Sing You Home: A Novel

by Jodi Picoult

  “Liddy,” I say, and she jumps at the sound of my voice. “Are you all right?”

  “You scared me, Max.”

  She’s always seemed fragile to me—sort of like the way I picture angels, gauzy and delicate and too pretty to look at for long periods of time. But right now, she looks broken. There are blue half-moons under her eyes; her lips are chapped. Her hands, when they’re not tearing the paper napkin, are shaking. “You need help getting back to bed?” I ask gently.

  “No . . . I’m fine.”

  “You want a cup of tea?” I ask. “Or I could make you some soup . . . ?”

  She shakes her head. Her waterfall of gold hair ripples.

  It just doesn’t seem right to sit down when Liddy’s in her own kitchen, and when she’s obviously come here to be by herself. But it doesn’t seem right to leave her here, either. “I could get Reid,” I suggest.

  “Let him sleep.” She sighs, and when she does the small pile of shredded paper she’s created is blown all around her, onto the floor. Liddy bends down to pick up the pieces.

  “Oh,” I say, grateful for something to do. “Let me.”

  I kneel before she can get there, but she pushes me out of the way. “Stop,” she says. “Just stop.” She covers her face with her hands. I cannot hear her, but I see her shoulders shaking. I know she’s crying.

  At a loss, I hesitantly pat her on her back. “Liddy?” I whisper.

  “Will everyone just stop being so fucking nice to me!”

  My jaw drops. In all the years I’ve known Liddy, I’ve never heard her swear, much less drop the F-bomb.

  Immediately she blushes. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I don’t know . . . I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

  “I do.” I slide into the seat across from her. “Your life. It isn’t turning out the way you figured it would.”

  Liddy stares at me for a long moment, as if she’s never really looked at me before. She covers my hand with both of hers. “Yes,” she whispers. “That’s it exactly.” Then she frowns a little. “How come you’re awake, anyway?”

  I slide my hand free. “Got thirsty,” I say, and I shrug.

  “Remember,” Pauline says, before we get out of her VW Bug, “today is all about love. We’re going to pull the rug out from beneath her because she’s going to be expecting hate and judgment, but that’s not what we’re going to give her.”

  I nod. To be honest, even getting Zoe to agree to meet with me had been more of an ordeal than I thought. It didn’t seem right to set up a time under false pretenses—to say that I had paperwork for her to sign, or a financial issue to discuss that had something to do with the divorce. Instead, with Pastor Clive standing next to me and praying for me to find the right words, I called her cell and said that it had been really nice to run into her at the grocery store. That I was pretty surprised by her news about Vanessa. And that, if she could spare a few minutes, I’d really like to just sit down and talk.

  Granted, I didn’t mention anything about Pauline being there, too.

  Which is why, when Zoe opens the door to this unfamiliar house (red Cape on a cul-de-sac, with an impressively landscaped front yard), she looks from me to Pauline and frowns. “Max,” Zoe says, “I thought you were coming alone.”

  It’s weird to see Zoe in someone else’s home, holding a mug that I bought her one Christmas that says I’M IN TREBLE. Behind her, on the floor, is a jumble of shoes—some of which I recognize and some of which I don’t. It makes my ribs feel too tight.

  “This is a friend of mine from the church,” I explain. “Pauline, this is Zoe.”

  I believe Pauline when she says she’s not homosexual anymore, but there’s something that makes me watch her shake hands with Zoe all the same. To see if there is a flicker in her eye, or if she holds on to Zoe a moment too long. There’s none of that, though.

  “Max,” Zoe asks, “what’s going on here?”

  She folds her arms, the way she used to do when a door-to-door salesman came around and she wanted to make it clear she did not have the time to listen to his spiel. I open my mouth to explain but then snap it shut without saying anything. “This is a really lovely home,” Pauline says.

  “Thanks,” Zoe replies. “It’s my girlfriend’s.”

  The word explodes into the room, but Pauline acts like she never heard it. She points to a photo on the wall behind Zoe. “Is that Block Island?”

  “I think so.” Zoe turns. “Vanessa’s parents had a summer home there when she was growing up.”

  “So did my aunt,” Pauline says. “I keep telling myself I’ll go back, and then I never do.”

  Zoe faces me. “Look, Max, you two can drop the act. I’m going to be honest with you. We have nothing to talk about. If you want to get sucked into the mindwarp of the Eternal Glory Church, that’s your prerogative. But if you and your missionary friend here came to convert me, it just isn’t going to happen.”

  “I’m not here to convert you. Whatever happened between us, you have to know I care about you. And I want to make sure you’re making the right choices.”

  Zoe’s eyes flash. “You are preaching to me about making the right choices? That’s pretty funny, Max.”

  “I’ve made mistakes,” I admit. “I make them every day. I’m not perfect by any means. But none of us are. And that’s exactly why you should listen to me when I say that the way you feel—it’s not your fault. It’s something that’s happened to you. But it’s not who you are.”

  She blinks at me for a moment, trying to puzzle out my words. The moment she understands, I can see it. “You’re talking about Vanessa. Oh, my God. You’ve taken your little anti-gay crusade right into my living room.” Panicking, I look at Pauline as Zoe throws open her arms. “Come on in, Max,” she says sarcastically. “I can’t wait to hear what you have to say about my degenerate lifestyle. After all, I spent the day with dying children at the hospital. I could use a little comic relief.”

  “Maybe we should go,” I murmur to Pauline, but she moves past me and takes a seat on the living room couch.

  “I used to be exactly like you,” she tells Zoe. “I lived with a woman and loved her and considered myself to be a homosexual. We were on vacation, eating dinner at a restaurant, and the waitress took my girlfriend’s order and then turned to me. ‘Sir,’ she said, ‘what can I get you?’ I have to tell you, I didn’t look the way I do now. I dressed like a boy, I walked like a boy. I wanted to be mistaken for a boy, so that girls would fall for me. I completely believed that I had been born this way, because feeling different from everyone else was all I could ever remember. That night I did something I had not done since I was a child—I took the Bible out of the hotel nightstand and started to read it. By pure accident, I had landed on Leviticus: Do not lie with a man as one lies with a woman; that is detestable. I wasn’t a man, but I knew that God was talking about me.”

  Zoe rolls her eyes. “I’m a little rusty on my Scripture, but I’m pretty sure that divorce isn’t allowed. And yet I didn’t show up at your doorstep after we got the final decree from the court, Max.”

  Pauline continues as if Zoe hasn’t spoken. “I started realizing I could separate the who from the do. I wasn’t gay—I was gay-identified. I reread the studies that allegedly proved I was born this way, and I found flaws and gaps big enough to drive a truck through. I had fallen for a lie. And once I realized that, I also realized that things could change.”

  “You mean . . . ,” Zoe says breathlessly, “it’s that easy? I name it and I claim it? I say I believe in God, and I’m magically saved. I say I’m not gay, and hallelujah! I must be cured. I’m sure if Vanessa walked through that door right now, I wouldn’t find her attractive at all.”

  As if Zoe has conjured her, Vanessa walks into the living room, still unbuttoning her jacket. “Did I just hear my name?” she asks. Zoe walks up to her and gives her a fast peck on the lips, a hello.

  As if it’s something they do all the time.

 
As if it doesn’t make my stomach turn.

  As if it’s perfectly natural.

  Zoe looks at Pauline. “Drat. Guess I’m not cured after all.”

  By now, Vanessa has noticed us. “I didn’t know we were having company.”

  “This is Pauline, and of course you know Max,” Zoe says. “They’re here to keep us from going to Hell.”

  “Zoe,” Vanessa says, pulling her aside, “can we talk for a minute?” She leads Zoe into the adjacent kitchen. I have to strain to listen, but I manage to catch most of what she’s saying. “I’m not going to tell you you can’t invite someone into our house, but what the hell are you thinking?”

  “That they’re insane,” Zoe says. “Seriously, Vanessa, if no one ever tells them they’re delusional, then how are they going to find out?”

  There is a little more conversation, but it’s muffled. I look at Pauline nervously. “Don’t worry,” she says, patting my arm. “Denial is normal. Christ calls on us to spread His word, even when it seems like it’s falling on deaf ears. But I always think of a talk like this as if I’m spreading mahogany stain on a natural wood floor. Even if you wipe away the color, it’s seeped in a little bit, and you can’t get rid of it. Long after we leave, Zoe will still be thinking about what we’ve said.”

  Then again, putting mahogany stain on a piece of pine only changes the way it looks on the outside. It doesn’t turn it into real mahogany. I wonder if Pauline’s ever thought about that.

  Zoe comes through the door, trailed by Vanessa. “Don’t do this,” Vanessa pleads. “If you started dating someone black, would you invite the KKK over to discuss it?”

  “Honestly, Vanessa,” Zoe says dismissively, and she turns to Pauline. “I’m sorry. You were saying?”

  Pauline folds her hands in her lap. “Well, I think we were talking about my own moment of discovery,” she says, and Vanessa snorts. “I realized I was vulnerable to same-sex attraction for several reasons. My mother was an Iowa farm girl—the kind of woman who got up at four A.M. and had already changed the world before breakfast. She believed hands were made for working and that, if you fell down and cried, you were weak. My dad traveled a lot and just wasn’t around. I was always a tomboy, and wanted to play football with my brothers more than I wanted to sit inside and play with my dolls. And of course, there was a cousin who sexually abused me.”

  “Of course,” Vanessa murmurs.

  “Well,” Pauline says, looking at her, “everyone I’ve ever met who’s gay-identified has experienced some kind of abuse.”

  I look at Zoe, uncomfortable. She hasn’t been abused. She would have told me.

  Of course, she didn’t tell me she liked women, either.

  “Let me guess,” Vanessa says. “Your parents didn’t exactly welcome you with open arms when you told them you were gay.”

  Pauline smiles. “My parents and I have the best relationship now—we’ve been through so much, my gracious . . . It wasn’t their fault I was gay-identified. It was a host of factors—from that abuse to not being secure in my own gender to feeling like women were second-class citizens. For all these reasons, I began to behave a certain way. A way that took me away from Christ. I wonder,” she asks Zoe, “why do you think you were open to pursuing a same-sex relationship? Clearly you weren’t born that way, since you were happily married—”

  “So happily married,” Vanessa points out, “that she got divorced.”

  “It’s true,” I agree. “I wasn’t there for you, Zoe, when you needed me. And I can’t ever make that up to you. But I can keep the same mistake from happening twice. I can help you meet people who understand you, who won’t judge you, and who will love you for who you are, not for what you do.”

  Zoe slides her arm through Vanessa’s. “I’ve already got that right here.”

  “You can’t—you’re not—” I find myself stumbling over the words. “You are not gay, Zoe. You’re not.”

  “Maybe that’s true,” Zoe says. “Maybe I’m not gay. Maybe this is a one-time deal. But here’s what I know: I want that one-time deal to last a lifetime. I love Vanessa. And she happens to be a woman. If that makes me a lesbian, now, so be it.”

  I start praying silently. I pray that I will not stand up and start screaming. I pray that Zoe will become as miserable as possible, as quickly as possible, so that she can see Christ standing right in front of her.

  “I’m not a fan of labels, either,” Pauline says. “Goodness, look at me now. I don’t even like to call myself ex-gay, because that suggests I was born a homosexual. No way—I’m a heterosexual, evangelical, Christian woman, that’s all. I wear skirts more than I wear slacks. I never leave the house without makeup. And if you happen to see Hugh Jackman walking down the street, could you just hang on to him until—”

  “Have you ever slept with a man?” Vanessa’s voice sounds like a gunshot.

  “No,” Pauline admits, blushing. “That would go against the core beliefs of the church, since I’m not married.”

  “How incredibly convenient.” Vanessa turns to Zoe. “Twenty bucks says Megan Fox could seduce her in the time it takes to say an Our Father.”

  Pauline won’t rise to the bait. She faces Vanessa, and her eyes are full of pity. “You can say whatever you want about me. I know where that anger’s coming from. See, I was you, once. I know what it’s like to be living the way you do, and to be looking at a woman like me and thinking I’m a total fruitcake. Believe me, I had books left on my dresser and articles slipped beneath my coffee cup on the kitchen table—my parents did everything they could to try to push me to give up my gay identity, and it only made me more certain I was absolutely right. But Vanessa, I’m not here to be that person. I’m not going to give you literature and make follow-up phone calls or try to pretend I’m your new best friend. I’m simply here to say that when you and Zoe are ready—and I do believe one day you will be—I can give you the resources you’re looking for to put Christ’s needs above your own.”

  “So, let me get this right,” Zoe says. “I don’t have to change right now. I can take a rain check . . .”

  “Absolutely,” I reply. I mean, it’s a step in the right direction, isn’t it?

  “. . . but you still think our relationship is wrong.”

  “Jesus does,” Pauline says. “If you look at Scripture and think differently, you’re reading it wrong.”

  “You know, I went to catechism for ten years,” Vanessa says. “I’m pretty sure the Bible also says polygamy’s a good idea. And that we shouldn’t eat scallops.”

  “Just because something’s written in the Bible doesn’t mean it was God’s created intent—”

  “You just said that if it’s Scripture, it’s fact!” Vanessa argues.

  Pauline raises her chin a notch. “I didn’t come here to dissect semantics. The opposite of homosexuality isn’t heterosexuality. It’s holiness. That’s why I’m here—as living proof that there’s another path. A better path.”

  “And how exactly does that jibe with turning the other cheek?”

  “I’m not judging you,” Pauline explains. “I’m just offering my biblical worldview.”

  “Well,” Vanessa says, getting to her feet. “I guess I’m blind then, because that’s far too subtle a distinction for me to see. How dare you tell me that what makes me me is wrong? How dare you say that you’re tolerant, as long as I’m just like you? How dare you suggest that I shouldn’t be allowed to get married to someone I love, or adopt a child, or that gay rights don’t qualify as civil rights because, unlike skin color or disabilities, you think that sexual orientation can be changed? But you know what? Even that argument doesn’t hold water, because you can change your religion, and religious affiliation is still protected by law. Which is the only reason I’m going to ask you politely to leave my home, instead of throwing you out on your hypocritical evangelical asses.”

  Zoe stands up, too. “Don’t let the door hit you on the way out,” she says.

  On the
way back home, it starts to rain. I listen to the windshield wipers keeping time and think about how Zoe, in the passenger seat, used to drum on the glove compartment along with the beat.

  “Can I ask you something personal?” I say, turning to Pauline.

  “Sure.”

  “Do you . . . you know . . . ever miss it?”

  Pauline glances at me. “Some people do. They struggle for years. It’s like any other addiction—they figure out that this is their drug, and they make the decision to not let that be part of their lives. If they’re lucky, they may consider themselves completely cured and have a true identity change. But even if they aren’t that lucky, they still get up in the morning and pray to God to get through one more day without acting on those attractions.”

  I realize that she did not really answer my question.

  “Christians have been called upon to struggle for ages,” Pauline says. “This isn’t any different.”

  Once, Zoe and I went to a wedding of one of her clients. It was a Jewish wedding, and it was really beautiful—with trappings and traditions I had never seen before. The bride and groom stood under a canopy, and the prayers were in an unfamiliar language. At the end, the rabbi had the groom stomp on a wineglass wrapped in a napkin. May your marriage last as long as it would take to put these pieces back together, he said. Afterward, when everyone was congratulating the couple, I sneaked underneath the canopy and took a tiny shard of glass from the napkin where it still lay on the grass. I threw it into the ocean on the way home, so that, no matter what, that glass could never be reconstructed, so the couple would stay together forever.

  When Zoe asked what I was doing and I told her, she said she thought she loved me more in that moment than she ever had before.

  My heart, it kind of feels like that wineglass these days. Like something that’s supposed to be whole but—thanks to some idiot who thought he knew better—doesn’t stand a freaking chance.