While I was at school the next day, my mother hot-glued little plastic stars on my ceiling. That night, we both lay down on the bed and covered ourselves with my blanket. I didn’t sneak out of bed to watch a scary movie. Instead, I fell asleep with my mother’s arms around me.
Now, I look at her. “Do you think I would have turned out differently if Dad had been around when I was growing up?”
“Well, sure,” my mother says, coming to sit beside me on the bed. “But I think he’d be pretty proud of the outcome all the same.”
After Angela left, I’d stopped off at my house. I’d gotten on the Internet and downloaded the podcast of Joe Hoffman’s radio program, where I listened to him and Wade Preston rattle off statistics: children raised by homosexual parents were more likely to try a homosexual relationship themselves; children of homosexual parents were embarrassed to let their friends find out about their home lives; lesbian mothers feminized their sons and masculinized their daughters.
“My lawsuit was on Joe Hoffman’s radio show,” I say.
“I know,” my mother says. “I heard it.”
“Youlisten to him?”
“Religiously . . . pun intended. I tune in when I’m on the treadmill. I’ve found that, when I’m angry, I walk faster.” She laughs. “I save Rush for my abdominal crunches.”
“But what if he has a point? What if we have a boy? I don’t know anything about raising one. I don’t know about dinosaurs or construction equipment or how to play catch . . .”
“Honey, babies don’t come with instruction booklets. You’d learn the same way we all do—you’d read up on dinosaurs; you’d Google backhoes and skidders. And you don’t need a penis to go buy a baseball glove.” My mother shakes her head. “Don’t you dare let anyone tell you what you can and cannot be, Zoe.”
“You have to admit, things would have been easier if Dad was here,” I say.
“Yes. I actually agree with Wade Preston in one respect: every child should be raised by a married couple.” She smiles broadly. “That’s why same-sex marriage should be legal.”
“When did you become such a gay activist?”
“I’m not. I’m aZoeactivist. If you’d told me you were vegan, I can’t say I’d stop eating meat, but I’d fight for your right to not eat it. If you’d told me you were becoming a nun, I can’t promise you I’d convert, but I’d read the Bible so I could talk to you about it. But you’re gay, so instead I know that the American Psychological Association says children raised by gay parents describe themselves as straight in the same proportion as those raised in heterosexual households. I know there’s no scientific basis for saying gay people are any less capable than straight parents. As a matter of fact, there are certain bonuses that come with being raised by two mommies or two daddies: compassion, for one. Plus, girls play and dress in ways that break gender stereotypes, and boys tend to be more affectionate, more nurturing, and less promiscuous. And probably because they’ve dealt with questions all their lives, kids raised by gay parents are better at adjusting in general.”
My jaw drops. “Where did you learn all that?”
“On the Internet. Because when I’m not listening to Joe Hoffman, I’m researching what I’m going to say when I finally back Wade Preston into a corner.”
No matter what Joe Hoffman and Wade Preston say, it’s not gender that makes a family; it’s love. You don’t need a mother and a father; you don’t necessarily even need two parents. You just need someone who’s got your back.
I imagine my mother going after Wade Preston, and I smile. “I hope I’m around to watch that.”
My mother squeezes my hand. She looks up at the stars on the ceiling. “Where elsewouldyou be?” she asks.
I lean over Lucy from behind and place the guitar in her arms. “Cradle it like a baby,” I say, “with your left hand supporting the neck.”
“Like this?” She turns in her seat, so that she is looking up at me.
“Let’s hope when you babysit you don’t strangle the kids quite like that . . .”
She lets up on her choke hold on the neck of the guitar. “Oh.”
“Now put your left index finger on the fifth string, second fret. Put your left middle finger on the fourth string, second fret.”
“My fingers are getting all tangled—”
“Playing the guitar’s like Twister for your hands. Take your pick between your right thumb and forefinger. Press down on the strings with your left hand, and with your right, gently drag that pick over the sound hole.”
A chord fills the small confines of the nurse’s office, the space we are occupying for our session today. Lucy looks up, glowing. “I did it!”
“That’s an E minor. It’s the first chord I learned, too.” I watch her play it a few more times. “You’ve got a really good sense of music,” I say.
Lucy bends over my guitar. “Must be genetic. My family’s really big on making a ‘joyful noise.’”
I forget, most of the time, that Lucy’s family attends Max’s church. Vanessa had told me months ago, when Lucy and I started working together. Most likely, they know Max and Wade Preston. They just haven’t done the math yet to realize their precious daughter is spending time with the Devil Incarnate.
