Sing You Home

courtroom and rule on Wade Preston’s motion to appoint a guardian ad litem.

“I can’t help it,” I mutter.

Vanessa is sitting directly behind our table. My mother, beside her, pipes up. “Anxiety’s like a rocking chair. It gives you something to do, but it doesn’t get you very far.”

Vanessa looks at her. “Who said that?”

“I just did.”

“But were you quoting anyone?”

“Myself,” she says proudly.

“I’m going to tell it to one of my AP students. He actually had his car detailed to read HARVARD OR BUST.”

I am distracted by the arrival of Max and his attorneys. Wade Preston walks down the aisle of the courtroom first, followed by Ben Benjamin, and then Reid. A few steps behind is Max, wearing another new suit that his brother must have purchased for him. His hair is too long, curling over his ears. I used to make fun of him when it got like that, used to say he was rocking a Carol Brady look.

If there’s a physical component to falling in love-the butterflies in your stomach, the roller coaster of your soul- then there’s an equal physical component to falling out of love. It feels like your lungs are sieves, so you can’t get enough air. Your insides freeze solid. Your heart becomes a tiny, bitter pearl, a chemical reaction to one irritating grain of truth.

The last person in the entourage is Liddy. She’s channeling Jackie Kennedy today. “Is she OCD?” Vanessa whispers. “Or are the gloves a fashion statement?”

Before I can respond, a harried paralegal rushes down the aisle with a hand truck and begins to stack reference books in front of Wade Preston, just like the other day. Even if it’s all for show, it’s working. I’m totally intimidated.

“Hey, Zoe,” Angela says, not looking up from the notes she’s writing down. “Did you know that the postal service almost put Wade Preston’s face on a stamp? But they gave up when people couldn’t figure out which side to spit on.”

In a flurry of black robes, Judge O’Neill enters. “You know, Mr. Preston, you don’t earn rewards mileage for coming to court more often.” He flips through the motion before him. “Am I misreading this, Counselor, or are you asking for a guardian ad litem to be appointed for a child that does not and may never exist?”

“Your Honor,” Preston says, getting to his feet, “the important thing is that we’re talking about a child. You even just said so, yourself. And once this pre-born child comes into being, the outcome of your decision is going to determine where he or she is raised. To that end, I think you should have some input from a qualified professional who can interview the potential families and prospective parents and give you the tools to make that decision.”

The judge peers over his glasses at Angela. “Ms. Moretti, something tells me you might have a different point of view.”

“Your Honor, a guardian ad litem’s responsibilities include interviewing the child at the center of the disagreement. How do you interview an embryo?”

Wade Preston shakes his head. “No one’s suggesting that the GAL talk to a petri dish, Judge. But we feel that talking to the potential parents will give a good indication of which lifestyle might be more fitting for a child.”

“Straw,” I whisper.

Distracted, Angela leans closer to me. “What?”

I shake my head, silent. The embryos are kept in straws, not petri dishes. If Preston had done his homework, he would have known that. But this isn’t about being thorough, or accurate, for him. It’s about being the ringmaster of a circus.

“With all due respect, Your Honor, the law in Rhode Island is clear,” Angela counters. “When we discuss what’s in the best interests of children during a custody battle, we are talking about children that are already alive. What Mr. Preston is trying to do is elevate the status of frozen embryos to something they’re not in this state-namely, humans.”

The judge turns to Wade Preston. “You raise an interesting point, Mr. Preston. I’m not sure I wouldn’t appreciate exploring that concept further, but Ms. Moretti is right on the law. The appointment of a guardian ad litem presumes the existence of a minor child, so I am going to have to deny your motion. However, as concerns this court, it’s in our best interests to protect innocent victims. To that end, I will hear from all the witnesses and take on the role of a guardian ad litem myself.” He glances up. “Are we ready to set a date for trial?”

“Your Honor,” Angela says, “my client is forty-one years old, her spouse is nearly thirty-five. The embryos have been cryo-preserved for over a year now. We’d like this resolved as soon as possible to ensure the best chances for a viable pregnancy.”

“It seems that Ms. Moretti and I actually agree for once,” Wade Preston adds. “Although the reason we want this brought to trial quickly is because these children deserve to be put into a loving, traditional Christian home as soon as possible.”

“There’s a third reason for this to be scheduled in a timely fashion,” Judge O’Neill says. “I’m retiring at the end of June, and I damn well don’t intend to leave this mess for someone else to clean up. We’ll set the trial date for fifteen days from now. I trust both sides will be fully prepared?”

After the judge leaves for chambers, I turn to Angela. “That’s good, right? We won the motion?”

But she is less enthusiastic than I would have expected. “Technically,” she admits. “But I don’t like what he said about ‘innocent victims.’ Feels slanted to me.”

We stop speaking as Wade Preston approaches and hands a piece of paper to Angela. “Your witness list,” she says, looking it over. “Aren’t you proactive?”

He grins, like a shark. “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet, sugar,” he says.

On Friday, Lucy is fifteen minutes late for our session. I decide to give her the benefit of the doubt, since we have been moved to the photography studio on the third floor-a room that I didn’t even know existed. “Hi,” I say, when she walks in. “You had trouble finding it, too?”

Lucy doesn’t answer. She sits down at a desk, takes out a book, and buries her nose in it.

“Okay, you’re still mad at me. That’s coming through loud and clear. So let’s talk about it.” I lean forward, my hands clasped between my knees. “It’s perfectly normal for a client to misinterpret a relationship with her therapist-Freud even talked about it being a key to finding out something from your past that’s still upsetting to you. So maybe we can look constructively at why you want me to be your friend. What does that say about who you are, and what you need right now?”

Stone-faced, she flips a page.

The book is a collection of short stories by Anton Chekhov. “You’re taking Russian lit,” I surmise. “Impressive.”

Lucy ignores me.

“I never took Russian lit. Too much of a wimp. I have enough trouble understanding all that stuff when it’s in English.” I reach for my guitar and pluck out a Slavic, minor run of notes. “If I were going to play Russian literature, I think it would sound like this,” I muse. “Except I really need a violin.”

Lucy slams the book shut, shoots me a look of death, and puts her head down on the desk.

I pull my chair closer to her. “Maybe you don’t want to tell me what’s on your mind. Maybe you’d like to play it, instead.”

No response.

I reach for my djembe and put it between my knees, tilted so that she can drum on it. “Are you this angry,” I ask, striking it lightly, “or this angry?” I smack it, hard, with my palm.

Lucy continues facing in the opposite direction. I begin to play a beat, thump-thump-thump- THUMP, thump-thump-thump-THUMP.

Eventually, I stop. “If you don’t want to talk, maybe we’ll just listen today.”

I set my iPod on the portable speaker system and begin to play some of the music that Lucy has reacted to before-either positively or negatively. At this point, I just want to get a rise out of her. I think I’ve finally cracked her shell when she sits up, twists in her chair, and digs in her backpack. A moment later, she comes up with a ratty, crushed tissue.

Lucy tears off two tiny scraps of the tissue. She balls them up and sticks them in her ears.