Sing You Home Read online

  "She goes to Clive Lincoln's church?" Angela asks.

  "Yes," Vanessa says.

  "Well. That solves the mystery of how Pastor Clive got this scoop."

  "So the accusation isn't public yet?" Vanessa asks.

  "No," Angela says. "And surprise, surprise. Wade says that he might be able to persuade the family to keep it private. Someone in Lucy's family must have gone to the pastor for counseling. Maybe even brought Lucy there herself."

  It's not a boy, Lucy had said.

  It was a girl.

  Could it have been me? Had her attachment to me gone further than friendship? Could she have said something, sung something, written something that was misinterpreted by her parents?

  Or had Lucy done nothing at all, except finally gotten the courage to come out . . . only to have her parents twist it into a lie that was easier for them to accept?

  "What's the mother like?" Angela asks.

  Vanessa glances up. "Meek. Does what her husband says. I've never met him."

  "Has Lucy got siblings?"

  "Three younger ones coming up through the middle school," Vanessa says. "It's a second marriage, from what I understand. Lucy's biological father died when she was a baby."

  I turn to her. "You believe me, don't you? You know I'd never do what she's saying I did?"

  "I believe you," Angela says. "Maybe even the judge will believe you. But by that time, Zoe, you'll have been dragged through the coals in a courtroom. The allegation will be all over the newspapers. And even if the case comes out in our favor, the fact that you were accused might be what sticks in everyone's minds."

  I get up from my seat. "I need to talk to Lucy. If I could just--"

  "I don't want you anywhere near her," Angela yells. "Do you know what a field day Wade will have with that?"

  Stunned into silence, I fall back into my chair.

  "You have a lot to think about, Zoe," she says. "Because you might get these embryos--but it could cost you your career."

  Angela requests a day to digest the new information before the trial resumes. My mother and Vanessa and I sneak down to the parking lot via the custodian's elevator again, but this time, instead of feeling like we've outsmarted the other side, it only feels like we're hiding.

  "Take a walk with me," my mother says, as soon as we are outside.

  We are in the rear of the courthouse near the loading dock. I tell Vanessa I'll meet her at the car, and then I follow my mother to a big green Dumpster. Two women wearing summer dresses that make them look like sausages stuffed into casings are smoking cigarettes. "Dwayne's an ass," one of them says. "When he comes back, I hope you'll tell him to go jump in a lake."

  "Excuse me," my mother says. "We need a little privacy."

  The women look at her as if she's crazy, but they leave us alone. "Do you remember when I found out I was making four thousand dollars less than Hudd Sloane when we were both working at the travel agency?"

  "Vaguely," I say. I was about twelve at the time. I remember my mother saying a strike was a strike, even if your union was a party of one.

  "And do you remember what I did when your kindergarten class read If I Ran the Circus and I fought against the message it sent about animal cruelty?"

  "Yes."

  "And you know I'm the first one out there with a sign when it comes to campaigning politically for any female candidate," she adds.

  "You are."

  "I'm telling you this because I want you to remember that I'm a fighter."

  I look at her. "You think I should take Wade Preston on."

  My mother shakes her head. "Actually, Zoe, I think you need to let this go."

  I just stare at her. "So you're advocating letting the family of a teenage girl spread lies about me. Doing nothing."

  "No, I'm thinking of you and what's best for you. People in a small town--and Rhode Island functions as one, honey--they remember things. Not accurately, either. I remember the mother of a kid in your graduating class who somehow had convinced herself your father died of a heart attack while in bed with his mistress."

  "Daddy had a mistress?" I say, shocked.

  "No. That's the point. But this woman was so sure of it because that's how she recalled it. And even if you were absolutely right to hug that sad little girl when she was crying; even if you are the only person in her life who showed her any kindness for who she truly is--that's not what people in the community will remember. Years from now, you'll still be the one who was accused of getting too close to one of your students." My mother hugs me. "Give Max the embryos. And move on. You'll still have a beautiful partner who can have kids. You'll have your music."

  I feel a lone tear streak down my face as I turn away from her. "I don't know what to do."

  She smiles sadly. "You can't lose if you're the one who walks away from the game before it's over."

  It is, I realize, exactly what Lucy would say.

  Instead of driving home, Vanessa drives to the Point Judith Lighthouse. We take off our shoes and walk across the grassy carpet that borders the structure. We take a picture for a vacationing elderly couple. We shield our eyes from the sun and try to see if the ferry is coming from or going to Block Island. In the adjacent park, we sit on a bench and hold hands, even though one woman who sees us frowns and abruptly turns the other way.

  "I have to tell you something," Vanessa finally says.

  "That we can adopt?" I guess.

  She tilts her head, as if that's not at all what she was thinking about. "I lied on the witness stand."

  "I know. I was there, remember?"

  "Not about the suicide attempt. I mean, I lied about that, too. But I lied about the reason I was in the psychiatric hospital." She looks at me. "I said that a relationship had ended. It's a half-truth, really, I guess. It was a relationship, but it was a professional one."

  "I don't understand . . ."

  "I was a counselor at a private school in Maine," Vanessa says. "And I happened to be the field hockey coach, too. The team won a huge game against a rival academy, so I had the kids over for dinner, to celebrate. I was renting a house from a teacher who was with his family in Italy, on sabbatical. It was still so new I didn't know where to find things, like dishwasher detergent and extra paper towels. Anyway, a few girls wandered downstairs to the basement, and they found a wine cellar. Apparently, one of them cracked open a bottle and drank, and a teammate who was suffering an attack of conscience told the headmaster. Even though I told him I had no idea the girls were doing that downstairs--even though I didn't know there was a wine cellar in the house, for God's sake--he gave me a choice. I could be fired quite publicly, or I could very quietly resign." She looks up at me. "So that's what I did. And I hated every minute of it. Of being punished for something that wasn't my fault, at best, and was an accident, at worst. That's why I got so depressed. It took nearly killing myself to realize that I couldn't live in that moment anymore. I couldn't change it; I couldn't change what had been said by those girls, and I certainly couldn't spend the rest of my life wondering when it was going to come back to haunt me." She tucks my hair behind my ear. "Don't let them take your career away from you. If that means you want to fight back, then fight back. But if it means you trade those embryos for Wade Preston's silence--then know I understand." She smiles. "You and me, we're already a family. With or without children."

  I look up at the lighthouse. There is a plaque here that says it was built for the first time in 1810. That, after a hurricane in 1815, it was built again, bigger and stronger, this time of stone. In spite of the lighthouse, wrecks continued with great regularity.

  Safety is relative. You can be so close to shore that you can practically feel it under your feet, when you suddenly find yourself breaking apart on the rocks.

  After I lost my baby at twenty-eight weeks, after I went home from the hospital into a house with no music, I received a phone call.

  Is this Mrs. Baxter? a woman asked.

  I barely knew who