Sing You Home: A Novel Read online

  “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.