Authors: Jodi Picoult
He stands up and walks toward his desk. “It’s a strange world, Max. We have megachurches. We have Christian satellite television and Christian bands on the pop charts. We have
The Shack,
for goodness’ sake. Christ is more visible than He’s ever been, with even more influence than ever before. So why do abortion clinics still thrive? Why is the divorce rate climbing? Why is pornography rampant?” He pauses, but I don’t think he’s waiting for an answer from me. “I’ll tell you why, Max. It’s because the moral weakness we see outside the church has invaded it as well. Look no further than Ted Haggard or Paul Barnes—there are sex scandals in our own leadership. The reason we can’t speak to the most critical issue of our time is because, morally, we’ve given up our authority.”
I frown, a little confused. I don’t really get what this has to do with Zoe.
“At prayer meeting we hear people say that they have cancer, or that they need a job. We never hear someone confess to looking up Internet porn, or to having gay fantasies. Why
is
that? Why is church not a safe place to come if you’re tempted by sin—any sin? If we can’t be that safe place, we share the responsibility when those people fall. You know, Max, of all people, how it feels to sit at a bar and not be judged—to just have a drink and let it all hang out. Why can’t the church be more like that? Why can’t you walk in and say,
Oh, God, it’s just you. Cool. I can be myself, now.
Not in a way that ignores our sins—but in a way that makes us accountable for them. You see where I’m headed with this, Max?”
“No, sir,” I admit. “Not really . . .”
“You know what brought you to me today?” Pastor Clive says.
“Zoe?”
“No. Jesus Christ.” A smile breaks over Pastor Clive’s face. “You were sent here to remind me that we can’t get so wrapped up in the battle we forget the war. Alcoholics get recovery medallions to commemorate the time they’ve been sober. We in the church need to
be
that token for the homosexual who wants to change.”
“I don’t know if Zoe wants to change—”
“We’ve already learned that you can’t tell a pregnant woman not to have an abortion—you have to help her do what’s right, by offering counseling and support and adoption possibilities. So we can’t just say that being gay is wrong. We have to also be willing to bring these people into the church, to
show
them how to do the right thing.”
What the pastor is talking about, I realize, is becoming a guide. It is as if Zoe’s been lost in the woods. I may not be able to get her to come with me right away, but I can offer her a map. “You think I should talk to her?”
“Exactly, Max.”
Except we have a history.
And I have hardly been at this born-alive-in-Christ thing long enough to be persuasive.
And.
(Even if it hurts me)
(Even if it makes me feel like less of a man)
(Who am I to say that she’s wrong?)
But I can’t even admit this last thought to myself, much less to Pastor Clive.
“I don’t think she really wants to hear what the church has to say.”
“I never said it would be an easy conversation, Max. But this isn’t about sexual ethics. We’re not anti-gay,” Pastor Clive says. “We’re pro-Christ.”
When it’s put that way, everything becomes clear. I’m not going after Zoe because she hurt me or because I’m angry. I’m just trying to save her soul. “So what do I do?”
“You pray. Zoe has to confess her sin. And if she can’t, you pray for that to happen. You can’t drag her to us, you can’t force counseling. But you
can
make her see that there’s an alternative.” He sits down at his desk and starts flipping through a Rolodex. “There are some of our members who’ve struggled with unwanted same-sex attraction but who hold to a Christian worldview instead.”
I think about the congregation—the happy families, the bright faces, the glow in their eyes that I know comes from the Holy Spirit. These people are my friends, my family. I try to figure out who has lived a gay lifestyle. Maybe Patrick, the hairdresser whose Sunday ties always match his wife’s blouse? Or Neal, who is a pastry chef at a five-star restaurant downtown?
“You’ve met Pauline Bridgman, I assume?” Pastor Clive says.
Pauline?
Really?
Pauline and I were cutting carrots just yesterday while preparing the chicken pies for the church supper. She is tiny, with a nose that turns up at the end and eyebrows plucked too thin. When she talks, she uses her hands a lot. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her not wearing pink.
When I think of lesbians, I picture women who look tough and scrappy, with spiked hair and baggy jeans and flannel shirts. Sure, this is a stereotype . . . but still, there’s nothing about Pauline Bridgman that suggests she used to be gay.
Then again, nothing about Zoe tipped me off, either.
“Pauline sought the help of Exodus International. She used to speak at Love Won Out conferences about her experience becoming ex-gay. I think, if we asked, she’d be more than happy to share her story with Zoe.”
Pastor Clive writes Pauline’s number down on a Post-it note. “I’ll think about it,” I hedge.
“I would say,
What do you have to lose?
Except that’s not what’s important here.” Pastor Clive waits until I am looking directly at him. “It’s all about what
Zoe
has to lose.”
Eternal salvation.
Even if she’s not my wife anymore. Even if she never really loved me.
I take the Post-it note from Pastor Clive, fold it in half, and slip it into my wallet.
That night I dream that I am still married to Zoe, and she is in my bed, and we are making love. I slide my hand up her hip, into the curve of her waist. I bury my face in her hair. I kiss her mouth, her throat, her neck, her breast. Then I look down at my hand, splayed across her belly.
It is not my hand.
For one thing, there is a ring on the thumb—a thin gold band.
And there’s red nail polish.
What’s the matter?
Zoe asks.
There’s something wrong,
I tell her.
She grabs my wrist and pulls me closer.
There’s nothing wrong.
But I stumble into the bathroom, turn on the lights. I look into the mirror, and find Vanessa staring back at me.
When I wake up, the sheets are drenched with sweat. I get out of Reid’s guest room bed, and in the bathroom (careful not to look into the mirror) I wash my face and dunk my head under the faucet. There’s no way I’ll fall back asleep now, so I head to the kitchen for a snack.
To my surprise, though, I’m not the only one awake at three in the morning.
Liddy is sitting at the kitchen table, shredding a napkin. She’s wearing a thin white cotton robe over her nightgown. Liddy actually wears nightgowns, the kind made out of fine cotton with tiny embroidered roses at the collar and the hem. Zoe usually slept naked, and if she wore anything at all, it was one of my T-shirts and a pair of my boxers.
“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.”