While we’re actually standing right behind the morons.
I think I have more respect for Angela at that moment than I ever had before.
“Go get a granola bar or something in the snack room,” she advises. “That way you’ll be outta sight, outta mind while Preston’s coming into court, and the reporters won’t come after you.” Because I’m still sequestered—at least for the first few minutes of today’s court session—this makes sense. I watch her safely tuck Zoe inside the courtroom and then slip down the hallway unnoticed while the rest of the counsel arrives.
I eat a pack of Nutter Butters, but they make me queasy. The truth is, I’m not good when it comes to public speaking. It’s why I’m a school counselor and not up in front of a classroom. The fact that Zoe can sit on a stool and sing her heart to shreds in front of an audience leaves me in awe.
Then again, watching Zoe load the dishwasher pretty much takes my breath away, too.
“You can do this,” I say under my breath, and by the time I come back to the double doors of the courtroom, a bailiff is waiting to bring me inside.
I do the whole rigmarole—the swearing on the Bible, the name and age and address. Angela walks toward me, looking much more poised and intense than she does when she’s not in front of a judge. To my surprise, she drops her pad of notes about a foot in front of me. “You know how Wade Preston sleeps?” she whispers quickly. “He lies on one side and then he lies on the other.” When she sees me smother a laugh, she winks, and I realize she didn’t fumble that pad at all.
“Where do you live, Ms. Shaw?”
“In Wilmington.”
“Are you presently employed?” Angela asks.
“I work as a school counselor at Wilmington High School.”
“What does that entail?”
“Counseling students in grades nine through twelve. I make sure they’re academically on track, I see if there are problems at home, keep an eye out for depression or substance abuse, and I help guide kids through the college application process.”
“Are you married?”
“Yes,” I say, smiling. “To Zoe Baxter.”
“Do you have any children?”
“Not yet, but I hope that will be the outcome of this litigation. Our intent is to have me gestate to term the embryos that are biologically Zoe’s.”
“Have you had any experience with small children?”
“To a limited degree,” I say. “I’ve taken care of our neighbor’s kids for a weekend here and there. But from what I hear from friends, parenthood is trial by fire no matter how many books you’ve read by Dr. Brazelton.”
“How would you and Zoe be able to support this child financially?”
“We both work, and we’d both continue to work. Luckily our schedules allow for flexibility. We plan to raise the children equally, and Zoe’s mother lives ten minutes away and is delighted at the thought of helping us out.”
“What, if any, is your relationship to Max Baxter?”
I think of the argument Zoe and I had last night. My relationship to this man is that, forever, we will be linked together through her. That there will be parts of her heart she’s already given to someone else.
“He’s my spouse’s ex-husband,” I say evenly. “He’s biologically related to the embryos. I don’t really know him; I only know what Zoe’s told me about him.”
“Are you willing to allow him to have contact with any child that might result?”
“If he wants to.”
Angela faces me directly. “Vanessa,” she says, “is there anything that prevents you from being considered a fit and proper person to have custody of a child?”
“Absolutely not,” I reply.
“Your witness,” Angela says, turning toward Wade Preston.
Today he is wearing an outfit that shouldn’t work—and believe me, ifI’mmaking a fashion commentary, it must be truly hideous. His shirt is checkered, purple and white. His tie is striped, lilac and black. His black suit jacket is flecked with bits of gray and silver and purple. And yet what should look like a nasty eighties anachronism somehow looks, with his spray-on tan and his bling, like aGQspread. “Ms. Shaw,” he begins. I actually look down to see if he’s left a trail of oil as he comes closer. “Does your employer know you’re a lesbian?”
