“Not a dime,” Angela says. “And by that I mean, not a dime. GLAD is a nonprofit organization. We’ve been in New England for over thirty years protecting the civil rights of people who are gay, lesbian, trans-gender, bisexual, and questioning. We brought to court the precedent-setting case ofGoodridge v. Department of Public Health,which said it was unconstitutional to not allow gay people to marry—and as a result Massachusetts became the first state in the country to allow gay marriage, back in 2004. We’ve fought for gay adoption rights, so that the unmarried partner of a child’s biological parent can adopt that child and become a second legal parent—without the biological parent having to relinquish her rights. We have challenged the federal Defense of Marriage Act. Your case fits into our agenda completely,” Angela says, “just like your ex-husband’s case fits in with Wade Preston’s agenda.”
“You know his lawyer?” I ask.
She snorts. “You know the difference between Wade Preston and a vulture? Frequent flier miles. He’s a homophobic nutbag who travels around the country trying to get states to amend their constitutions so that gay couples can’t marry. He’s this millennium’s Anita Bryant and Jesse Helms all rolled up into one and stuffed in an Armani suit. But he also plays hard and tough, and it’s going to get ugly. He’s going to drag in the media and put the courthouse in an uproar because he’ll want to get the public on his side. He’s going to make you the poster children for unmarried heathens who aren’t fit to raise a baby.” Angela looks from me to Zoe. “I need to know that you two are in this for the long haul.”
I reach for Zoe’s hand. “Absolutely.”
“But wearemarried,” Zoe points out.
“Not according to the great state of Rhode Island. If your case was being brought to a Massachusetts court, you’d have a much stronger position than you do in your home state.”
“What about the millions of straight couples who aren’t married but have babies? Why isn’t anyone questioningtheirability to raise a child?”
“Because Wade Preston is going to make sure this is viewed as a custody case even though we’re not talking about children, we’re talking about property. And anytime there’s a custody case, the morality of your relationship is going to be on the hot seat.”
Zoe shakes her head. “Biologically, it’s my baby.”
“By that argument, it’s also Max’s baby. He has as much legal right to the embryos as you do—and Preston is going to say he has a better moral plan for that unborn child.”
“Well, he’s not exactly the model Christian daddy,” I say. “He isn’t married. He’s a recovering alcoholic—”
“Good,” Angela mutters, writing on her pad. “That might help. But we don’t know yet what Max wants to do with the embryos. Our position is going to be to paint you as a loving, committed couple with strong roots in the community and respect in your individual professions.”
“Will that be enough?” Zoe asks.
“I don’t know. We aren’t going to be able to control the wild ride that Wade Preston’s about to launch, but we’ve got a strong case, and we’re not going to let him roll right over us. Now, let me get some background information from you. You were married when?”
“In April, in Fall River,” I say.
“And you’re presently living where?”
“Wilmington, Rhode Island.”
Angela writes this down. “You live in the same house?”
“Yes,” I say. “Zoe moved in with me.”
“Do you own the home?”
I nod. “It’s a three bedroom. We have plenty of room for kids.”
“Zoe,” Angela says, “I know you’ve struggled with infertility and don’t have any children—but Vanessa, what about you? Have you ever been pregnant?”
“No . . .”
“But she doesn’t have any fertility problems,” Zoe adds.
“Well, IassumeI don’t. Lesbians are always shooting blanks, so you never really know.”
Angela grins. “Let’s talk about Max for a second. When you were married to him, did he drink?”
Zoe looks into her lap. “There were times I found alcohol hidden, but I’d throw it out. He knew—after all, he took the empty bottles out in the recycling. But we never talked about it. If I found a stash and emptied it down the sink, he’d start acting like the perfect husband, offering back rubs, taking me out to dinner. That would last until I found the next bottle hidden under the vacuum cleaner bags or behind the lightbulbs in the closet. It was almost as if we could have a whole conversation about him toeing the line without ever speaking a word.”
“Was Max ever abusive?”
“No,” Zoe says. “We went through hell trying to have a baby, but I never doubted that he loved me. The things coming out of his mouth now don’t even sound like Max. They sound like something his brother would say.”
“His brother?”
