Authors: Jodi Picoult
“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.
As if it doesn’t make my stomach turn.
As if it’s perfectly natural.
Zoe looks at Pauline. “Drat. Guess I’m not cured after all.”
By now, Vanessa has noticed us. “I didn’t know we were having company.”
“This is Pauline, and of course you know Max,” Zoe says. “They’re here to keep us from going to Hell.”
“Zoe,” Vanessa says, pulling her aside, “can we talk for a minute?” She leads Zoe into the adjacent kitchen. I have to strain to listen, but I manage to catch most of what she’s saying. “I’m not going to tell you you can’t invite someone into our house, but what the hell are you thinking?”
“That they’re insane,” Zoe says. “Seriously, Vanessa, if no one ever tells them they’re delusional, then how are they going to find out?”
There is a little more conversation, but it’s muffled. I look at Pauline nervously. “Don’t worry,” she says, patting my arm. “Denial is normal. Christ calls on us to spread His word, even when it seems like it’s falling on deaf ears. But I always think of a talk like this as if I’m spreading mahogany stain on a natural wood floor. Even if you wipe away the color, it’s seeped in a little bit, and you can’t get rid of it. Long after we leave, Zoe will still be thinking about what we’ve said.”
Then again, putting mahogany stain on a piece of pine only changes the way it looks on the outside. It doesn’t turn it into real mahogany. I wonder if Pauline’s ever thought about that.
Zoe comes through the door, trailed by Vanessa. “Don’t do this,” Vanessa pleads. “If you started dating someone black, would you invite the KKK over to discuss it?”
“Honestly, Vanessa,” Zoe says dismissively, and she turns to Pauline. “I’m sorry. You were saying?”
Pauline folds her hands in her lap. “Well, I think we were talking about my own moment of discovery,” she says, and Vanessa snorts. “I realized I was vulnerable to same-sex attraction for several reasons. My mother was an Iowa farm girl—the kind of woman who got up at four
A.M.
and had already changed the world before breakfast. She believed hands were made for working and that, if you fell down and cried, you were weak. My dad traveled a lot and just wasn’t around. I was always a tomboy, and wanted to play football with my brothers more than I wanted to sit inside and play with my dolls. And of course, there was a cousin who sexually abused me.”
“Of course,” Vanessa murmurs.
“Well,” Pauline says, looking at her, “everyone I’ve ever met who’s gay-identified has experienced some kind of abuse.”
I look at Zoe, uncomfortable. She hasn’t been abused. She would have told me.
Of course, she didn’t tell me she liked women, either.
“Let me guess,” Vanessa says. “Your parents didn’t exactly welcome you with open arms when you told them you were gay.”
Pauline smiles. “My parents and I have the best relationship now—we’ve been through so much, my gracious . . . It wasn’t
their
fault I was gay-identified. It was a host of factors—from that abuse to not being secure in my own gender to feeling like women were second-class citizens. For all these reasons, I began to behave a certain way. A way that took me away from Christ. I wonder,” she asks Zoe, “why do you think you were open to pursuing a same-sex relationship? Clearly you weren’t born that way, since you were happily married—”
“So happily married,” Vanessa points out, “that she got divorced.”
“It’s true,” I agree. “I wasn’t there for you, Zoe, when you needed me. And I can’t ever make that up to you. But I can keep the same mistake from happening twice. I can help you meet people who understand you, who won’t judge you, and who will love you for who you are, not for what you do.”
Zoe slides her arm through Vanessa’s. “I’ve already got that right here.”
“You can’t—you’re not—” I find myself stumbling over the words. “You are not gay, Zoe. You’re not.”
“Maybe that’s true,” Zoe says. “Maybe I’m not gay. Maybe this is a one-time deal. But here’s what I know: I want that one-time deal to last a lifetime. I love Vanessa. And she happens to be a woman. If that makes me a lesbian, now, so be it.”
I start praying silently. I pray that I will not stand up and start screaming. I pray that Zoe will become as miserable as possible, as quickly as possible, so that she can see Christ standing right in front of her.
“I’m not a fan of labels, either,” Pauline says. “Goodness, look at me now. I don’t even like to call myself ex-gay, because that suggests I was born a homosexual. No way—I’m a heterosexual, evangelical, Christian woman, that’s all. I wear skirts more than I wear slacks. I never leave the house without makeup. And if you happen to see Hugh Jackman walking down the street, could you just hang on to him until—”
“Have you ever slept with a man?” Vanessa’s voice sounds like a gunshot.
“No,” Pauline admits, blushing. “That would go against the core beliefs of the church, since I’m not married.”
“How incredibly convenient.” Vanessa turns to Zoe. “Twenty bucks says Megan Fox could seduce her in the time it takes to say an Our Father.”
Pauline won’t rise to the bait. She faces Vanessa, and her eyes are full of pity. “You can say whatever you want about me. I know where that anger’s coming from. See, I
was
you, once. I know what it’s like to be living the way you do, and to be looking at a woman like me and thinking I’m a total fruitcake. Believe me, I had books left on my dresser and articles slipped beneath my coffee cup on the kitchen table—my parents did everything they could to try to push me to give up my gay identity, and it only made me more certain I was absolutely right. But Vanessa, I’m not here to be that person. I’m not going to give you literature and make follow-up phone calls or try to pretend I’m your new best friend. I’m simply here to say that when you and Zoe are ready—and I do believe one day you will be—I can give you the resources you’re looking for to put Christ’s needs above your own.”
“So, let me get this right,” Zoe says. “I don’t have to change right now. I can take a rain check . . .”
“Absolutely,” I reply. I mean, it’s a step in the right direction, isn’t it?
“. . . but you still think our relationship is wrong.”
“Jesus does,” Pauline says. “If you look at Scripture and think differently, you’re reading it wrong.”
“You know, I went to catechism for ten years,” Vanessa says. “I’m pretty sure the Bible also says polygamy’s a good idea. And that we shouldn’t eat scallops.”
“Just because something’s written in the Bible doesn’t mean it was God’s created intent—”
“You just said that if it’s Scripture, it’s fact!” Vanessa argues.
Pauline raises her chin a notch. “I didn’t come here to dissect semantics. The opposite of homosexuality isn’t heterosexuality. It’s holiness. That’s why I’m here—as living proof that there’s another path. A better path.”
“And how exactly does that jibe with turning the other cheek?”
“I’m not judging you,” Pauline explains. “I’m just offering my biblical worldview.”
“Well,” Vanessa says, getting to her feet. “I guess I’m blind then, because that’s far too subtle a distinction for me to see. How dare you tell me that what makes me
me
is wrong? How dare you say that you’re tolerant, as long as I’m just like you? How dare you suggest that I shouldn’t be allowed to get married to someone I love, or adopt a child, or that gay rights don’t qualify as civil rights because, unlike skin color or disabilities, you think that sexual orientation can be changed? But you know what? Even
that
argument doesn’t hold water, because you can change your religion, and religious affiliation is still protected by law. Which is the
only
reason I’m going to ask you politely to leave my home, instead of throwing you out on your hypocritical evangelical asses.”
Zoe stands up, too. “Don’t let the door hit you on the way out,” she says.
On the way back home, it starts to rain. I listen to the windshield wipers keeping time and think about how Zoe, in the passenger seat, used to drum on the glove compartment along with the beat.
“Can I ask you something personal?” I say, turning to Pauline.
“Sure.”
“Do you . . . you know . . . ever miss it?”
Pauline glances at me. “Some people do. They struggle for years. It’s like any other addiction—they figure out that this is their drug, and they make the decision to not let that be part of their lives. If they’re lucky, they may consider themselves completely cured and have a true identity change. But even if they aren’t that lucky, they still get up in the morning and pray to God to get through one more day without acting on those attractions.”
I realize that she did not really answer my question.
“Christians have been called upon to struggle for ages,” Pauline says. “This isn’t any different.”
Once, Zoe and I went to a wedding of one of her clients. It was a Jewish wedding, and it was really beautiful—with trappings and traditions I had never seen before. The bride and groom stood under a canopy, and the prayers were in an unfamiliar language. At the end, the rabbi had the groom stomp on a wineglass wrapped in a napkin.
May your marriage last as long as it would take to put these pieces back together,
he said. Afterward, when everyone was congratulating the couple, I sneaked underneath the canopy and took a tiny shard of glass from the napkin where it still lay on the grass. I threw it into the ocean on the way home, so that, no matter what, that glass could never be reconstructed, so the couple would stay together forever.
When Zoe asked what I was doing and I told her, she said she thought she loved me more in that moment than she ever had before.
My heart, it kind of feels like that wineglass these days. Like something that’s supposed to be whole but—thanks to some idiot who thought he knew better—doesn’t stand a freaking chance.
“There is audio content at this location that is not currently supported for your device. The caption for this content is displayed below.”
Marry Me (2:59)
ZOE
E
veryone wants to know what the sex is like.
It’s different from being with a man, for all the obvious reasons, and many more that you’d never imagine. For one thing, it’s more emotional, and there’s less to prove. There are moments that are soft and tender, and others that are raw and intense—but it’s not as if there’s a guy to play the dominant role and a girl to play the passive one. We take turns being protected, and being the protector.
Sex with a woman is what you wish it was with a man but it rarely seems to be: all about the journey, and not the destination. It’s foreplay forever. It is the freedom to not have to suck in your stomach or think about cellulite. It is being able to say,
that feels good
and, more important,
that doesn’t.
I will admit that, at first, it was strange to curl up in Vanessa’s arms when I was used to resting against a muscular chest—but the strangeness wasn’t unpleasant. Just unfamiliar, as if I’d suddenly moved to the rainforest after living in the desert. It is another kind of beautiful.
Sometimes when a male colleague finds out I am with Vanessa, I can see it in his eyes—the expectation that every night is a girl-on-girl porn video. My current sex life is no more like that than my former one was like a love scene with Brad Pitt. I could sleep with a man again, but I don’t think I’d enjoy it, or feel as safe, or as daring. So if I am not filled by Vanessa—in the literal sense, anyway—I am fulfilled by her, which is way better.
The real difference between my marriage to Max and my relationship with Vanessa has nothing to do with the sex, actually. It’s about balance. When Max would come home, I’d wonder if he was in a good mood, or if he’d had a good day—and I would become the person he needed me to be accordingly. With Vanessa, I get to come home and just be me.
With Vanessa, I wake up and think:
This is my best friend. This is the most brilliant person in my life.
I wake up and think,
I have so much more to lose.
Every day is a negotiation. Vanessa and I sit down over coffee, and, instead of her burying herself in the newspaper—like Max used to do—we discuss what needs to be done. Now that I’ve moved in with her, we have a household to run. There’s no man who’s expected to change the lightbulbs that burn out, or take out the trash. If something heavy has to be moved, we do it together. One of us has to mow the lawn, do the bills, clean out the gutters.
When I was married, Max would ask what was for dinner; I’d ask if he picked up the dry cleaning. Now, Vanessa and I map out our chores. If Vanessa needs to run an errand on the way home from school, she might pick up takeout. If I’m headed into town, I’ll take her car for the day, so that I can fill it up with gas. There is a lot of talking, a lot of give-and-take, when it’s just two women in a kitchen.
It’s funny—when I used to hear gay people using the term
partner
for their significant other, it seemed strange to me. Weren’t heterosexual spouses partners, too? But now I see that this isn’t the case, that there is a difference between someone you call your “other half” at a cocktail party and someone who truly completes you. Vanessa and I have to invent the dynamic between us, because it’s not the traditional husband-wife deal. The result is that we’re constantly making decisions together. We’re always asking each other for opinions. We assume nothing. And that way, we’re a lot less likely to get our feelings bruised.
You’d think that by now, a month into this relationship, some of the blush has worn off, that I might love Vanessa but not be quite as in love with her—but it’s not true. She’s still the one I can’t wait to talk to after something phenomenal happens at work. She’s the one I want to celebrate with when, three months after my hysterectomy, I’m still cancer-free. She’s the one I want to lounge around with on a lazy Sunday. For this reason, a lot of chores that we could divide and conquer on weekends take twice as long, because we do them together. Since we want to be together anyway, why not?