Praise for
He Gets That From Me
“A piercing, mesmerizing look into the fragility and resiliency of the human experience . . . a bold page-turner that will leave you breathless with anticipation. With He Gets That From Me, Friedland invites you to ask yourself the questions you didn’t even know you needed to answer—about family, forgiveness, sacrifice, and love. An absolute home run.”
—AMY IMPELLIZZERI, award-winning author of Lemongrass Hope and I Know How This Ends
“He Gets That from Me takes on timeless questions about parenthood and our presumptions about birth, biology, and family. Describing a modern-day arrangement between two dads and a surrogate, the story opens our eyes to the many ways a family can be created while also telling a suspenseful narrative full of unexpected thrills that keep the reader wanting more. A moving story throughout, it ends with a twist that will leave you thinking about the book long after you’ve finished reading it.”
—MELISSA BRISMAN, ESQ., reproductive attorney
“Jacqueline Friedland creates a host of complex characters in this nuanced, compelling exploration of what it really means to be a family, and why we should maybe think twice before heading to ancestry.com.”
—LAURA HANKIN, author of Happy & You Know It and A Special Place for Women
Copyright © 2021 Jacqueline Friedland
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
Published by SparkPress, a BookSparks imprint,
A division of SparkPoint Studio, LLC
Phoenix, Arizona, USA, 85007
www.gosparkpress.com
Published 2021
Printed in the United States of America
Print ISBN: 978-1-68463-097-4
E-ISBN: 978-1-68463-098-1
Library of Congress Control Number: 2021906583
Interior design by Tabitha Lahr
All company and/or product names may be trade names, logos, trademarks, and/or registered trademarks and are the property of their respective owners.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
For my father,
with love
Chapter 1
MAGGIE
JANUARY 2007
I’m just wrapping a towel around my wet body when I hear Wyatt calling for me on the baby monitor. I should have expected this, should have planned better or moved faster. Wyatt’s been waking earlier from his naps with each passing day. He clearly no longer needs the marathon midday snooze that was a staple of his first year of life. I’ll have to figure out how to keep him occupied for another few minutes if I want any chance of making it to work on time.
As I hurry to his room, I ignore the mess of mail that’s been sitting on the hallway table for the past three days. At the top of the stack is an unopened invitation from the one and only high school friend who still condescends to keep in touch with me.
Instead of thinking about a trip back to New York for a bridal shower that I don’t want to attend, and can’t afford to get to anyway, I focus on the large plastic jar of rubber fish resting near the laundry basket at my feet. I scoop up the jar, and one of Wyatt’s blankies from the pile of dirty laundry, and scurry down the hallway.
He’s standing at the edge of his crib, his brown curls pointing in every direction as he shakes at the bars like a jailbird.
“Here, sweetie.” I unscrew the large lid from the jar and pull out a squishy red fish. He reaches for it, looks at it curiously, and promptly brings it to his mouth. The fish is much too big to fit past his lips—a fact that will hopefully puzzle him long enough to allow me to finish dressing.
“Mommy has to get ready for work. I’ll be back in just a few minutes.” I place the jar in the corner of the crib so he can extract additional fish to manipulate as necessary, and then I dash back to my room.
I realize I’m still holding the blankie. It’s the one Nick’s aunt and uncle sent, a soft chenille square with Wyatt’s Hebrew name embroidered along one side. I know that the white threading spells out “Yehuda,” a name we chose in an effort to honor my deceased grandfather, but I never learned how to actually read the boxy Hebrew letters. I toss the blankie onto my dresser and quickly towel-dry my hair, hoping my own curls won’t resemble Wyatt’s ridiculous bedhead after this hasty personal grooming session. I have twenty-five minutes to get to Bed, Bath & Beyond on the other side of town, and if Nick doesn’t get home within the next five minutes, my manager is going to chew me out six ways to Sacramento.
I pull on a pair of black jeans, my last clean pair, and rummage in the next drawer to see if I can find a tunic long enough to cover the small hole at the top of one of the pant legs. I hear myself sigh as I run the numbers in my head again. At nine dollars an hour, it’s delusional to think about saving up money, to imagine returning to college. It’s a joke to have any dreams at all.
Wyatt suddenly lets out a frustrated wail.
“Mommy’s coming, Wyatt,” I shout into the air. “Just one more second!” I slip on my black sneakers and scurry back into the nursery.
Wyatt’s diaper is bulging against his tight little pajama pants. At the sound of keys jingling in the front door of the apartment, I scoop him out of the crib, grab my purse from where it’s sitting on our coffee table, and meet Nick as he walks in the door.
“Sorry for the stinky welcome,” I offer as I hold Wyatt out in his direction.
“Hey, kid.” Nick smiles and reaches for our son with one hand, a bag full of takeout containers hanging from the other. “Oh,” he adds, wrinkling his nose.
“Gotta go!” My keys are in my hand, and I’m placing a brisk kiss on Nick’s cheek. The scent of garlic and cilantro is strong as I push past him and out the front door. Then I’m flying down the concrete steps toward the parking lot below our building, heading toward my ’92 Honda, rushing against the clock, racing against luck.
When I come skidding through the doorway of BB&B at exactly 4:01 p.m., my co-workers, Kim and Dougie, are chatting across their registers, and they don’t even look up. The store is unusually empty for a Thursday afternoon. I set my tote bag beneath the register at my station and punch in a few numbers to awaken the machine. Cynthia, my manager, is nowhere to be seen.
“Why is it so quiet?” I call across to Kim, whose register is three stations over from my own. The ones between us are always empty at this time of day.
“Post-holiday lull,” Dougie answers from the register beyond Kim’s. Dougie is in his early thirties and is the most senior employee among us, having worked here for three years, ever since he moved to Arizona from Tulsa.
An elderly woman walks into the store with a list in her hand. We stop our chatting and watch silently as she makes her way toward the first aisle, where a wealth of toasters and smaller kitchen gadgets await. We’re still quiet when Cynthia appears from behind the displays of holiday-themed wrapping paper and gift bags, now all on sale, and begins making her way toward me.
“So dead today,” she says by way of greeting, and she glances around the store for emphasis.
I stand a little taller as she approaches me, noting that her bleached hair looks freshly blown. If I’m lucky, that means she has somewhere else to be and won’t spend the whole night breathing down my neck.
“What’s dinner?” She tips her chin toward my stowed tote.
“Pulled beef burritos and Mexican street corn,” I answer, remembering what Nick told me last night as he was cramming the takeout containers from the restaurant into the fridge.
Cynthia has so many self-imposed dietary restrictions that she won’t touch anything unless she can read all the ingredients before digging in, but she likes hearing about the dishes Nick creates at work. She nods pensively in response and then continues down the row of registers toward Dougie. They quickly get involved in a detailed discussion about the placement of makeup mirrors in the stock room.
Standing here without customers to ring up is about as interesting as watching a cactus grow, and I miss the busier days of the holiday season. I resist the temptation to pick at my cuticles, if just for something to do, and instead, I study the displays of impulse-buy items placed throughout the front portion of the store. There are economy-size jars full of candies and colorful popcorn, kitschy potholders, hair accessories and curling irons, all piled in precarious pyramids meant to entice the customers.
My gaze travels to the back portion of my station, where there’s a dog-eared copy of Arizona Parenting Magazine resting on top of the stack of store bags. It’s an outdated issue that I assume was left behind by a customer. I reach for the magazine and start flipping through the pages, trying to entertain myself by reading the Thanksgiving recipes.
A customer finally appears, pushing a shopping cart full of turquoise-colored bath towels, but she walks towards Kim’s register, so I turn my attention back to the magazine. After the recipes, there is a final section full of advertisements and coupons, and I’m annoyed that this diversion has lasted only a few minutes. There are still more than three hours left of my shift, and after a long morning trying to entertain Wyatt at home, I’m already dragging. I wonder if I should walk over to Kim’s station and let her fill me in on the latest drama she’s having with her mother-in-law, or if I could possibly close my eyes and steal a little cat nap while I’m standing up.
I’m just closing the magazine when I notice an ad that says, “Compensation of $35,000+.” I stop the page from turning and pull it closer to read the ad in its entirety.
Can you help create a family? Become a Surrogate Mother! Satisfaction Beyond Words! Generous Compensation! You can make a beautiful dream come true!!
My excitement dissipates as quickly as it had arrived. I wonder if these ads actually work, if there are really women out there who read these quarter-page displays and then raise their hands, screaming, “Pick me, pick me!” I suspect that most of these advertisements are the basis of one nefarious scheme or another, a way to get people to release personal information about themselves so that some lowlife can steal their identities. I can’t imagine that fertility clinics would truly find their baby carriers this way. I snort to myself as I notice that the requirements for carrying someone else’s baby seem to be even less rigorous than the prerequisites for my cashier job. They want a US citizen between the ages of twenty-one and thirty-eight who has previously birthed at least one child. That’s it.
Since I’m so clearly qualified, based on these conditions, I actually consider it for a few seconds, fantasizing about handing over a baby to a formerly childless mother and then skipping off to an education course at a local university. A nagging thought about my parents creeps up on me then—the idea that I could reach out and ask them for tuition money—but I tamp it down like always, unable to stomach the notion. I am not going back to good old Gail and Leon with my tail between my legs and proving that they were right all along.
I close the magazine and push it back to the corner where I found it, shaking my head at myself for daydreaming, for imaging that my prior fuckups might ever stop standing in my way.
Chapter 2
DONOVAN
JUNE 2018
According to the paperwork in front of me, I am a thief and a fool. I should be shaved and dressed already. Instead, I’m still staring at the four genealogy reports I’ve got spread out across the kitchen table. My morning coffee languishes beside them, now cold, in a mug that reads, “Fab Dad.”
I’m feeling anything but “fab” as I study the data in front of me. I lean closer, rubbing my hand against my rough chin, as I examine the colorful charts and diagrams, trying to make sense of what I’m seeing.
The information seems to indicate that my ten-year-old son might not be my son at all.
I read everything over again from left to right. The results confirm that Teddy is the biological son of my husband, Chip, just like we’ve always thought. Their genetic connection has long been perfectly obvious from their matching blond widows’ peaks, their nearly photographic memories, and so many other conspicuous similarities.
Kai, on the other hand, has always resembled me. With his dark eyes and even darker hair, we figured that our second-born twin came from the egg that was fertilized by my sperm.
We ordered these genetic testing kits from Relativity as a follow-up to our kids’ school project on family trees, thinking it’d be interesting to learn more about our genetic histories, but none of us imagined results like these.
Based on the Relativity reports, it seems that Kai shares no genetic material with me. And none with Chip, either. Even worse, there is no way, based on these results, that Kai and Teddy could possibly be genetic half-brothers.
I race to our small office at the back end of the apartment and search for the thick file from the fertility clinic, an overstuffed folder that’s been left undisturbed for more than a decade. The papers have been packed away in a drawer ever since we brought our babies home, all of us exhausted from the cross-country drive. We kept subfolders on the woman who carried the babies, and on egg donor #2674, a college student with so many of the genetic traits that Chip and I had decided were important when we filled out our wish lists— strong health history, exceedingly high intelligence verified through SAT scores and IQ tests, demonstrable athleticism, so on and so forth.
I flip frantically through the pages until I find the report on the egg donor’s ancestry. My heart sinks as I see that the results are just as I remembered. Our donor’s workup shows a genetic origin that is 75 percent Mediterranean, a combination of Greek, Northern Italian, and Turkish. The remainder of her blood was deemed to have trickled down from various Scandinavian countries. That was part of why we liked her—genes that might produce children with olive complexions like my own, but might just as likely result in a blond-haired blue-eyed child resembling Chip. Why, then, does Kai’s report show lineage only from eastern European countries like Hungary, Poland, and Romania?
At the sound of commotion outside the apartment door, I hurry to return the papers to their folder and shove everything back into place in the metal file drawer. As I’m racing back toward the kitchen, the door opens and Chip bursts in with Teddy and Kai.
The boys dump their dusty baseball bags beside the door, hidden metal bats clattering against the floor, and start scrambling toward the kitchen.
“Cleats!” Chip and I shout the word simultaneously and then smile at each other, applauding our own predictability.
The boys groan and drop to the floor in tandem, unlacing their muddy, spike-covered shoes and sparing our parquet floors.
Chip is still smiling at me from his post by the door, the layer of sweat coating his temples proof of his two hours coaching fifth grade Little League in the June sunshine. I want to lose myself in the picture he creates—a satisfied athlete, lingering in the doorway with his cap on backwards and a baseball Henley taut across his chest, a half-full Gatorade in hand—but the reports are sitting on the table in the kitchen. I never imagined there would be anything to keep secret when I downloaded the results and printed them off the Relativity website. I thought I’d be so cute, putting the boys’ reports in separate envelopes for them each to open with glee—but now it feels like I’ve left live grenades unattended in the other room.
“One sec!” I pivot, bolt back to the table, and snatch up the papers and envelopes. I have everything in a stack, ready to stash in some high-up cabinet, when a now-barefoot Chip makes his way into the kitchen, the boys following closely behind. Panicking at their presence,
I freeze.
Chip finishes the remainder of his blue sports drink and walks over to the recycling bin behind me to discard the bottle.
“What’s all that?” he asks casually, glancing over my shoulder.
“No, nothing.” I open my eyes extra wide at him, indicating there is definitely an issue here, but it’s not something we can discuss at the current moment with the boys underfoot. “Just work stuff.” I jam the papers into the outside pocket of my messenger bag, trying to appear nonchalant. One thing I’ve learned from raising children is how frustratingly perceptive even the littlest people can be.
Chip shrugs and heads to the open refrigerator, where Kai and Teddy are already standing inside the door, making a mess of my cheese drawer. Chip reaches above their heads for the bowl of champagne grapes on the top shelf.
I wait for the boys to find what they want but then grow impatient as they keep opening containers, peering inside this one and that one and then returning everything back to the shelves, all now in haphazard disarray.
“Guys, move,” I finally bark, my tone angrier than I intended.
Teddy, who is shoving one of those horrible processed cheese slices into his mouth, shoots me a questioning look, but Kai is still struggling to pull a yogurt drink from its six-pack on one of the shelves.
“Leave it, Kai!” I demand, my voice rising.
Kai backs away from the stainless-steel door of the fridge, his dark eyes darting quickly to Chip and then back to me.
“Sorry,” he says quietly, a look of confusion on his still-flushed face.
I don’t answer as a I stare back at him, this child with his chocolate brown eyes and slick, dark hair, the boy who I always believed resembled my older sister. Of the two babies we brought home at the end of our long and winding journey with surrogacy, he is the one I always thought was my own flesh and blood.
He Gets That from Me Page 1
