Sing You Home

this: Max walked away from my daughter.” She turns to me. “Vanessa,” she says, “won’t let go.”

After her testimony, Dara sits down in the seat I’ve saved beside me. She grips my hand. “How did I do?” she whispers.

“You were a pro,” I tell her, and it’s true. Wade Preston had nothing of merit to use during his cross- examination. It felt like he was spinning his wheels, grasping at straws.

“I practiced. I was up all night aligning my chakras.”

“And it shows,” I reply, although I have no idea what she’s talking about. I look at Dara-her magnetic bracelet, her medicine-bag pouch necklace, her healing crystals. Sometimes I wonder how Zoe grew up the way she did.

Then again, you could say the same thing about me.

“I wish my mom could have met you,” I whisper back to her, when what I really mean is, I wish my mother had had a heart even half as big as yours.

Dr. Anne Fourchette, the director of the fertility clinic, arrives with a milk crate full of files-Zoe’s and Max’s medical records, which have been copied for the lawyers and are handed out by the clerk of the court. Her silver hair brushes the collar of her black suit, and a pair of zebra-striped reading glasses hangs from a chain around her neck. “I’ve known the Baxters since 2005,” she says. “They began trying to have a baby back then.”

“Did your clinic assist them with that?” Angela asks.

“Yes,” Dr. Fourchette says, “we provided IVF services.”

“Can you describe the process for a couple that comes in for IVF treatments?”

“We begin by doing a medical workup-lots of testing to determine the causes for the infertility. Based on those causes, we chart a course of treatment. In the Baxters’ case, both Max and Zoe had fertility issues. For this reason we had to inject Max’s sperm individually into Zoe’s eggs. For her part, Zoe was on hormone therapy for weeks that allowed her to produce multiple eggs, which were harvested at a very precise time and fertilized with Max’s sperm. For example, during their first cycle, Zoe produced fifteen eggs, eight were successfully fertilized, and of those eight that were fertilized, two looked good enough to be transferred and another three looked good enough to be frozen for a future cycle.”

“What do you mean, ‘looked good enough’?”

“Some embryos just look a little more uniform, more regular than others.”

“Maybe someone’s playing them beautiful music or whispering words of gratitude,” Preston mutters. I glance over, but he’s poking through the medical file.

“Our policy is to only transfer two embryos per patient, three if she’s older, because we don’t want her winding up with multiples like the Octomom. If there are additional embryos that look good enough for future use, we freeze them.”

“What do you do with the ones that aren’t ‘good’?”

“They are discarded,” the doctor says.

“How?” Angela asks.

“Since they are medical waste, they’re incinerated.”

“What happened during Zoe’s last fresh cycle?”

Dr. Fourchette slides her glasses onto her nose. “She became pregnant at forty and carried the fetus to twenty-eight weeks, at which point it was delivered stillborn.”

“Were there embryos remaining after that procedure?”

“Yes, three. They were frozen.”

“Where are those embryos now?”

“They’re at my clinic,” the doctor says.

“Are they viable?”

“We won’t know until we thaw them,” she replies. “They could be.”

“Following that last procedure,” Angela asks, “when was the last time you saw Zoe?”

“She came to the clinic asking to use the embryos. I explained that, according to our policy, we could not release the embryos to her without her ex-husband’s signed consent.”

“Thank you, nothing further,” Angela says.

Wade Preston taps his finger on the plaintiff’s table, considering the doctor before he goes in for the kill. “Dr. Fourchette,” he says, “you say the embryos that aren’t ‘good’ are discarded. Incinerated?”

“That’s correct.”

“Incinerated means ‘burned,’ does it not?”

“Yes.”

“Which is in fact,” he says, standing, “what we sometimes do with people who die. Cremate them. Right?”

“True, but these embryos are not people.”

“And yet they’re treated in the same manner as a deceased person. You don’t flush them down the toilet-you reduce them to ash.”

“It’s important to note that sixty-five percent of embryos actually are abnormal and die on their own,” the doctor says. “And that both parties in this lawsuit actually signed a contract with the clinic agreeing to the incineration of embryos that were not appropriate to be transferred or frozen, among other things.”

At the word contract, Wade Preston turns. Angela, in front of me, snaps erect. And Judge O’Neill leans toward Dr. Fourchette. “Excuse me? There’s a contract?”

He asks to see it, and Dr. Fourchette hands over the document. The judge scans it for a few moments in silence. “According to this contract, in the event of divorce of these parties, any embryos that remain shall be destroyed by the clinic. Dr. Fourchette, why was this contract not carried out?”

“The clinic was unaware of the Baxters’ divorce,” the doctor says. “By the time we learned of it, it was clear that a lawsuit was about to be filed.”

The judge glances up. “Well. This makes my job a lot easier.”

“No,” Zoe breathes, at the same time that both Angela and Wade Preston leap up, shouting their objections.

“Your Honor, we need a recess-” Angela says.

“A chambers conference,” Preston interrupts.

Judge O’Neill shakes his head. “I do believe enough of my time has been wasted. Counsel, approach the bench.”

Zoe turns around, frantic. “He wouldn’t do that, would he? I can’t lose this baby to a technicality.”

“Ssh,” I say, but I’m not just trying to comfort her. The lawyers are in a heated discussion, and I’m close enough to hear. “Why did counsel not know about this contract?” the judge demands.

“My client never said anything about it, Your Honor,” Angela replies.

“Nor did mine. We didn’t even know this contract existed,” Preston adds.

“And yet both of your clients initialed this,” the judge points out. “I can’t just ignore the fact that a contract exists.”

“Circumstances have changed since the time it was signed,” Preston says.

“And there’s case law-”

The judge holds up his hand. “You have one day. Tomorrow at nine A.M. we’ll reconvene in a hearing about the enforceability of the contract.”

Angela reels back. “What?”

“We need more time,” Preston insists.

“You know what I need?” the judge storms. “I need attorneys who actually do their homework before walking into my courtroom. I need counselors who know basic contract law, something a 1L student would have easily flagged in this case. What I do not need are two whining, contentious attorneys who could be using their time to better advantage!” The clerk scrambles forward to make his announcement as Judge O’Neill strides off the bench, so that we all rise, too, like some magnetic aftereffect of his anger.

Angela finds a small conference room on the upper level of the courthouse and Zoe, Dara, and I follow her into it. “Talk,” she demands, sitting across from Zoe, who is a mess.

“He can’t really order the clinic to destroy the embryos if we both want them, right?” Zoe sobs.

“A contract’s a contract,” Angela says flatly.