Sing You Home by Jodi Picoult Read Free Book Online

“Zoe,” he says. “What’s wrong?”
    I look around this room, this not-nursery, and I think of Mr. Docker, of what it means to become aware of your surroundings. It’s like waking up from the best dream to find a hundred knives at your throat. “Everything,” I whisper.
    Max sits down beside me. “We have to talk.”
    I don’t face him. I don’t even sit up. I keep staring straight ahead, my eyes level with the radiators. Max forgot to take the safety plugs out of the outlets. They are all still covered with those flat disks of plastic, to make sure no one gets hurt.
    Too fucking late.
    “Not now,” I say.
    You lose keys, your wallet, your glasses. You lose a job. You lose weight.
    You lose money. You lose your mind.
    You lose hope; you lose faith. You lose your sense of direction.
    You lose track of friends.
    You lose your head. You lose a tennis match. You lose a bet.
    You lose a baby, or so they say.
    Except I know exactly where he is.
    The next day, I wake up and my breasts have become marble. I can’t even breathe without them aching. I have no newborn, but my body doesn’t seem to know that. The nurses at the hospital had warned me about this. There used to be an injection to dry up breast milk, but there were serious side effects, and so now they could only send me home with fair warning about what would come to pass.
    The covers on Max’s side of the mattress are still tucked in. He did not come to bed last night; I don’t know where he slept. By now, he will have left for work.
    “Mom,” I call out, but no one comes. I sit up, wincing, and see a note on my nightstand. Gone grocery shopping, my mother has written.
    I shuffle through the discharge paperwork I was given at the hospital. But no one thinks to send the woman who’s delivered a stillborn home with the contact information for a lactation expert.
    Feeling stupid, I dial the office number for Dr. Gelman. Her receptionist—a sweet girl I’ve seen monthly now for over half a year—picks up. “Hi,” I say. “This is Zoe Baxter—”
    “Zoe!” she says enthusiastically. “I heard you were being admitted on Friday! So? Boy or girl?”
    I can tell, from the bubbles in her voice, that she has no idea what happened over the weekend. The words in my throat rustle like leaves. “Boy,” I manage. I can’t say the rest.
    Even the fabric of my T-shirt is causing me excruciating pain. “Can I speak to a nurse-midwife?”
    “Sure, I’ll put you through . . . ,” the receptionist says, and I hold the line praying that the nurse-midwife, at least, knows what happened.
    There is a click on the line. “Zoe,” the nurse says gently, “how are you doing?”
    “My milk,” I choke out. “Is there anything I can do to dry it up?”
    “Not really—you have to sort of ride it out,” she says. “But you can take some ibuprofen. Try putting refrigerated cabbage leaves inside your bra—we don’t know why, but there’s something in them that helps reduce inflammation. And sage—if you have any, cook with it. Or make a tea. Sage inhibits milk production.”
    I thank her and hang up the phone. As I am putting down the handset again, it falls against the clock and inadvertently turns on the radio. I have it tuned to a classical station because it’s somehow easier for me to wake up at 6:00 A.M . to orchestral strains rather than a rock beat.
    The flute. The seesaw of the string section. The pumping grunt of the tuba and the horn. Wagner’s “Ride of the Valkyries” wings from wall to ceiling to floor, filling the room with chaos and drive.
    This track is on a CD still in a birthing bag I have not unpacked.
    This track was never played during my delivery, although I had a baby.
    In one quick move I grab the clock radio and yank it out of the electrical socket where it’s plugged in. I hold it high over my head and hurl it across the room so that it smashes onto the wooden floor in a crescendo that would have done Wagner proud.
    When there