by Angela Hunt
I stared at my reflection in the bathroom mirror and tried to convince myself that the tests weren’t accurate because I was testing too soon. But if the result was correct, how could I break the news to Simone and Damien? I didn’t even want to tell Gideon if the procedure had failed. He’d made sacrifices, too.
I decided to keep my mouth shut. I would leave all the announcements to Dr. Forrester, who was paid to be right about such things.
Tuesday afternoon, the day before my beta test, Gideon packed his duffel bag, hugged me, and told me he’d meet me at the river. I knew he had to go; I knew something had come up and his unit needed him.
But this would be the worst parting ever. Not only was he flying off to fight only God knew who, but how was I supposed to face disappointment if the pregnancy test was negative? Who would comfort me if all our sacrifices proved to be for nothing? No one in the family even knew I’d been through the embryo transfer, so whose shoulder was I supposed to cry on?
Wednesday morning, tired and red-eyed, I took Marilee to school, then drove to the reproductive endocrinologist’s office. I sat in the waiting room, but dropped my magazine when a television on the wall flashed an urgent news update: In what they were calling “the Passover Tragedy,” a suicide bomber had just killed twenty-nine people in Israel. The terrorist, dressed as a waiter, had walked past security and into a hotel’s dining room, where more than 150 people were celebrating the Seder. Many of those present were Holocaust survivors.
Horrified by the news, I remained quiet when nurse Nancy called my name and led me back to a desk where she drew blood. Ice spread through my stomach as I thought about how the evil and hatred that ignited the Holocaust had never really gone away. Today it had blazed forth from another channel.
And who stood against that hatred? Millions of people, including men like my husband, who, for all I knew, might have been in Israel at that moment.
“You’re awful quiet,” the nurse said, loosening the rubber strip around my upper arm. “Are you feeling queasy?”
“I’m fine.” I forced a smile. “Just thinking about the sad state of the world.”
“A lot of that going around.” Nancy slid the needle out of my arm and pressed a cotton ball on the insertion point, then gestured for me to apply pressure.
After the nurse applied a Band-Aid, I picked up my purse and told the receptionist I’d be home in the afternoon if they wanted to call with the results. Then I drove to the grocery, worked my usual shift, and left at one-thirty to pick up Marilee from school.
The phone was ringing as we came through the front door. I hurried to grab it, said hello, and heard Nurse Nancy singing “Be My Baby.”
I swallowed hard and sank into a kitchen chair. “Does this mean—”
“Congratulations, Amanda. Your test was positive.”
Positive. A baby. Maybe two. The home pregnancy tests hadn’t been able to pick up the HCG in my urine, but my blood told the truth. I was going to have the Amblours’ baby.
“What happens next?” I croaked, barely recognizing my voice.
“Call your surrogacy counselor, then make an appointment with your OB/GYN. From this point forward, you’re an ordinary pregnant woman. Good luck, honey.”
I thanked her and hung up, then sat absolutely still as the happy realization twirled in my head. All our sacrifices—mine and Gideon’s and Simone’s and Damien’s—had been worth it.
The dark visions that had occupied my imagination for the last few hours faded away. How dark could the world be if people still longed to care for innocent babies? Every time God sent a new baby into the world, he was giving mankind another chance to make things right. Babies were a bundle of hope.
Marilee strolled into the kitchen, then stopped and stared at my face. “Mommy?”
“Yes, darling girl?”
“You look funny.”
How long had it been since she saw pure happiness on my face? “I probably look happy.”
I slid out of my chair and wrapped her in an embrace so tight she complained. “You’re squeezing my breath out.”
“Then I should let you go.” I released her, then pointed to my cheek. “How about a kiss?”
She gave me a polite peck, then ran off to practice her piano while I climbed back into my chair and picked up the phone.
I knew I should call Natasha Bray first, but I pulled out the little notebook in my purse and dialed France. I was so eager I forgot to figure out the time in La Roche-sur-Yon, the small town where the Amblours lived. The phone rang three times, then a woman answered: “Allô?”
“Simone?” I glanced at my watch and hoped I wasn’t interrupting her dinner.
“May I say who is calling?”
“Mandy—Amanda. From Florida.”
“One moment, please. Let me fetch Madame.”
I waited, tapping my foot, and finally I heard Simone’s familiar voice: “Allô?”
“Simone, it’s Mandy.” Without indulging in pleasantries, I drew a breath and gave her the news: “We’re pregnant.”
“Are you—are you certain?”
“I am. The doctor said so.”
“Merveilleux!” Her voice rang with the happiness of pealing bells, then she broke into a sob. “Dieu merci, I am sorry, but I am so overcome—”
“I’m not sure what all that means, but I’ll take it as something good,” I said, laughing. “Please give my congratulations to your husband.”
“I am so sorry, I spoke without thinking.” She sniffed. “Thank you for telling us. And . . . is it one baby or two?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I’m not sure we’ll learn that until I see my OB—or during the ultrasound, which I’ll have in a couple of weeks. Don’t worry, I’ll let you know everything as soon as I learn it.”
“You will email me a photo?”
“I will email you pictures, notes, anything you like.”
“Merci beaucoup, Mandy. You have done so much for us.”
“My pleasure. I’m just so happy everything worked out.”
As I hung up the phone, I realized that helping the Amblours had filled me with an unexpected joy. In the midst of war, during a time I would usually be worried sick about my husband, the awareness that I was doing something good for someone else was . . . empowering.
Unless I was simply basking in an abundance of pregnancy hormones.
* * *
The next morning I found an email from Simone in my inbox.
My very dear Amanda:
You may never know how your happy news affected Damien and me. When I disconnected the call, I sat for a long time and imagined how it would feel to finally bring a baby into our home. My emotions felt paralyzed—joy and fear, in equal measure, held me hostage.
Yet I will always remember every detail of yesterday—the way the fire crackled to chase away the chill even as the mimosa trees outside my window budded with new life. If I went into the village, I knew, I would see the first colorful Easter candy displays in the patisserie window. For years I have avoided those displays, knowing they were designed for children, but this year I will study them with hope in my heart. Next year we will have a baby to charm with Easter eggs and cakes, and this wonderful expectation is all due to you and your kindness.
You may have realized how disappointed I was to learn we would have to use a donor egg—I was heartbroken at first, but I’ve decided not to expend so much emotional energy on things that cannot be helped. My heart has been broken many times, but this time, I am sure, all will be well.
I wanted to tell you more about our background when we met on the day of the transfer, but we did not want to share anything that might taint our budding relationship. I probably sounded a bit tense when Natasha mentioned testing, but I had my reasons for concern.
As you may have heard, you are not the first surrogate we have contracted. The first was a young woman in California who told us she did not drink alcohol or use drugs. We believed her, but Damien kept f
eeling uneasy, so during the sixth month of the pregnancy we asked the agency if they would test her for drugs. When they did, we discovered that she had miscarried a month earlier. We suspected her drug use had been the reason she lost the pregnancy; she blamed my egg and said the pregnancy was doomed from the start.
So we resolved not to make the same mistakes again.
The second time we contracted a surrogate, we engaged an older woman, a mother who already had children, so we felt we were working with a more experienced and mature surrogate. We also asked the agency to require frequent testing—ultrasounds every other week, amniocentesis at appropriate intervals, surprise drug tests for the mother.
She got pregnant and we waited by the computer for test results after every medical appointment. She lost the pregnancy in the fourth month, however, and she also blamed us—she said we had been too demanding and required too many tests.
Again, Damien and I decided to revise our approach. No tests, unless medically necessary. No pressure that might affect our carrier’s health.
So if in the months ahead you think Damien and I seem pensive or unusually concerned about details, please be patient with us. We have already lost two babies because our gestational carriers did not understand how much we valued the precious cargo they carried. We are striving to balance our trust in you with our concern for our child. It is not an easy thing to do.
However, I have a sense about you . . . maybe it is because your husband gives so much to serve his country, or perhaps it is because I can see how you adore your lovely daughter. But you have demonstrated such concern that we are sure you will carry our child as if it were your own. And for that, I am unspeakably grateful. I wish I could think of a unique way to show our gratitude—financial support doesn’t begin to express what we are feeling.
So while I was initially disappointed that my egg harvest failed, this will be the child who was not born under my heart, but in it. He or she will be the sum of our expectations and our hope for the future. Damien is especially pleased to know his heritage will be passed on to another generation.
I cannot imagine what sort of impression you have of my husband—perhaps you think he places too much emphasis on the estate and his family’s status in this district. But he is not a bad man, I can assure you. He is, in his way, quite tender, and I know he will be a good father. A quiet father, perhaps, but a dutiful parent.
Damien, you see, has the gift of seeing potential other people miss. When we met, somehow he looked beyond my lonely expression, my torn jeans, and my paintings—all of which were tinged with melancholy in those days. Somehow he saw the woman within, the soul languishing for love, and he married me. You do not know me well—and you’ll find none of these thoughts in our file at the Surrogacy Center—but I sense that you and I might be friends. Fate has brought us together, and united we will accomplish something wonderful.
I pray the happiness and fulfillment you experience in these next few months somehow equals the joy I will revel in for the rest of my life.
By loving me, Damien helped a melancholy girl become a wife. By feeling compassion for us, you have helped a grief-stricken woman become a mother. I will never be able to thank you enough for what you have done.
(Do you think me melodramatic? Perhaps it is the artist in me, but I feel things . . . deeply.)
And now begins the waiting and the preparation. While you endure the months of physical labor—and do not think I am unaware of what you will be going through—I will prepare the house for our child. I will hire a nanny (or two, if we have been blessed with twins), and I will finally finish decorating the room I have reserved as a nursery. I wish you could see it—a tower on the south side of the ancient house has been vacant for years. Damien says his mother used to store her shoes in that space, but ever since seeing it, I have known that any child would love to have it as his or her private fortress. The magical space features a high ceiling; tall, curving windows to channel sunshine and starlight; and smooth, plastered walls forming an almost perfect circle.
I will place the cradle in the center of the room, because from this day forward, my life and Damien’s will revolve around this child. He or she will be our reason for living—and if all goes well, we may use the frozen embryos to provide our firstborn with a sibling.
Our children will be our purpose, our future, and our hope. And we, dear woman, will always be grateful to you and to God.
Sincerely,
Simone Amblour
* * *
For two days I kept my pregnancy a secret from the family, then Gideon called from the base. “I’m on my way home,” he said, his voice husky. “And I’m hoping you have good news for me.”
“I do.” I turned away from Marilee so she wouldn’t notice the excited light in my eyes. “I’m taking Marilee over to Mama Isa’s. She’s going to spend the night over there and tomorrow they’re going to McDonald’s for breakfast.”
“So we’ll be all alone?” Gideon chuckled. “I can’t wait to see you, baby girl.”
“I’ll be here.”
I didn’t care where he had been or what he had done; all that mattered was that Gideon was home.
The news I couldn’t wait to share was an added bonus. We were on the brink of a new adventure, the beginning of the rest of our lives. In a few months we would have a financial nest egg, and soon we’d have our own home. Gideon could establish the store he’d always wanted, and I could have the babies we’d always longed for. . . .
I had candles glowing on the table by the time I heard the familiar sound of his boots, followed by the thunk of his duffel bag dropping onto the wooden foyer tiles. “Mandy?”
“In here,” I called from the kitchen. I smoothed my hair and adjusted my dress as I listened to his approaching steps. I had taken great pains to look as good as or better than the cheesecake waiting on the counter.
Gideon inhaled the mingled aromas as he came into the room, then he stopped, his dark eyes glinting with masculine interest. “Something sure looks delicious—and it ain’t on the table.”
I laughed. “Hang on a minute, soldier.”
Aware of the hunger in him, I dimmed the overhead lights and smiled at my husband through candle-cast shadows. Two place settings gleamed on the table, two steak fillets waited in the oven, and two loaded baked potatoes dripped with cheese and butter on my best serving dish. I had set a beautiful table, but all I wanted to do was wrap my arms around Gideon.
I was lucky to have him home.
Gideon glanced at the food, then he smiled at me, his gaze as soft as a caress. “I take it this is a special occasion?”
“It is.” I slipped out of my high heels and padded toward him, then slid into his arms. “We have the house to ourselves for the next twenty-four hours and it’s official—I’m pregnant.”
His smile broadened. “You mean—”
“Yessir, soldier, we’ve been given permission to fool around. We can eat this yummy dinner and then go to our room—”
Grinning, Gideon lifted me into his arms. “Or we could go to our room first.”
“What about the steaks?” I ran my fingertip over his three-day stubble as he carried me into our bedroom. “And those lovely baked potatoes?”
“They’ll keep. And if they don’t—who cares.” He lowered me to our bed, and I hoped the yearning that showed in his face wasn’t quite so obvious on mine. A woman, my mom always told me, should play at least a little hard to get.
“By the way,” I whispered, “welcome home.” Smiling, I reached for the lamp and turned out the light.
* * *
The next Sunday, as the family gathered at Mama Isa’s after church, I stood with my arm around Gideon’s waist and announced that I was pregnant with a French couple’s baby. In return I received several polite smiles, a couple of confused looks, and a weak “Congratulations . . . I think,” from Amelia.
“When are you due?” Elaine asked, looking at me as though I might explode at any
moment.
“December first.” I stretched my mouth into a smile. “It’ll all be over and done by Christmas.”
I hadn’t expected them to be thrilled with the news, but I did want them to know so they wouldn’t make incorrect assumptions when I started to grow a baby bump.
Five days later I pulled myself out of bed and arrived at the grocery before sunrise. A wave of nausea crested in my gut as I fumbled with the back door key, but I managed to calm my stomach with deep breaths and sheer determination. Once I got inside, I reminded myself, I could be as sick as I wanted to be, but I needed to get the store open by seven. For Amelia’s sake.
She had called the night before and begged me to open for her. “Our social worker is coming tomorrow for the home visit,” she said, her voice jagged with nerves, “and I need the morning to clean house. So if you could open for me, I’ll come to work as soon as Helen leaves, I promise.”
How could I refuse?
A thick silence lay over the dimly lit grocery as I locked the back door behind me and hurried past the stockroom. A single overhead fluorescent glowed over the cash register, and as I made my way to the office I glanced at the wide front windows and wondered if criminals lurked in the semidarkness outside. I couldn’t see anything but my own reflection, so I tried to forget about my roiling stomach and stick to the morning routine. First on the to-do list: turn off the alarm.
After punching in the alarm code, I hesitated by the restroom and rechecked the state of my stomach: holding steady so far, and I could always grab crackers from the snack aisle. I might just make it.
From their black-and-white portraits next to the Cuban flag, Gordon and Yanela’s unsmiling eyes watched as I moved to the coffee station and prepared the morning brew. Customers would begin to arrive soon, so the coffee and tostadas had to be ready.
I had just put the coffee on when someone slammed the back door. I froze, terrified by the thought of an intruder, then I recognized Jenna’s voice. “Hello? Amelia?”
