He Gets That from Me

by Jacqueline Friedland

  As I approach the door of Food City and cast about in my bag for my grocery list, I decide I’d rather rest my feet for a few minutes before heading inside the crowded store. Mondays are my longest day at BB&B, and I’m not quite ready to compete against all the other after-work shoppers for produce. I give up on the list and pull out my phone instead, looking for a place to sit when I hear someone call my name.

  It takes a moment before my eyes settle on Brianna Westlake, who is striding toward me from the parking lot looking as fetching as always in a pair of pale denim overalls with a tight white T-shirt beneath. Her blond hair is contained in a loose bun on top of her head. Instead of making her appear juvenile, the overalls and casual hairstyle somehow lend an air of sophistication to her bone-thin frame.

  Brianna is a couple of years older than I am, and she waitresses at Cantina Rosalita, the restaurant where Nick is a line cook. She’s in grad school, getting a PhD in psychology or sociology or something. For her, the waitressing is just a side gig, a way to supplement the stipend she receives from her graduate program while she progresses toward her own bright future.

  “Hey.” I offer a small smile as she reaches me, self-conscious in my drab leggings and tunic. My hand flies to my chest, double-checking that I’m no longer wearing my BB&B nametag. I’m not.

  “This is funny, bumping into you now,” she says. “I was just going to call Nick.”

  The sun is setting in the distance, and I have to shield my eyes with my hand to look her in the face. “Oh?” I tilt my head. I wasn’t aware that Nick and Brianna had become “phone friends.”

  “Tripp and I are having a dinner party tomorrow night. Thought you guys might like to join us.” We’ve never spent time with Brianna outside of the restaurant.

  “That’s so sweet,” I answer, “but we don’t have anyone to watch Wyatt, our baby.” We could probably ask my old roommate, Kiara, but I’m not really interested in spending a night with Brianna and her boyfriend, watching them be perfect with all their perfect friends.

  “Okay.” She shrugs, like it’s irrelevant either way. “Another time, then. I’ve gotta run, though. Class soon.” She leans toward me and surprises me with a quick kiss to my cheek before she offers a little wave and heads into the market.

  “Bye,” I call after her, but she’s already too far away to hear me.

  I watch her for a moment as she walks away, wondering if I made the wrong call, and then I lower myself down on the bench beside me. The wood is still warm from the Arizona sun, even in January, and it heats my legs through my flimsy cotton pants.

  I dial Tess’s number and then listen to the phone ring on the other end.

  “Sorry,” she huffs into the phone as she picks up. “I’m just walking out of New York Sports. Hang on.”

  I picture my sister slinging some stylish gym bag over her shoulder and pulling her long blond hair out from under the strap. Her fancy-brand tank top is likely soaked with sweat from an hour on the treadmill or elliptical.

  “Okay, hey.” She’s back. “What’s the latest? Is he in?”

  The last time Tess and I spoke, I was about to tell Nick about the surrogacy ad. To my own surprise, the notion of carrying someone else’s baby for a fee had niggled at me, poking at me for nearly a week by then. I kept trying to talk myself out of the idea, but with the kind of money offered, I was smitten by the possibilities. I could go back to school, get a college degree, start thinking about an actual career.

  When I mentioned the ad to Tess a couple of days ago, her reaction was calmer than I expected. Once she realized I wasn’t joking, she just asked a lot of questions.

  “He’s in,” I tell her. I replay last night’s conversation in my head, remembering the way Nick’s face darkened like a brick when I first broached the idea. “He made a couple of comments about me carrying ‘another man’s kid,’” I admit, “but he didn’t erupt, never said he didn’t want me to do it.”

  “Another man’s kid,” she repeats. “Nice.”

  A pock-marked teenager wearing a Food City vest pushes a long train of shopping carts across the lot, and I watch him maneuver them into place beside the entry of the store as I consider how to respond.

  “So now what happens?” Tess asks, interrupting my thought. The sound of a car horn follows her question through the phone.

  The incessant background noise of our calls is a stark reminder of one of the reasons I prefer Arizona. Even in this busy shopping center, the relative bustle doesn’t rise anywhere near to the chaos that was the soundtrack to my childhood in Manhattan.

  “I have to get matched with intended parents,” I explain. I’ve been hunting down information about surrogate pregnancies over the past few days, and I finally understand how it works. Mostly.

  That magazine with the ad disappeared before I went back to work the next day, but a few internet searches during Nick’s hours at the restaurant provided a wealth of information. Even though I couldn’t remember the name of the place I’d seen advertised, the search engine I used was chock full of choices. Through a series of clicks and a few phone calls, I ended up speaking to someone at a place called Seven Sisters Surrogacy. A brief conversation allowed me to re-confirm that I meet all the minimum requirements: I’m within the correct age range, I’ve successfully carried at least one child to term, I’m a non-smoker with a healthy weight, and I don’t have a criminal record. The fact that I live with a domestic partner also cuts in my favor, because intended parents like to know that their surrogates have a support system at home. After the call, I filled out online applications from four difference agencies.

  The woman from Seven Sisters also explained that although my personal stats make me an excellent candidate for gestational carrying, my geographical location is less than ideal. Apparently, Arizona is not, in her words, a “slam dunk” state for surrogacy contracts. The laws here are somewhat murky when it comes to the enforceability of these agreements. Living in Phoenix is not as desirable as a place like San Francisco, since California is widely considered the safest choice for surrogacy contracts. Even so, she said, a number of Arizona courts have recently interpreted the laws favorably enough that lawyers are finding ways to make surrogacy work in the Grand Canyon State. Moreover, it’s not that simple to find healthy, stable women who fit all the medical parameters and are willing to go through the indignities of pregnancy without the reward of a child left to raise after the fact.

  “It’s apparently kind of like eharmony,” I say, fully aware that she hates that dating site. “I have to get chosen. All my information goes into some database out there, and then parental hopefuls comb through files until they find someone who sparks their interest, someone who checks their boxes.”

  “So, what?” she prods. “You have to list your hobbies, your hopes and dreams? Like, ‘Maggie enjoys traveling and long walks on the beach’?”

  I laugh loudly as an older couple walks past me, the husband pushing a cartload of overstuffed grocery bags toward a curb cut, as he glances in my direction. “Not exactly,” I say. “The questions are a little more targeted. They want to know things like, would I be willing to terminate a pregnancy for a serious genetic abnormality? Would I agree to reduce from three fetuses to two? Easier stuff also, like would I be willing eat all organic food if it’s paid for by the intended parents, would I be able to pump and ship breast milk after the birth of the child . . . that kind of stuff.”

  “Huh.”

  “What?” Maybe she’s going to judge me about my plans after all.

  “Hey Stevie,” she calls out as her voice begins to echo a bit. “The doorman,” she whispers into the phone, making clear that she just entered her West Village apartment building. I picture her in her lobby, living the shiny life our parents wanted for her—for both of us. I’m certain it doesn’t matter to our mom that Tess is not remotely enthused about being a lawyer. “Go to law school,” our mother had told her again and again, “you’ll be qualified to do anything.” But
when Tess came out on the other side of that JD, it turned out she was qualified to do precisely one thing: work in a large corporate firm. She’s tepid about her job but gratified to be giving our parents just what they need from her. At least one of the Fisher girls ended up with an impressive degree and a six-figure salary.

  “What were you going to say?” I nudge.

  “No, it’s just complicated, that’s all. Breast milk after the fact. Aborting perfectly healthy fetuses. There’s a lot I wouldn’t have thought about. You sure you’re game?” The ding of an elevator sounds in the background.

  “Thousands and thousands of dollars,” I say into the phone.

  We’re both silent for a second, and I wonder if she’s lost reception in the elevator, but then I hear her sigh. I start talking again before she can interrupt.

  “I’d be helping people create a family. There’s something pretty awe-inspiring about that, don’t you think? Even though Wyatt came as a surprise, I can’t imagine my life without him. What if I could never have a kid of my own without someone else’s help? It’s too awful to even imagine. I don’t have many marketable skills, but this . . . this I can do and do well.”

  “If Wyatt is the proof of your baby-carrying skills, I guess I can’t argue. Listen, I’ve got to hit the shower before I start growing mold. Talk later?”

  I’m relieved she isn’t pushing me today. I’ve grown weary of repeating all the reasons why it’s important to me to pay my own way when I go back to school, why I don’t want to be anyone else’s problem to fix. “Sure,” I say. “I’ll call you if there’s any news.”

  We say our good-byes and I stand up from the bench, stretching out my stiff limbs. I’m still feeling reluctant to begin the unpleasant process of food shopping on an inadequate budget. Long lines are visible through the market’s foggy window, heaping carts and fidgety people waiting under the yellow lights at the two open checkout lanes. The store is clearly understaffed for the number of shoppers inside.

  I release a defeated breath as I feel around in my tote again, searching for the shopping list. I wonder whether Food City pays their cashiers more than what I earn at Bed Bath & Beyond. There are no “Help Wanted” signs here as far as I can see, so it’s probably a moot point anyway. My hand finally lands on the notepaper, but as I pull it out, my bracelet catches on the zipper and beads start spilling onto the sidewalk, miniature pieces of pink and green hail bouncing to the ground and disappearing.

  The bracelet was a gift from Nick on Wyatt’s first birthday. I scoff now, thinking that an engagement ring wouldn’t have fallen prey to a zipper, that metal wouldn’t have splintered into unbound pieces of disappearing confetti.

  I don’t know if Nick even remembers the plan he and I made to get married after three years of being together. There are still several months remaining until we hit that benchmark, but I’ve begun to doubt whether he has any intention of ever making good on the agreement.

  If I get selected by some couple out there to be a surrogate, will that wreck us? Are we as fragile as that cheapy bracelet? While Nick’s out there building his career, I’m stuck in a never-ending cycle of mind-numbing, low-paying work. The quiet nights while he’s out at the restaurant haven’t been so fulfilling, either. Surrogacy could be the thing to finally uncork my other options, my potential for more than just punching buttons at a register and handing out coupons.

  As I enter the supermarket, a hot burn creeps from my heels up through my calves, reminding me of the hours I’ve already spent on my feet today. Even if gestational surrogacy will be more strain than our relationship can bear, I think it’s a risk I’m willing to take.

  Chapter 4

  DONOVAN

  JUNE 2018

  At 11:00 a.m. on Monday morning, I am standing in the small courtyard behind my office building with my cell phone pressed to my ear. One of the perks of working at the real estate and design firm of Hopper Bredworth in New York City is the office’s prime location near Union Square and the charming postage stamp of outdoor space tucked away behind the building. I’ve been out here lingering in the late-morning sunshine because of the sensitive nature of the many phone calls I’ve had to make so far today.

  My first call this morning was to the pediatrician, who took two hours to get back to me. I shuffled papers around at my desk, waiting, and then scurried back down the internal stairwell when I saw a blocked number flash on my caller ID. When I was finally able to unload to her about those DNA reports, her response came nowhere near alleviating my concern. Dr. Pine did not have an extensive opinion on the veracity of commercial genealogy testing services, except to say that from what she understands, she believes the tests to be generally reliable. She also informed me that no, her office does not perform paternity tests. She was, however, perfectly willing to write me a prescription for a paternity test that we can complete at any Quest or LabCorp location.

  I have always been very happy with Dr. Pine, who has been looking after the boys since a few weeks after their birth, but something about the precision of her word choices today as she reflected on the Relativity results had me thoroughly coming apart.

  Before going inside to log into the LabCorp website and figure out the logistics for the paternity test, I looked up the number for the hospital at UCLA where Kai and Teddy were born. I asked to speak to a nurse in Labor and Delivery. A woman who introduced herself as Nurse Shontz finally came on the line. I told her that my ten-year-old son was going to be working on a project over the summer, researching questions of nature versus nurture, and he wanted to add some information from his own life. Would it be possible, I asked, for Nurse Shontz to tell me how many other white, male babies were born in their hospital on the same day as my child?

  The nurse seemed excited about the fake project I concocted and cheerfully explained that I would have to call the birth registrar for the information I was requesting. She gave me the phone number and then told me to ask for Felicia, who she thought would be the most helpful.

  So now I’m on with Felicia. Actually, Felicia has me on hold. As the delivery nurse predicted, Felicia did seem happy to help, but Felicia also explained, before putting me on hold, that the records going ten years back are kept in a different area and are somewhat haphazard since the BirthPlace at Westwood, the division of UCLA where the boys were delivered, hadn’t been operating for long back in 2008.

  I’ve been pacing across the empty cobblestone patio for close to ten minutes, listening to tinny hold music as sweat builds around my hairline, and I’m beginning to wonder if she’s ever coming back.

  “Hello, sir?” I finally hear a human pick up on the other end of the phone, but it’s a man, and I hope I’m not going to have to explain myself all over again.

  “Yes?” I confirm that I am, indeed, still waiting on this end of the line.

  “Yes, um, those records are in a different location, though, you see. If you want, we can write up a request, but we’re going to have to get back to you in a few days, maybe next week.”

  “Oh.” I stop pacing, as I realize this is a dead end for now. “Okay, yeah, let’s do that, write the request please.”

  He takes my information, and we hang up. I have a sinking suspicion that I might not ever hear back from them. Red tape, hospital bureaucracy, overworked employees.

  When I sit back down at my desk, huffing from the four flights of stairs, I see that Erica, one of the junior associates, has left a new draft of plans on my desk. My team has scored the relocation of Wenzo, a large pan-Asian restaurant that is looking to overhaul its image—or, rather, we’ve scored the opportunity to pitch to them. The project, if we get the client to officially sign on, will be one of the firm’s largest, and I’m thrilled by the opportunity to lead this effort. Was thrilled. Up until this weekend, I was extremely wrapped up in each step of the process—searching for the perfect space for the client, brainstorming layout concepts— but the truth is, ever since I saw those DNA reports on Saturday, I’ve thought
of almost nothing else. I sink into my leather swivel chair and gaze at the large, glossy pages on my desk detailing the way various proposed spaces could be transformed to meet Wenzo’s needs. The pictures blur in front of me, becoming nothing more than random shapes of grey and beige.

  I push the stack of oversize drawings to the side before jiggling my mouse to wake up my screen. The sunshine streaming from the window behind me creates a glare at this time of day, but today I’m too thirsty for answers to waste time dealing with the shades. I pull up the webpage for LabCorp, click on the dropdown menu, and select Schedule a paternity test. I see that the company doesn’t even require prescriptions. I guess this is not something that Dr. Pine deals with on a regular basis. Maybe everyone is bypassing their doctors altogether now that paternity tests are available in Walgreens, like Chip said.

  I click through the options and see that there are “legal” tests and “at-home” tests. I want the most accurate test there is, but the descriptions make clear that the tests are equally reliable. The legal test is for court cases, where the medical procedure has to meet certain standards with respect to the chain of custody. It includes safeguards to ensure that results aren’t tampered with (as in, to influence the outcome of a court case for child support or custody), but the actual medical accuracy is the same. If you simply want information for personal use, LabCorp recommends the at-home test.

  In light of the fact that the at-home test is significantly less expensive than the legal test, I am happy to follow LabCorp’s advice. Not that I wouldn’t dig deep into my life savings to confirm my biological connection to Kai if I had to.

  There is a special link for New York residents, so I click on it, and I learn that if you live anywhere in New York state, you actually do need a prescription, or a court order, to purchase a paternity test, even just the at-home test.