Sing You Home

“Well, sure,” my mother says, coming to sit beside me on the bed. “But I think he’d be pretty proud of the outcome all the same.”

After Angela left, I’d stopped off at my house. I’d gotten on the Internet and downloaded the podcast of Joe Hoffman’s radio program, where I listened to him and Wade Preston rattle off statistics: children raised by homosexual parents were more likely to try a homosexual relationship themselves; children of homosexual parents were embarrassed to let their friends find out about their home lives; lesbian mothers feminized their sons and masculinized their daughters.

“My lawsuit was on Joe Hoffman’s radio show,” I say.

“I know,” my mother says. “I heard it.”

“You listen to him?”

“Religiously… pun intended. I tune in when I’m on the treadmill. I’ve found that, when I’m angry, I walk faster.” She laughs. “I save Rush for my abdominal crunches.”

“But what if he has a point? What if we have a boy? I don’t know anything about raising one. I don’t know about dinosaurs or construction equipment or how to play catch…”

“Honey, babies don’t come with instruction booklets. You’d learn the same way we all do-you’d read up on dinosaurs; you’d Google backhoes and skidders. And you don’t need a penis to go buy a baseball glove.” My mother shakes her head. “Don’t you dare let anyone tell you what you can and cannot be, Zoe.”

“You have to admit, things would have been easier if Dad was here,” I say.

“Yes. I actually agree with Wade Preston in one respect: every child should be raised by a married couple.” She smiles broadly. “That’s why same-sex marriage should be legal.”

“When did you become such a gay activist?”

“I’m not. I’m a Zoe activist. If you’d told me you were vegan, I can’t say I’d stop eating meat, but I’d fight for your right to not eat it. If you’d told me you were becoming a nun, I can’t promise you I’d convert, but I’d read the Bible so I could talk to you about it. But you’re gay, so instead I know that the American Psychological Association says children raised by gay parents describe themselves as straight in the same proportion as those raised in heterosexual households. I know there’s no scientific basis for saying gay people are any less capable than straight parents. As a matter of fact, there are certain bonuses that come with being raised by two mommies or two daddies: compassion, for one. Plus, girls play and dress in ways that break gender stereotypes, and boys tend to be more affectionate, more nurturing, and less promiscuous. And probably because they’ve dealt with questions all their lives, kids raised by gay parents are better at adjusting in general.”

My jaw drops. “Where did you learn all that?”

“On the Internet. Because when I’m not listening to Joe Hoffman, I’m researching what I’m going to say when I finally back Wade Preston into a corner.”

No matter what Joe Hoffman and Wade Preston say, it’s not gender that makes a family; it’s love. You don’t need a mother and a father; you don’t necessarily even need two parents. You just need someone who’s got your back.

I imagine my mother going after Wade Preston, and I smile. “I hope I’m around to watch that.”

My mother squeezes my hand. She looks up at the stars on the ceiling. “Where else would you be?” she asks.

I lean over Lucy from behind and place the guitar in her arms. “Cradle it like a baby,” I say, “with your left hand supporting the neck.”

“Like this?” She turns in her seat, so that she is looking up at me.

“Let’s hope when you babysit you don’t strangle the kids quite like that…”

She lets up on her choke hold on the neck of the guitar. “Oh.”

“Now put your left index finger on the fifth string, second fret. Put your left middle finger on the fourth string, second fret.”

“My fingers are getting all tangled-”

“Playing the guitar’s like Twister for your hands. Take your pick between your right thumb and forefinger. Press down on the strings with your left hand, and with your right, gently drag that pick over the sound hole.”

A chord fills the small confines of the nurse’s office, the space we are occupying for our session today. Lucy looks up, glowing. “I did it!”

“That’s an E minor. It’s the first chord I learned, too.” I watch her play it a few more times. “You’ve got a really good sense of music,” I say.

Lucy bends over my guitar. “Must be genetic. My family’s really big on making a ‘joyful noise.’”

I forget, most of the time, that Lucy’s family attends Max’s church. Vanessa had told me months ago, when Lucy and I started working together. Most likely, they know Max and Wade Preston. They just haven’t done the math yet to realize their precious daughter is spending time with the Devil Incarnate.

“Can I play a song?” Lucy asks, excited.

“Well, with one more chord you can learn ‘A Horse with No Name.’” I take the guitar from her and settle it in my lap, then play the E minor, followed by a D add6 add9.

“Wait,” Lucy says. She covers my hand with her own, so that her fingers match the places where mine sit on the guitar. Then she lifts my hand off the neck of the instrument, and spins my wedding band. “That’s really pretty,” Lucy says.

“Thanks.”

“I never noticed it before. Is it your wedding ring?”

I wrap my arms around the guitar. Why is a question that should be so simple to answer not simple at all? “We’re not here to talk about me.”

“But I don’t know anything about you. I don’t know if you’re married or if you’ve got kids or if you’re a serial killer…”

When she says the word kids, my stomach does a flip. “I’m not a serial killer.”

“Well, that’s a comfort.”

“Look, Lucy. I don’t want to waste our time together by-”

“It’s not wasting time if I’m the one who asks, is it?”

This much I know about Lucy: she is unstoppable. Once she gets an idea in her head, she won’t let go. It’s why she picks up so quickly on any musical challenge I toss her, from lyric analysis to learning how to play an instrument. I’ve often thought that this was why she was so disconnected from the world when we first met-not because she didn’t care but because she cared too much; whenever she engaged, it was bound to exhaust her.

This I also know about Lucy: Although I don’t think she’s particularly conservative, her family is. And in this case, what she doesn’t know can’t hurt her. If she accidentally reveals to her mother that I’m married to Vanessa, I have no doubt our therapy sessions will come to a grinding halt. I couldn’t stand knowing that my own situation in some way negatively affected hers.

“I don’t understand why this is such a state secret,” she says.

I shrug. “You wouldn’t ask the school psychologist about her personal life, would you?”

“The school psychologist isn’t my friend.”

“I’m not your friend,” I correct. “I’m your music therapist.”

Immediately, she pulls away from me. Her eyes shutter.

“Lucy, you don’t understand-”

“Oh, believe me, I understand,” she says. “I’m your fucking dissertation. Your little Frankenstein experiment. You walk out of here and go home and you don’t give a shit about me. I’m just business, to you. It’s okay. I totally get it.”

I sigh. “I know it feels hurtful to you, but my job, Lucy, is to talk about you. To focus on you. Of course I care about you, and of course I think about you when we’re not meeting. But ultimately I need you to see me as your music therapist, not your buddy.”

Lucy pivots her seat, staring blankly out the window. For the next forty minutes, she doesn’t react when I play, sing, or ask her what she wants to listen to on my iPod. When the bell finally rings, she bolts like a mustang who’s chewed through her tethers. She’s halfway out the door when I tell her I will see her Friday, but I am not sure she hears me at all.

“Stop fidgeting,” Vanessa whispers as I sit beside Angela Moretti, waiting for the judge to walk into the