The Offering

by Angela Hunt

  “You don’t think people would notice if someone showed up with a baby when they were stick thin the week before?”

  “Maybe they’d assume her kid had been adopted.”

  “What about a woman who walked around with a big belly and then—poof—she was thin and childless? And flashing a wad of cash?”

  “Maybe her belly and her finances are nobody’s business. All I know is the money is really, really good. It’s enough to solve our problems, at least for a while. And I think it’s enough for a down payment on a house.”

  Amelia leaned back and closed her eyes. “I didn’t know you and Gideon wanted more kids.”

  “Sure we do, but we have to be able to afford them. Right now we can’t even afford to eat out more than once a month, so how could we pay for another baby?”

  “You have good insurance.”

  “It’s not the hospital expense that kills us, it’s the living expense. It’s schools and college funds and clothing and all the gadgets kids want these days—it adds up. Once I have my degree and a good job we could get pregnant again. Then we might have a couple more kids.”

  Amelia sighed and appeared to study her hands. “I don’t know, prima. A baby is a gift from God, so maybe that privilege shouldn’t be for sale.”

  “Couldn’t God work through a surrogate? He works through doctors to help people overcome infertility. Why couldn’t he work through a surrogate to help a couple have a baby?”

  “Okay, but it’s so expensive! It hardly seems fair that some people can buy a biological baby when other people try so hard to have one—”

  “Those would be the people I want to help.” I leaned toward her, eager to make her see my point of view. “Infertility is on the rise, haven’t you heard? And this is a way to do something for those people. Just think—I could help create a family for a couple who can’t have their own babies.”

  “You want to have a baby for a poor woman? There’s no money in that, Cousin.”

  I stared into space, lost in my thoughts, and then realized that Amelia had risen and was opening the back door.

  “I think the idea is loco,” she said, her voice drained and distant. “And I think Gideon would hate the thought of his wife being pregnant with some other guy’s child. You forget you married a Latin man, chica.”

  “That’s a stereotype.”

  “Stereotypes exist because they are usually true.” Amelia stepped into the doorway, then hesitated. “Better get back to the register. Mario has meat to cut, and he won’t be happy if you make him stay too long at the checkout.”

  “I’m coming.” I sighed and stood to follow her, but my thoughts remained miles away.

  * * *

  Somehow I made it through the rest of the morning without spilling my thoughts to everyone who crossed my path. I left the grocery at two, picked up Marilee from preschool, then went home and put her down for a nap. When she had dozed off, I went to the laptop in the kitchen and clicked on the Google icon. I typed “surrogate mother” in the search box, then sat back and watched the screen fill up with links.

  I never dreamed I’d find so much information—links to websites about surrogate motherhood, finding a surrogate mother, surrogate agencies, being a surrogate mother, ethical problems with surrogacy, surrogate mothers for hire, cost of surrogate mothers, surrogate parenting, surrogate mothers wanted, affordable surrogacy, gestational surrogacy, surrogate mother compensation . . .

  The woman in the grocery was right—surrogacy was more common than I’d realized, and apparently it was happening right under my nose. One website featured state-by-state listings of agencies that arranged surrogate pregnancies, and I was surprised to see the names of several agencies in Florida, including one near me.

  Maybe surrogacy wasn’t such a big deal after all. Maybe I’d been so wrapped up in my little life that I’d missed the big picture. Even though the listing about ethical problems with surrogacy had raised a warning flag in my brain, surely people had figured out how to make the arrangement work.

  Still . . . what would people think if they knew I was carrying a child for someone else? What would they think if I told them the baby in my belly wasn’t Gideon’s?

  I picked up the phone and called my mom.

  Ordinarily, my mom wasn’t the first person I’d use as a sounding board. Usually I would toss my wild ideas at Gideon, but he was out on a training exercise and I didn’t want to interrupt him while he jumped out of a plane or shot at cardboard terrorists. Sometimes I would talk to Amelia or Mama Isa—thoroughly grounded, they usually gave good, godly counsel when I needed it. Sometimes I listened to Oprah, though my life wasn’t nearly as dramatic as the issues she usually discussed on her program.

  Being a surrogate mother, though, seemed like a fairly dramatic situation.

  Fortunately, Mom happened to have her cell phone with her. My mom, who had turned into a social butterfly shortly after I left home, lived ninety-three miles away in The Villages, a golf cart retirement community in north-central Florida. With dozens of ongoing activities for the thirteen thousand mostly retired residents, I rarely managed to reach my mom on the first attempt.

  But today, wonder of wonders, Mom answered her phone. Knowing that she probably had a bridge club meeting or some other event to get to, I explained my idea as quickly as possible, then bit my thumbnail and braced for the backlash.

  “So,” I said after a long moment of total silence, “what do you think?”

  “I think you’ve lost your mind.” Mom’s voice, calm and cool, rolled over the airwaves. “Honey, have you been working too hard?”

  She wasn’t taking me seriously. “I’m not working too hard, that’s the point. We’ll never manage to—”

  “You know Gideon would never go for such a thing. He’s such a man’s man—I can’t see him understanding why his wife would want to have another man’s baby.”

  “But I don’t want to have another man’s baby. I want to carry another couple’s baby and then give it to them. All I’d be doing is renting out my uterus. Gideon wouldn’t see this baby as a threat.”

  “What about Marilee? How would you explain that situation to my granddaughter?”

  I bit my lip, surprised by a question I hadn’t fully considered. “She’s only four years old. She may not even notice—”

  “Good grief, Mandy, you were plenty observant when you were her age. Of course she’ll notice, and what are you going to say? How do you explain that you’re planning to have a baby and then hand it off to someone else? What’s to stop her from thinking that you might give her away, too?”

  I flexed my fingers in exasperation. Mom would argue with me if I said the sky was blue, but today she was probably more worried about explaining my condition to her friends than to Marilee. But why should my pregnancy bother her? I wasn’t planning to visit The Villages any time soon, so she shouldn’t have to explain anything to anyone.

  I gulped a breath. “If I do this, I will simply tell Marilee the truth—that I’m having a baby for a couple who can’t have a baby of their own. I’m sure she’d understand. Kids are more sophisticated than they used to be, and Marilee’s exceptionally bright. She’ll understand when I explain that the baby isn’t related to us.”

  “You don’t have to be related to get your emotions all in a tangle. Love is a lot more binding than blood, let me tell you.”

  “Thanks, Mom.” I couldn’t keep a shade of cynicism from my voice. “I really appreciate your support.”

  “You asked what I thought, and I’m telling you: I think you’d be borrowing trouble if you went through with this crazy notion.”

  “Okay, then.” I slid from the barstool. “Thanks for offering your opinion.”

  “You’re not going to listen to me, are you? I know you, Amanda, and when you get your mind wrapped around a thing, there’s no prying you away from it.”

  “If I’m stubborn, I must have picked it up from you.”

  Mom exhaled a heav
y sigh. “You must not remember your father at all.”

  “I remember enough.”

  “Then you have to remember that he was as contrary as a mule. I could never get him to—”

  “I’ve gotta go, Mom.” I turned, ready to be done with the conversation. “Marilee will be waking up soon.”

  “All right. Just promise me you’ll think about this before you go ahead and do something rash. And one more thing—if you convince Gideon to go along with this, you have that man entirely too wrapped around your finger. Men should be more independent.”

  I lifted my gaze to the ceiling, certain that my wonderful father was watching and laughing at us from heaven. “Okay, I’ll think about it. And I’ll meet you at the river.”

  “Yeah, I’ll be waiting under the tree.”

  I disconnected the call and sighed, imagining Mom’s reaction if I’d had to leave a message on her voice mail—she would have dialed my number before the recording even finished playing. My mom could be a wonderful advocate when she agreed with a course of action, but when she disagreed, she could be as inflexible as an oak.

  Her inflexibility usually drove me to lower my head, dig in my heels, and become even more determined to do whatever she didn’t want me to do. Yet when it came down to it, I didn’t need her approval to pursue my plans because only one person really mattered. The only person whose opinion could stop me was Gideon.

  * * *

  Mom probably thought I would spring the idea on Gideon as soon as he came through the door, but I decided to keep my thoughts under wraps for a while. I wanted to sleep on the idea, I wanted to do some more research, and I wanted to see how I felt about surrogacy when I woke up to a fresh new day. Why start an argument with my husband if after some reflection I decided that having someone else’s baby was a stupid thing to do? So I simply made dinner for my family, Gideon and I watched TV together, and then we went to bed, same as always.

  But before we fell asleep, I rolled over and stroked Gid’s strong jaw. “Baby?”

  “Hmm?”

  “I’ve been thinking about something.”

  He rolled to face me and caught my hand. “Well, if you’re not too tired—”

  “Not that. I was thinking about the house we’re going to have someday. I think we should look for something with at least three or four bedrooms.”

  He chuckled. “How many kids you planning on having?”

  “I don’t know. But you need a place for your exercise equipment, and I might want a sewing room or a study. And it’s always nice to have a guest room for when Mom visits. She tries not to grumble about it, but I know she hates sleeping on the sofa bed.”

  “I’ve never heard her complain.”

  “Then consider this—if she were sleeping in a guest room, you and I wouldn’t have to clear out of the living room at nine o’clock. And you wouldn’t have to tiptoe around when you’re making coffee in the morning.”

  His fingers threaded through mine. “Why are you talking about houses? You know we haven’t saved near enough for a down payment—”

  “And we never will. Not with all our expenses.”

  The darkness filled with the sound of his exasperated sigh. “Then we’ll just have to rent until I get the store going. If I ask my father to be a silent partner—”

  “I love your dad, Gid, but I don’t think he ought to invest in a music store. He’ll want to help us out, but he’s nearing retirement age, so he needs to save his money.” I squeezed Gideon’s hand before he could sigh again. “But I learned about a potential job today—something I can do without a college degree. Something that might help us get a house sooner than we expected.”

  He lifted his head to peer at me through the gloom. “It’s not some government program, is it? You know how my family feels about government programs.”

  “It’s not any kind of handout. I’ll be working for the money, but it’s the kind of work I love.”

  “Are you going to tell me what it is?”

  “Maybe tomorrow. I want to sleep on it first.” I pulled my hand free of his, then rolled onto my back and tucked the comforter under my chin. “Good night.”

  “That’s not fair, baby girl. You can’t leave me hanging like that.”

  “Don’t worry, just go to sleep. If the idea’s any good, I’ll tell you about it tomorrow.”

  Obviously too tired to argue with me, Gideon grunted in resignation, then turned over and went to sleep.

  * * *

  The next morning I woke with the idea of surrogacy heavy on my mind. But instead of tarnishing in the stark light of a new day, the notion had taken on a golden glow, an aura of altruism. By having someone else’s baby, I would not only be helping my family and another couple, I would be doing something positive in a world that had seen far too much darkness and despair. I would be striking a blow for freedom. I would be taking a stand for a woman’s right to control her own body in a way that celebrated motherhood and unborn life.

  “Now,” Gideon said, coming out of the bathroom with a loaded toothbrush in his hand, “I want to hear about your great moneymaking idea.”

  I lifted my chin and let him have the no-frills version. “I could earn a lot of money by having another couple’s baby as a surrogate. I love being pregnant, so why couldn’t I be pregnant for someone else?”

  “No way.” Gideon thrust his toothbrush in his mouth and stepped back into the bathroom, brushing like a maniac while voicing his opinion through a mouthful of suds: “No way are you having some other man’s kid.”

  “But it happens all the time. A lot more than we realize.” I slipped off the bed and stood in the bathroom doorway, watching my husband’s face in the mirror. “The baby won’t mean anything to us—it will be someone else’s kid. But I could earn a lot of money by helping them out.”

  “Uh-uh.” Gideon shook his head, then leaned over and spat into the sink—and on my idea, or so it seemed. I waited until he had rinsed and wiped his mouth, then I walked toward him and wound my arms around his neck. “You do so much for us, babe,” I whispered, looking up into his dark eyes. “Why don’t you let me do something important for our family?”

  He caught my arms in his firm grip and removed them from his neck. “You do plenty,” he said, smiling as he released me. “And I love having you all to myself. Maybe I don’t want to share you with some other man.”

  What do you know—Mom was right. My Latin male was behaving exactly like the stereotypical Latin male.

  “Don’t say that,” I answered, my voice sharper than I intended. “This is the twenty-first century. You wouldn’t be sharing me with anyone; I’d be giving some couple the child they can’t conceive any other way.”

  “No.” Gideon flashed a quick smile and planted a kiss on my forehead. “Not interested.”

  My heart dropped, but I wasn’t willing to give up. I knew Gideon had a tendency to react quickly and instinctively. While that tendency undoubtedly worked in his favor on the battlefield, it didn’t work so well in our marriage.

  * * *

  That afternoon I set Marilee on a barstool and let her stir a bowl of brownie mix while I pulled a chicken out of the freezer. I wanted to make Gideon’s favorite dinner, but the phone rang before I could defrost the bird in the microwave. Gid was on the line, and he only had a minute before he had to catch a chopper.

  “Sorry, baby girl,” he said, his tone warm and reassuring. “We have to go. I love you.”

  I caught my breath, silencing the questions any other wife would have asked: where were they going, would the mission be dangerous, and how long would they be gone? But I couldn’t ask those questions because not even wives were allowed to peek beneath the veil of secrecy.

  So I whispered, “Oh,” and tried to swallow the fear and disappointment rising in my chest. Then I said something even more stupid: “I’m making barbecue chicken and Marilee is making brownies.”

  Since I wasn’t supposed to voice the crucial questions in my head,
what else could I say?

  “Save me some of everything,” Gideon said, a smile in his voice.

  “I wish you didn’t have to go.”

  “You know the old military saying: You don’t have to like it, you just have to do it.”

  I slumped against the counter. “Spoken like a true GI Joe.”

  “Hug Marilee for me. And I’ll meet you at the river.”

  Somehow I managed to whisper my reply: “I’ll be waiting under the tree.”

  The phone clicked and he was gone, leaving me with nothing but a scrap of news and a boatload of worries.

  As Marilee hummed and stirred the brownie mix, I stuffed the chicken back in the freezer, then picked up the newspaper and scanned the headlines. I searched for signs of trouble around the world, though in my gut I suspected Gideon and his team were headed to Afghanistan or Iraq, maybe even Pakistan. Or anywhere in the troubled Middle East . . .

  A chill shivered the pit of my stomach, as if I had just swallowed a huge chunk of ice.

  Closing the paper, I stood at the kitchen counter and whispered a prayer for my husband’s safety, then followed with the completely selfish request that he and his team remain stateside for as long as possible. When I finished, I glanced over to see Marilee watching me, her eyes bright with speculation under their long silken fringes. She had stopped stirring.

  “Mama”—she tilted her head—“why do you always talk about the tree?”

  “Because”—I smiled and kept my voice light—“I don’t like saying good-bye.”

  My daughter pressed her lips together as thought worked in her eyes. “But what are we gonna do under the tree?”

  I drew a deep breath and sat on the stool next to her. “When I was a little girl about your age, my daddy told me about heaven. He said it was a huge place with a dozen gates in four big walls and millions of people. The holy city has golden streets and a river flowing straight out from the throne of God. Beside the river, all around it, grows the tree of life.”