“Let’s get a menu and start over for Aubrey,” Veronica says.
Her cell rings; she squints, then takes the call. “Hello,” she says in her public voice, with that lilt.
Mimi takes the “Sunday Styles” section of The New York Times from a nearby lounge chair and opens it back to front. Wedding announcements first.
I put down my bag and gaze out at the ocean and the jetty to the south. I look back at the Breakers. The facade from the ocean is as brilliant as on the westerly side. A legendary castle that hosts Palm Beachers and vacationers.
“C’mon.” Aubrey slips her hand in mine. “Let’s walk to the beach for a minute.”
Behind us, chairs scrape against the patio tile; gossip and chatter add to the noise quotient. We keep going until we pass the Breakers lineup of beach cabanas.
The tide is high and waves hit the shoreline in crooked patterns. Aubrey takes her RayBans off and I take mine off. We squint at each other in the brightness.
“You know, I’m realizing what you need, Elodie, what you’ve been through, what it must be like every Sunday to see your friends, their children.”
“No, no, don’t bother with that. We’re fine. My request, it’s tearing this family apart. No more talk.”
“You’re my big sister. You saved me plenty of times.”
“I know. One time right on this beach. You were about five, not a strong swimmer.”
“Right! And Mom and Dad were with their friends, no one was paying attention,” Aubrey says.
“I had passed my junior lifesaving,” I say. “I thought you’d forgotten what happened.”
“Not ever have I forgotten. Sometimes at night before I fall asleep, I can feel how there was an undertow that afternoon, how it was sucking me in. I looked at the shoreline and saw Mom in her purple bikini with that matching sarong. Dad was, like, in the center with the other men. Some of them were smoking cigarettes and two men had cigars.”
“Not Simon.”
“No, but he wasn’t watching me, either. He was talking with the fathers. His head was facing away and I tried to scream. No parent was surveying the beach,” Aubrey says. “I kept screaming. I still can feel my throat—how the screaming was too loud and then it got weaker. No one looked at me. Then the wave dragged me down. I couldn’t get my head back up to see, to breathe.”
I’m there again, in that moment long ago. The sand was a little damp; it had rained the night before until early morning. It wasn’t warm enough that kids would jump into the ocean. We had finished hot dogs and burgers at a long table that the Breakers had set up. When they served the ice cream, I started looking around for my little sister.
“Why were you watching me?” Aubrey asks.
“I’ve always been watching you,” I say. “That day I could feel you.”
“You must have swum really fast to get to me. It was like I was about to be eaten up by the ocean,” Aubrey says.
“I did, I swam like I was in the Olympics. Isn’t that what they say about someone compelled to help—to save someone? They have herculean strength in that moment.”
“You put your arms around me and dragged me—no, swam in with me. You had me in the tightest grasp. Slapping against the waves.”
“Exactly … how it felt, you in my arms. Then we tumbled to the shore, coughing, spitting.”
Aubrey holds me close and whispers, “I remember.”
CHAPTER 11
ELODIE
Before I ever met Dr. Samantha Noel, shades of blue were among my favorite colors. Yet as I arrive in her waiting room this morning, I know it hasn’t been like that for a long while. After the first year that James and I started to see her, filled with hope and unable to accept the odds of infertility, I still wore blue. Not now. I get it—mixing sky blue with medium blue with accents of deep blue. Blue as the color of the mind, creating a distance and a sense of calm. It might have helped me along the way, yet it didn’t.
I try to settle down while James is at the front desk, speaking in soft tones. The chair is comfortable despite the color. I check for texts and emails from work. I inspect my husband. Will James always win the prize for handsome, sexy husband—regardless of the circumstances? Case in point: At Dr. Noel’s blue pressure cooker, I’m admiring how he walks back to where I wait.
“So we should be next,” James says when he returns to the seating area, trying to read my face while he slides onto the chair beside me. “Thoughts?”
His voice stays low. Not that anyone in the waiting room cares; every doleful woman seems to be with a partner or husband. Some distract themselves with their iPhones and iPads, praying this portion of their morning will come and go easily.
“I’m remembering how you came to my parents’ house in a leather jacket and jeans when you were in grad school. When we both were home for Christmas,” I say.
“We weren’t engaged. I was trying to make an impression,” James says.
“You did. That’s why we’re married.”
He smiles a little, because lately he isn’t sure how to be with me. In the moment he might say something about why he sought me out—brainy while pretty, smooth skin, literary, more empathic than not. If we agree to choose our surrogate from a “catalog” today, I’ll make sure she has these features, too. Insurance that while manufactured, our baby will be doubly rich in who we are.
We are called in to Dr. Noel’s office ahead of the others in the waiting room. I can’t help but believe it happens because we contribute to her foundation every year. While my father suggested it, James takes pride in our effort. Whatever hour I’m here, I’m in a rush to get back to the Literary Society, where fertility isn’t the issue.
Dr. Noel sits behind her desk; her confidence is distilled throughout. Her lab coat with her name embroidered on it is a stiff white cotton. Beneath it she is wearing a blush pink shift that is simple and soothing. She has earned her success in a challenging field; we put our faith in her hands. She’s wearing tan Manolo slingbacks that my mother would call “classic.” I speculate that when she’s at a dinner with her husband (most likely a hedge fund guy) she wears something newer, fresher, from Neiman’s or Saks on the Avenue. Each time I’m here, I notice the framed photographs on her desk—at Mar-a-Lago, Vintage Tales, Justine’s. Although Dr. Noel’s office is in Fort Lauderdale (one reason that I chose her), she knows how to get to Palm Beach. Once at the Rose Ball, I saw her in the gardens during cocktail hour and pretended that I didn’t.
“Elodie, you are looking well. Much better.”
Graciously, she points to the love seat that continues the blue theme of the waiting room. James pushes aside two small medium-blue-and-white-striped cotton pillows.
“Before we begin, I’d like to review the options for surrogacy. There is a traditional surrogacy—sometimes called ‘partial surrogacy.’” Dr. Noel adjusts her glasses. “The process requires artificial insemination with the father’s sperm. Because of what you are investigating today, I want to remind you that there is no egg donor. A traditional surrogate is genetically related to the baby. She might be a close friend, a sister, a cousin, which has benefits. ‘Intended parents’ may decide on this, but it can be fraught and emotionally complicated.”
I look at James, who is looking at me. We disengage, face Dr. Noel.
“Another concern is whether the surrogate will be able to let go of the baby at birth. And for this reason, I prefer gestational surrogacy. That entails a donor egg and a gestational surrogate. This is a business transaction, a cleaner plan.” She pauses, takes a breath. “I wanted to explain both to you.”
James takes my hand in his. “Either way, Dr. Noel. We are simply matching someone as best we can, going through what’s right for us, for our child.”
Dr. Noel keeps tugging on a double-heart necklace—the same pave diamond one that Mimi wears. “Of course. There are screenings and then whichever way you go, you’ll get to know your surrogate during the process. I don’t believe we discussed price.�
�
I put my hand in the air as if to stop the conversation—I can’t listen to the cost of hiring someone to carry our baby. Dr. Noel ignores me, while James, all about numbers, is rapt.
“A traditional surrogate is sixty thousand dollars. The cost of a gestational surrogate is seventy-five thousand and could be more.”
I listen, half astonished, half relieved that this is where we are, that it is beyond me. James is jotting things down on a pad with ANVO at the top.
“When do we start the search?” he asks.
“In a moment or two, I’ll take you to a private library and you’ll be set up to begin reviewing both types.”
A sharp rap at the door as Dr. Noel’s desk telephone rings. I attempt breaths that push my stomach out and suck air through my lungs.
“A moment, please.” Dr. Noel ignores her landline and angles toward the door. A second round of rings start. She twists her body back toward the desk and lifts the receiver. “Yes?” A pause. “Excuse me?”
That’s when her office door opens. Side by side stand one of the nurses and my sister. Aubrey?
James jumps up. “Aubrey? Has something happened? How did you find us?”
Heels rat-a-tat on the limestone tiles as Dr. Noel walks over. She is stricken, confounded. How often might that happen? I wonder.
“All good.” Aubrey smiles. “May I come in?”
“Dr. Noel, this young woman has insisted that she find her sister, Elodie Cutler. She barged into—”
“It’s all right, Melinda, it’s okay.” Dr. Noel waves her away. “Please close the door behind you.”
“Dr. Noel, this is Elodie’s younger sister, Aubrey.” James is standing. I, too, stand.
“So I see.” Dr. Noel is stern. “Why are you here?”
“I’m Elodie’s surrogate. For Elodie and James’s baby. I’m the one,” Aubrey says.
The one. Dr. Noel, James, and I are rendered dull.
“Elodie?” Aubrey says. “Hello?”
“Are you sure?” James asks.
“For Elodie, I will.”
“This is news,” Dr. Noel says. “Please, everyone, let’s have a moment. Let’s sit down.”
Although Dr. Noel has surely witnessed more drama than ours, she seems shaken. Glancing at her children’s framed faces on her desk, then back in our direction, she says, “You and your sister look so similar.”
“People tell us that.” Aubrey tilts her head to the right.
“I don’t know what to say. I can’t believe this.” James is beaming at my sister.
“I know, I can’t believe it, either,” I add.
“We’re the new threesome! What have I done?” Aubrey quickly turns to Dr. Noel. “I’m kidding. I know what’s ahead. I’m a perfect surrogate.”
“Are you?” asks Dr. Noel.
“Well, yeah, I am. I’m with someone, my boyfriend, who doesn’t want children, last I heard. No conflict there. Our parents will be happy, right?” Aubrey says.
Our eyes lock. “Yes, I’m not sure about Dad, who ended up caring more about this whole ordeal than anyone.”
“Incredibly,” Aubrey says. “I am very surprised.”
“He doesn’t know about this final plan, does he?” I ask.
“No way,” Aubrey says. “But this is our plan.”
“Now that you’ve appeared, Audrey,” Dr. Noel says, “I think we might use the time left to talk about—”
“Aubrey, not Audrey,” I say. “My sister’s name is Aubrey.”
“Our father was hoping for a boy, so he gave me a boy’s name.” Aubrey has explained her name often over the years. She rolls it out and lets it sink in.
“Let’s hear what Dr. Noel has to say.” James opens the second button of his starched white shirt. His forehead looks sweaty.
“I wanted to mention the emotional and legal ramifications of a traditional surrogacy. There is a law firm we recommend for the adoption process.”
“Adoption? I don’t know anything about that,” I say. Maybe Dr. Noel likes adding to the fray.
“Not complicated,” Dr. Noel says. “The ‘intended mother’—meaning Elodie—will need to adopt the baby and the…”
That’s when I have to leave the blue hues of Dr. Noel’s office. James notices.
“Dr. Noel,” he says, “my wife and my sister-in-law and I are going to the Starbucks across the street and have a talk. I’ll call in to discuss the rundown and finalize plans.”
* * *
In the reception area we pass the patients waiting to be seen, counseled, saved. One husband leans toward his wife, whispering in her ear. James walks ahead, beyond where they sit, reading their iPhones, issues of People and Star on their laps. I’m springing along, my step as bouncy as Tigger’s in Winnie the Pooh. Was it only yesterday that I read it to the three-year-olds at Reading Hour?
The world is rushing by and it’s possible I can grab on, be who I was before I had to have a baby. My younger sister has come to save me, save James and me. I ought to warn her against selling her soul to save mine. Except this is the first hope I’ve had in years. Outside the door, I hold on to Aubrey as I’ve never held on to anyone.
“It’s okay, Elodie.” Her body is slender and firm.
“Come, let’s go.” James leads us. We leave Dr. Noel’s office, a triumvirate.
PART TWO
CHAPTER 12
AUBREY
“Look at the waves coming in,” Tyler says as we walk on the pool patio at the Four Seasons. “Is the ceremony on the beach?”
I almost laugh. My friend Tiffany, who is having her wedding tonight, is being married indoors, with a party to follow in the Royal Poinciana Ballroom.
“No,” I say. “This is the pre-ceremony cocktail hour—that’s it for outdoors.”
“Why?” He faces the ocean.
“Well, when you grow up in Palm Beach you know better than to book anything by the water—the weather changes fast.” I don’t confide how hair frizzes, makeup slides off your face.
“What a setting, the sky, water, to be stuck inside.” Tyler adjusts the cummerbund of his rented tuxedo. While I like that he doesn’t own one, I don’t want my mother and sister to know. It wouldn’t be fair to him, when my father and James each own two or three versions.
“Yeah, except for the wind too, coming from the east. Then storms get stirred.”
Tyler keeps looking out at the ocean. The sky is dappled and it’s close to twilight. I don’t bother to explain that being married between Thanksgiving and New Year’s isn’t prime time. Tyler wouldn’t care; I don’t think he’d get it. I never really got it, either; it’s just what I was taught, the rules.
“But it will be lavish, that’s for sure. My mom calls it ‘ever elegant’ at the Four Seasons. The year before I met you, I was here for three weddings.”
“Three weddings?”
“People I grew up with, winter friends—the ones who came over Christmas breaks and were from up north. They wanted this. I was a bridesmaid at Tiffany’s first wedding, eight years ago—at the Harbor Club. She was the first friend to get married and then divorced.”
Tyler listens; maybe he’s curious, observing another species. “Why?”
“I’m not sure. I was in San Francisco that year. She mentioned he’d run into an old girlfriend. Now he’s remarried to her.”
“I’ve heard of that,” Tyler says.
“Right. So this time I’m not a bridesmaid, because her new husband, Ethan, has two sisters and a sister-in-law. She wouldn’t do any more—it’s a Thursday-night wedding. Y’know, more low-key.”
“Sure,” Tyler says. “Low-key.”
The small chip of a diamond post glistens in his left earlobe tonight.
“Like I’m telling you about another form of life on Earth,” I say. “Last week at Tiffany’s bridal shower at Longreens, her mother handed out these 23andMe kits to everyone, as a party favor, I guess. It must be a fad, people wanting to learn if they’re part Neanderth
al or likely to sneeze in the sun, predestined for allergies, curly hair. She had extras, so I took two to the Literary Society afterward. Elodie and I sat in her office and spit into our little vials.”
“That’s a party favor? Are you sure it’s Earth?” He comes close and puts his mouth to my ear, holds me at my waist. “What’ya think the band’ll be like tonight?”
* * *
When the minister and rabbi echo each other, both asking Tiffany if she will take Ethan to be her lawfully wedded husband, I shudder. What guarantees could there be? Living with Tyler is tricky enough, and we are so not married. What is it that Elodie has said lately about how the magic evaporates, even with someone like James, and illusion wears thin? After what she has been through, no wonder. I turn to Tyler; he squeezes my hand as the minister has Tiffany repeat her vows: For better or for worse. He winks at me. When the two kiss, Tyler shifts closer, our bodies graze.
Tiffany and Ethan march back down the aisle, this time together, wife and husband.
“She looks happy. I’m so happy for her,” I whisper.
Tyler nods. “I’m a sucker for feel-good ceremonies.”
The two of us sail toward the raw bar while everyone else is lined up for Railcars, Palm Beach daiquiris, or a craft beer. Tyler selects oysters—bluepoints, Kumamotos, and Wellfleets—piling them on a plate for us to share. I blink as if I’m the one from another planet. Already a future anxiety begins: I can’t be eating uncooked shellfish once I’m carrying my sister’s baby. Tonight Tyler knows nothing—I haven’t had the guts to tell him what happened two days ago. He deserves to know; it’s that I hope to keep this night separate.
“Hey, Aubrey, am I imagining it or are people staring at me?”
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