. “Because you might get these embryos—but it could cost you your career.”

  Angela requests a day to digest the new information before the trial resumes. My mother and Vanessa and I sneak down to the parking lot via the custodian’s elevator again, but this time, instead of feeling like we’ve outsmarted the other side, it only feels like we’re hiding.

  “Take a walk with me,” my mother says, as soon as we are outside.

  We are in the rear of the courthouse near the loading dock. I tell Vanessa I’ll meet her at the car, and then I follow my mother to a big green Dumpster. Two women wearing summer dresses that make them look like sausages stuffed into casings are smoking cigarettes. “Dwayne’s an ass,” one of them says. “When he comes back, I hope you’ll tell him to go jump in a lake.”

  “Excuse me,” my mother says. “We need a little privacy.”

  The women look at her as if she’s crazy, but they leave us alone. “Do you remember when I found out I was making four thousand dollars less than Hudd Sloane when we were both working at the travel agency?”

  “Vaguely,” I say. I was about twelve at the time. I remember my mother saying a strike was a strike, even if your union was a party of one.

  “And do you remember what I did when your kindergarten class read If I Ran the Circus and I fought against the message it sent about animal cruelty?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you know I’m the first one out there with a sign when it comes to campaigning politically for any female candidate,” she adds.

  “You are.”

  “I’m telling you this because I want you to remember that I’m a fighter.”

  I look at her. “You think I should take Wade Preston on.”

  My mother shakes her head. “Actually, Zoe, I think you need to let this go.”

  I just stare at her. “So you’re advocating letting the family of a teenage girl spread lies about me. Doing nothing.”

  “No, I’m thinking of you and what’s best for you. People in a small town—and Rhode Island functions as one, honey—they remember things. Not accurately, either. I remember the mother of a kid in your graduating class who somehow had convinced herself your father died of a heart attack while in bed with his mistress.”

  “Daddy had a mistress?” I say, shocked.

  “No. That’s the point. But this woman was so sure of it because that’s how she recalled it. And even if you were absolutely right to hug that sad little girl when she was crying; even if you are the only person in her life who showed her any kindness for who she truly is—that’s not what people in the community will remember. Years from now, you’ll still be the one who was accused of getting too close to one of your students.” My mother hugs me. “Give Max the embryos. And move on. You’ll still have a beautiful partner who can have kids. You’ll have your music.”

  I feel a lone tear streak down my face as I turn away from her. “I don’t know what to do.”

  She smiles sadly. “You can’t lose if you’re the one who walks away from the game before it’s over.”

  It is, I realize, exactly what Lucy would say.

  Instead of driving home, Vanessa drives to the Point Judith Lighthouse. We take off our shoes and walk across the grassy carpet that borders the structure. We take a picture for a vacationing elderly couple. We shield our eyes from the sun and try to see if the ferry is coming from or going to Block Island. In the adjacent park, we sit on a bench and hold hands, even though one woman who sees us frowns and abruptly turns the other way.

  “I have to tell you something,” Vanessa finally says.

  “That we can adopt?” I guess.

  She tilts her head, as if that’s not at all what she was thinking about. “I lied on the witness stand.”

  “I know. I was there, remember?”

  “Not about the suicide attempt. I mean, I lied about that, too. But I lied about the reason I was in the psychiatric hospital.” She looks at me. “I said that a relationship had ended. It’s a half-truth, really, I guess. It was a relationship, but it was a professional one.”

  “I don’t understand . . .”

  “I was a counselor at a private school in Maine,” Vanessa says. “And I happened to be the field hockey coach, too. The team won a huge game against a rival academy, so I had the kids over for dinner, to celebrate. I was renting a house from a teacher who was with his family in Italy, on sabbatical. It was still so new I didn’t know where to find things, like dishwasher detergent and extra paper towels. Anyway, a few girls wandered downstairs to the basement, and they found a wine cellar. Apparently, one of them cracked open a bottle and drank, and a teammate who was suffering an attack of conscience told the headmaster. Even though I told him I had no idea the girls were doing that downstairs—even though I di
dn’t know there was a wine cellar in the house, for God’s sake—he gave me a choice. I could be fired quite publicly, or I could very quietly resign.” She looks up at me. “So that’s what I did. And I hated every minute of it. Of being punished for something that wasn’t my fault, at best, and was an accident, at worst. That’s why I got so depressed. It took nearly killing myself to realize that I couldn’t live in that moment anymore. I couldn’t change it; I couldn’t change what had been said by those girls, and I certainly couldn’t spend the rest of my life wondering when it was going to come back to haunt me.” She tucks my hair behind my ear. “Don’t let them take your career away from you. If that means you want to fight back, then fight back. But if it means you trade those embryos for Wade Preston’s silence—then know I understand.” She smiles. “You and me, we’re already a family. With or without children.”

  I look up at the lighthouse. There is a plaque here that says it was built for the first time in 1810. That, after a hurricane in 1815, it was built again, bigger and stronger, this time of stone. In spite of the lighthouse, wrecks continued with great regularity.

  Safety is relative. You can be so close to shore that you can practically feel it under your feet, when you suddenly find yourself breaking apart on the rocks.

  After I lost my baby at twenty-eight weeks, after I went home from the hospital into a house with no music, I received a phone call.

  Is this Mrs. Baxter? a woman asked.

  I barely knew who I was anymore, but I said yes.

  Daniel’s here. Your son is waiting for you.

  The first time, I thought it was a cruel joke. I threw the receiver across the room, and when the phone immediately rang again, I disconnected it. Max found it that way when he came home from work, and I shrugged. I told him I didn’t know how that had happened.

  The next day there was another phone call.

  Mrs. Baxter, please, Daniel’s waiting.

  Was it really that easy? Could I move into an alternate universe just by completing the one act I hadn’t: finding my son, picking up where we had left off? I asked for an address, and that afternoon, I got dressed for the first time since I’d been home. I found my car keys and my purse. I drove.

  I marveled at the white pillars, the grand staircase leading up to the building. I parked in the circular drive, black as a tongue, and slowly made my way inside.

  “You must be Mrs. Baxter,” the woman at the reception desk said.

  “Daniel,” I said. My son’s name, in my mouth, was as smooth and round as a sweet. A Life Saver. “I’m here for Daniel.”

  She disappeared into the back room and returned a moment later with a small cardboard box. “Here he is,” she says. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  It was no bigger than a watch box, and I could not reach for it. I thought if I touched it, I might faint.

  But then she was offering it to me and I saw my hands folding around it. I heard my voice saying Thank you. As if this was what I’d wanted all along.

  I have not been to Reid and Liddy’s house in a few years. There is a profusion of color in the front yard—mostly roses, Max’s handiwork. There is a new gazebo on the lawn, painted white, with heliotrope crawling up its side as stealthily as a jewel thief. Max’s battered truck is parked behind a gold Lexus.

  When I ring the doorbell, Liddy answers. She stares at me, speechless.

  She has tiny lines around her eyes and her mouth, now. She looks tired.

  I want to ask her, Are you happy?

  Do you know what you’re getting into?

  But instead, I just say, “Can I speak to Max?”

  She nods, and a moment later, there he is. He’s wearing the same shirt he had on in court, but there is no tie. And he’s wearing jeans.

  It makes this easier. It makes me able to pretend I am talking to the old Max.

  “Do you want to come inside?”

  In the back of the foyer, I can see Reid and Liddy hovering. The last thing I want to do is go into that house. “Maybe we could go over there?”

  I nod to the gazebo, and he steps onto the front porch. He is barefoot but follows me to the wooden structure. I sit down on the steps. “I didn’t do it,” I say.

  Max’s shoulder is touching mine. I can feel the heat of his skin through his dress shirt. “I know.”

  I wipe at my eyes. “First I lost my son. Then I lost you. Now I stand to lose the embryos, and most likely my career.” I shake my head. “There won’t be anything left.”

  “Zoe—”

  “Take them,” I say. “Take the embryos. Just . . . promise me that it ends, here. That you’ll keep your lawyers from bringing Lucy into court.”

  He bows his head. I don’t know if he’s praying, or crying, or both. “You have my word,” Max says.

  “Okay.” I rub my hands over my knees and stand up. “Okay,” I repeat, and I walk briskly back to my car, even though I hear Max calling my name.

  I ignore him. I get into the car and back out of the driveway and park near the mailbox. Even though I can’t see them from here, I imagine Max going into the foyer and telling Reid and Liddy. I picture them embracing.

  All the stars fall out of the sky and rain on the roof of my car. It feels like a sword between my ribs, the loss of these children I will never know.

  Vanessa is waiting for me, but I don’t drive home right away. Instead I take aimless left and right turns until I find myself in a field somewhere on the back side of T. F. Green Airport, beyond where the courier planes sleep at night. I lie on the hood of the car in the dark with my back against the sloped windshield and stare up as the jets scream down to the runway, so close it seems I can touch their bellies. The noise is absolutely deafening; I can’t hear myself think or cry, which is perfect.

  So it makes no sense that I go into the trunk for my guitar. It’s the same one I used at the school to teach Lucy. I was going to let her borrow it, for a while.

  I wonder what she said. If this allegation was the distance between who she was and who her parents needed her to be. If I had been completely off the mark and had interpreted her comments the wrong way. Maybe she wasn’t questioning her sexuality; maybe that was simply on my mind, because of the trial, and I painted my own thoughts over the blank canvas that Lucy actually was.

  I take the guitar out of its case and crawl back onto the hood of the car. My fingers settle over the neck, stroking frets as lazily as they’d move across an old lover, and my right hand goes to strum. But there is something bright, fluttering, caught between the strings; I fish it out carefully so that it won’t fall into the sound hole.

  It is the chord progression for “A Horse with No Name.” In my handwriting. I’d given it to Lucy the day we were learning the song.

  But on the back, in green marker, five parallel lines have been drawn. A musical staff. On the top bar, two slanted lines break through, like train tracks.

  I do not know when Lucy left me this message, but that’s what it is. Of all the musical symbols she might have drawn, Lucy’s chosen a caesura.

  It’s a break in the music.

  A brief, silent pause when time isn’t counted.

  And at some point, when the conductor decides, the tune resumes.

  MAX

  In court the next morning, Angela Moretti’s face is pinched shut as tight as a lobster claw. “My client is withdrawing her objection, Your Honor,” she says. “We ask that the embryos not be destroyed per the contract and that they be released to Max Baxter’s custody.”

  There is clapping in the courtroom. Ben grins at me. I feel like throwing up.

  I’ve felt this way since last night. It started when Zoe bolted out of the driveway. And then when I walked back into the house, blinking because the lights were so suddenly bright, and told Liddy and Reid that Zoe was going to give in.

  Reid lifted Liddy in his arms and danced her around the foyer. “Do you know what this means?” he asked, grinning. “Do you?”

  And sudd
enly I did. It meant that I would have to sit by quietly and watch Liddy getting bigger and bigger with my baby inside her. I’d have to hang out in the waiting room while Reid took part in the delivery. I’d have to watch Reid and Liddy fall in love with their baby, while I was the third wheel.

  But she looked so goddamned happy. She wasn’t pregnant, and there was already a glow to her cheeks and a shine to her hair. “This calls for something special,” Reid said, and he left me standing alone with her.

  I took a step forward, and then another. “Is this really what you want?” I whispered. When Reid came back, we moved apart. “Congratulations, Sis,” I said, and I kissed her cheek.

  He was holding an open bottle of champagne, still foaming, and two glasses. In his pocket he’d tucked a bottle of root beer. Clearly, that was for me. “Drink up,” he said to Liddy. “From here on in, it’s going to be soy shakes and folic acid.” He handed me my root beer and said, “I say we toast. To the beautiful mother to be!”

  I drank to her. How couldn’t I?

  “To Wade!” Reid said, hoisting his glass again. “To Lucy!”

  Confused, I glanced at him. “Who’s Lucy?”

  “Clive Lincoln’s stepdaughter,” Reid said. “Zoe sure picked the wrong girl to mess with.” He drained his champagne, but I didn’t drink. Instead I set my bottle down on the bottom step of the staircase and walked out the front door.

  “I need some air,” I said.

  “Let me go with you—” Liddy took a step toward me, but I held up my hand. I walked blindly to the gazebo, where I’d been sitting with Zoe just a few minutes before.

  I had met Pastor Clive’s wife a hundred times. And his three girls, who stood up there with her on the stage and sang. None of them was anywhere near old enough to be in high school. And none of them, I knew, was named Lucy.

  But there was another child. A black sheep, who suffered through services and never stayed for fellowship. If she was his stepdaughter, she could have had a different last name from Clive. It was entirely possible Zoe would never have made the connection.