SING YOU HOME JODI PICOULT PDF

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You Home Author: Picoult Jodi Sing You Home: A Novel. Read more · Sing You Read more · Electricity Experiments You Can Do At Home. Read more. Sing You Home: A Novel. Home · Sing You Home: A Novel Author: Jodi Picoult . 12 downloads Views Sing You Home. Read more · Sing You Home. Sing You Home. 1. Why does Picoult use a quotation from Thomas Jefferson for the book's epigraph? How can his message be interpreted in the context of the.


Sing You Home Jodi Picoult Pdf

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Music by Ellen Wilber ; lyrics by Jodi Picoult ; all songs performed by Ellen Wilber . Sing you home: a novel Borrow this book to access EPUB and PDF files. the Information Desk how you can use NoveList to find your next great read! Sing You Home by Jodi Picoult Ten years of infertility issues culminate in the. Sing You Home book. Read reviews from the world's largest community for readers. After Zoe Baxter loses her baby, the only way she can find of copi.

The carton of milk my mother was carrying when she ran outside, which dropped to the tarred driveway. The sound of round vowels as my mother screamed into the phone to give our address to the ambulance.

The neighbor was an old woman whose couch smelled like pee. She offered me chocolate-covered peppermints that were so old the chocolate had turned white at the edges. When her telephone rang I wandered into the backyard and crawled behind a row of hedges. In the soft mulch, I buried my doll and walked away. My mother never noticed that it was gone — but then, it barely seemed that she acknowledged my father being gone, either.

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She never cried. When a robustly healthy year-old dies of a massive heart attack, the grieving family is suddenly contagious. Come too close, and you might catch our bad luck. Six months after my father died, my mother — still stoic - took his suits and shirts out of the closet they shared and brought them to Goodwill.

She asked the liquor store for boxes and she packed away the biography that he had been reading, which had been on the nightstand all this time; and his pipe, and his coin collection. She did not pack away his Abbott and Costello videos, although she always had told my father that she never really understood what made them funny. My mother carried these boxes to the attic, a place that seemed to trap cluster flies and heat. Instead, what floated downstairs was a silly, fizzy refrain piped through the speakers of an old record player.

I could not understand all the words, but it had something to do with a witch doctor telling someone how to win the heart of a girl. Ooo eee ooh ahh ahh, ting tang walla walla bing bang, I heard. When I stepped into the attic, I found my mother weeping. Instead, I curled up beside her and listened to the song that had finally given my mother permission to cry. There is a tune that makes me think of the summer I spent rubbing baby oil on my stomach in pursuit of the perfect tan. If you ask me, music is the language of memory.

Most of the time, he sits in his bed or a wheelchair, staring through me, completely unresponsive. In brain scans, music lights up the medial pre-frontal cortex and jump starts a memory that starts playing in your mind. All of a sudden you can see a place, a person, an incident. The strongest responses to music — the ones that elicit vivid memories — cause the greatest activity on brain scans. Docker yet. I worked way too hard to have this baby to feel like any part of the pregnancy is a burden.

Usually my nursing home clients meet in a group setting, but Mr. Docker is a special case. A former CEO of a Fortune company, he now lives in this very chic eldercare facility, and his daughter Mim contracts my services for weekly sessions.

The last time Mr. Docker gave any indication that he was aware I shared the same physical space as him was two months ago. I am not sure if he wanted to chime in for good measure or was trying to tell me to stop -- but he was in rhythm. I knock and open the door.

Zoe Baxter. You feel like playing a little music? His hands are curled in his lap like lobster claws. Settling the guitar awkwardly on top of my belly, I start to strum a few chords.

Then, on second thought, I put it down. I rummage through the duffel bag for a maraca — I have all sorts of small instruments in there, for opportunities just like this. I gently wedge it into the curl of his hand.

Docker, but the maraca remains clenched in his hand, silent. I can taste blood. The maraca has landed on the pillow of his bed.

This time, I stumble backward, crashing into the table and overturning his breakfast tray. She looks at me, at the mess on the floor, and then at Mr. This time, I sit gingerly on the edge of the radiator in front of the window. He lets his gaze roam the room — from its institutional curtains to the emergency medical equipment in the cabinet behind the bed to the plastic pitcher of water on the nightstand.

I think about this man, who once was written up in Money and Fortune. Who used to command thousands of employees and whose days were spent in a richly paneled corner office with a plush carpet and a leather swivel chair. For a moment, I want to apologize for taking out my guitar, for unlocking his blocked mind with music.

I had begged for her the previous Christmas, completely suckered by the television ads that ran on Saturday mornings between Wonderama and The Patchwork Family. Sweet Cindy could eat and drink and poop and tell you that she loved you. I decapitated Ken, although in my defense that had been an accident involving a fall from a bicycle basket.

But Sweet Cindy I treated like my own baby. I tucked her into a crib each night that was set beside my own bed. I bathed her every day. It was beautiful out; I had just gotten my training wheels removed.

But I told my father that I was playing with Cindy, and maybe we could go later. If I had never gotten Sweet Cindy for Christmas. The first time it snowed after my father died, I had a dream that Sweet Cindy was sitting on my bed.

Crows had pecked out her blue-marble eyes.

She was shivering. I dug up the snow and the mulch from half of the hedge row, but the doll was gone. Carried away by a dog, maybe, or a little girl who knew better. By the time my session with Mr. She rummages in her purse and pulls out a fistful of cash. Except that the expenses surrounding my baby have less to do with car seats and strollers than with Lupron and Follistim injections. After five IVF cycles — both fresh and frozen — we have depleted all of our savings and maxed out our credit cards.

I take the money and tuck it into the pocket of my jeans.

Book club discussion questions for Sing You Home

He connected with me. For a minute, the music got to him.

For a minute, he was here. This job…if it hurts me, I know I am doing it well. Wanda nods. I can barely keep myself from rubbing my hands over the baby myself, from being magnetically drawn to the proof that this time, it is going to work.

Sing You Home

I dream in pink. I wake up with fairytales caught on my tongue. It is all about regulating an irregular cycle, in order to begin an endless alphabet soup of medications: three ampoules each of FSH and hMG - Follistim and Repronex- injected into my backside twice a day by Max — a man who used to faint at the sight of a needle and who now, after six years, can give me a shot with one hand and pour coffee with the other.

Six days after starting the injections a transvaginal ultrasound measured the size of my ovarian follicles, and a blood test clocked my estradiol levels. That led to Antagon, a new medication meant to keep the eggs in the follicles until they were ready. Three days later: another ultrasound and blood test. The amount of Follistim and Repronex were reduced — one ampoule of each at morning and night — and then two days later, another ultrasound and blood test. One of my follicles measured 21mm.

One measured 20mm. And one was 19mm. Exactly 36 hours later, those eggs were retrieved. And three days later, with Max holding my hand, a vaginal catheter was inserted into me and we watched the embryo transfer on a blinking computer monitor.

There, the lining of my uterus looked like sea grass swaying in the current. A little white spark, a star, shot out of the syringe and fell between two blades of grass. A third.

PDF - Sing You Home

We celebrated our potential pregnancy with a shot of progesterone in my butt. And to think, some people who want to have a baby only need to make love. Add to Cart Add to Cart. About The Book. Reading Group Guide.

About The Author. Jodi Picoult. Product Details. Resources and Downloads. Sing You Home Trade Paperback More books from this author: See more by Jodi Picoult.

Thank you for signing up, fellow book lover! Must redeem within 90 days. See full terms and conditions and this month's choices. The suggested questions are intended to help your reading group find new and interesting angles and topics for your discussion. We hope that these ideas will enrich your conversation and increase your enjoyment of the book.

After almost a decade of marriage and unsuccessful attempts to conceive with the aid of fertility treatments, Zoe and Max Baxter divorce and begin building their own separate lives.

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Max finds himself staring at the bottom of a bottle, until he finds salvation in the conservative Eternal Glory Church after a near-fatal, alcohol-induced car accident. Meanwhile, Zoe, a music therapist, befriends Vanessa and their friendship ultimately blossoms into love. An emotionally draining court trial for custody of the embryos ensues, testing the limits of faith, love, and the definition of family.

An original, accompanying soundtrack is available for Sing You Home. Listen to the soundtrack with your book club members and discuss how the song choices reinforce or affect your reading. If you had to create a soundtrack for this book, what songs would you include?

Explain your choices. Are there any songs or albums that remind you of a certain time or place in your life?

Sing You Home is narrated by three different protagonists, each with their own unique voice and personality. Did this narrative device work for you as a reader? Why or why not? Change and metamorphosis are reoccurring ideas in Sing You Home. In your opinion, which characters changed the most? Which characters remained the same?

How would you describe periods of self-discovery and metamorphosis like those Zoe experiences? Do you think the story features any universal dating realities and relationship experiences that transcend different sexual orientations?

Explain your answer. Newkirk to discuss the detriment of same-sex parent households on children. Do you agree with her? Do you think the family structure ultimately created by Zoe, Vanessa, and Max is a healthy one? Which points from either side did you find most compelling or convincing? Which points did you find most difficult to hear?

Do you believe Pastor Clive practices what he preaches in the novel? Despite being about a very specific relationship and a unique court case, Sing You Home addresses universal themes and ideas regarding family, love, and acceptance. Do you think this story reaches a wide audience, despite its unique specificities?The story is told from three different perspectives, Zoe Baxter, a musician and music therapist, her husband Max, a landscape gardener and Vanessa Shaw, a high school guidance counsellor who enlists the services of Zoe to use music therapy with one of her students.

Nowadays, if a teacher did that, she'd probably be arrested for child abuse. Too soon. I can barely keep myself from rubbing my hands over the baby myself, from being magnetically drawn to the proof that this time, it is going to work. Yes, indeed, my mind was truly boggling after reading this book, in a good way! Jan 10, Joanie rated it really liked it Shelves: I know that some criticize her plots and writing style and the fact that she has her own formulaic style and that a few of my English teacher friends think her work paltry.

The optimist in me wants to believe sexuality will eventually become like handwriting: Zoe Baxter.