by Haylen Beck
She lifted her coat from the back of the chair and slipped it on.
“You’re a grown woman,” she said, “and I guess you’ll do what you think is right. Whatever it is, you know where I am.”
She left the trailer, closed the door behind her, but not before a blast of icy cold air cut through the place, a fine drizzle riding its currents.
Anna put her head in her hands and said, “Shit.”
19
MR. KOVAK PREFERRED TO WORK from home. Not that he’d ever been given an option. There had never been a question of his having to take an office at the clinic in Brooklyn, which he had still not visited after several years of working for them. Apart from anything else, he didn’t relish the idea of a daily commute from Queens. And his apartment was wonderfully quiet. Just across from the park, he could hear children playing when he opened his windows in the warmer weather.
Not today. Today was cold. Not as cold as Pittsburgh had been, but chilly enough. He had flown back yesterday, landing at La Guardia a little before midnight. As he boarded, the flight attendant had glanced at his scabbed knuckles, still healing, and again during drinks service. Mr. Kovak had pretended not to notice. Business class. The clinic always flew him business class, which was just as well, because his large frame didn’t fit coach. He had a bad knee from his days in the service. Patellar tendinopathy, the doctor said, the tendon between his shin bone and his kneecap. It had gotten him a discharge after two tours of Iraq. He’d damaged the knee pulling a collapsed wall off of one of his team. The son of a bitch died anyway, and Mr. Kovak was left with a limp that he worked hard to conceal.
Mr. Kovak had not enjoyed his time in the military. His father and uncle had been soldiers, as had his elder brother who had died in Afghanistan, but Mr. Kovak had not taken to the life. In truth, the discharge had come as a relief. Battle had not been the experience he had expected. He saw little bravery in either the enemy or his own people; instead, it was mostly fanaticism met with blind terror. It turned out that when a young man came under fire, his first instinct was as often as not to shit his pants and keep his head down until it was over.
The fear got to him more than anything else. Not just the barely contained panic of combat but the tension of waiting for the next attack to come. Like a guitar string inside him and each of his brothers tuned up too high and ready to snap at any moment. It never went away, not even when he came back home. Even now, years later, he was always conscious of the tightened string.
He had attended counseling sessions at the Queens Vet Center on and off since he’d left the service, both on his own and in groups. Had they done him any good? They didn’t stop the night terrors, or the jolting fear of loud, sudden noises, but he could at least function day-to-day, even with the constant tension. A lot of his former colleagues couldn’t; many had been lost to alcoholism or drug addiction, and some had taken their own lives.
That was why he did not keep a firearm. He knew that many suicides were down to opportunity, the ease of the act when the urge arrived. Had he a weapon at hand, he could not say for certain he would be alive now. And given his line of work, he didn’t really need one, and besides, it was a pain in the ass to always have to check a firearm when he flew.
He had seen five young women on his most recent trip. They had been narrowed down from close to thirty face-to-face interviews. There’d been more than two hundred applicants, but a brief telephone conversation weeded out most of them. Of the five successful candidates, two had already declined, two had accepted on the spot, and one was wavering.
Anna Lenihan. Mr. Kovak liked her as a person, but not as a candidate. She seemed tough, like she’d taken more than her share of knocks in life. A friendly exterior, but he got the sense that if he bit into her, he’d find something hard inside. Which made her a difficult prospect, but Dr. Sherman had made himself clear.
Mr. Kovak’s job title was Candidate Liaison Executive, which he supposed was accurate enough. He dealt with the women, interviewed them all, mainly because he was a good judge of character. That skill had been acquired as an insurance investigator. When someone tried to claim a payout over a ruined back, Mr. Kovak would study the person from a far-enough distance that the subject would never know. Then he would speak with them face-to-face. It didn’t matter how good a show a subject put on for the world, when they sat across a desk from him, sweating, fidgeting, he’d know who was truthful and who was not. Many times, subjects would break down in front of him and confess their sins. He had that effect on people. Something about him made lying to his face seem a terrible idea.
Mr. Kovak enjoyed that part of the job. The initial interviews, the whittling down, the joy it brought to those who succeeded and understood that their ship had just come in. But his work did not end there. He also had to shepherd these young women through the process. If all went well, he would have little further interaction with them. But if it didn’t, if the women missed their regular checkups, or didn’t care for themselves properly, then he would have to pay them a visit. He didn’t like that part, but he was good at it. If a woman began smoking or drinking during the term, then as often as not, a knock on her door and a few sharp-edged words would bring her back into line. And if they didn’t? Well, the clinic paid him for results, and he always delivered. In five years, not one woman who had carried a baby to term had failed to appear at the appointed clinic on the appointed date. Mr. Kovak had made sure of it.
At around three in the afternoon, he was at the desk in the corner of his living room, concentrating on his laptop’s screen. It displayed a table of names, dates, and events. His employers maintained a network of partner clinics, five in total, in Massachusetts, New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Connecticut, and North Carolina. Each clinic had the facilities to carry out every step from intrauterine insemination, through prenatal monitoring, all the way to delivery and postnatal care. In truth, the headquarters in Brooklyn might have been called a clinic, but he didn’t believe there was a single item of medical equipment in the entire place. Rather, it was an office where calls were made, deals struck, payments received. The real work happened far away in other states where such things weren’t against the law. Every time a contracted birth mother underwent her regular checkup, the visit was logged through a web interface, ready for Mr. Kovak and his employer to observe. Any anomalies or concerns would be noted, and appropriate action taken.
The same database also contained information on potential birth mothers, those who had been successful in their candidacies, and were awaiting selection by an intended mother. Some were never chosen at all, and simply banked the five thousand dollars for signing the contract and never heard another thing about it. But some fit whatever criteria a client had specified—hair and skin color, build, facial features—and were notified that they should visit their nearest clinic for an initial consultation.
One of the entries in the table bothered Mr. Kovak. A twenty-six-year-old woman from outside Boston had failed to show for her checkup. The notes said that the clinic in Cambridge had tried to contact Mandy Carmichael multiple times, but she had not answered her cell phone. When they finally did reach her, she was uncooperative and would not commit to a time for a rescheduled appointment. This was the second checkup she had missed, and she was becoming troublesome.
Mr. Kovak did not like trouble. He craved peace above all else. Anger came quick and easy to him, always destructive, and years of learning to control his rage had taught him to avoid those things that awoke it in him. He felt his mood dip as he navigated to Mandy’s profile and clicked on her phone number, which triggered a Skype window to open. The dial tone grated on his nerves.
“Hello?” she said, her voice sounding boxy through his laptop’s built-in speakers.
“Mandy, this is Mr. Kovak.”
He counted three seconds of silence before she responded.
“Oh, hey, uh…how are you?”
“I’m…I’m okay, I just got a little head cold, you know? A case of the sniffles. Nothing serious.”
With some effort, he kept his tone measured and friendly. “I guess that’s why you didn’t go to your checkup yesterday.”
“Yeah, yeah, that’s right. I didn’t want to, you know, pass on my germs to anyone, so I thought I’d leave it a few days.”
“Oh, don’t worry about that,” Mr. Kovak said. “There’s no reason why you can’t go in tomorrow. I happen to know they have a slot at ten a.m. They would appreciate your attendance, as would I.”
He heard her sigh, the sound of distorted air through the speakers.
“Okay, sure, I’ll be there.”
“And please be aware, Mandy, that they will take blood samples, and they will be checked for alcohol and narcotics. Is that clear?”
Quiet. The thin and distant sound of a dog barking somewhere in Massachusetts.
“Mandy, is that clear?” he asked.
“Yeah,” she said, her voice like a child’s.
“Good,” he said. “I hope this doesn’t happen again, Mandy. If I have to fly up there and escort you to the clinic…well, I’d rather it didn’t come to that.”
Silence again. He knew his warning was clear, and that it frightened her. His size intimidated people, no matter how benign he tried to appear. The idea of his being upset would strike fear into anyone. This did not please him at all, but still, it was useful.
“Please don’t make me call you like this again,” he said. “Goodbye.”
She stammered something, and he clicked the red icon to end the call. He closed the Skype app and returned his attention to the tables on the computer’s screen. Before he could focus, his cell phone vibrated on the desk. He checked the screen: Anna Lenihan. He picked the phone up and answered.
“Anna, how are you?”
“Yeah, I’m okay.”
She didn’t inquire after his well-being. He didn’t mind.
“Have you come to a decision?” he asked.
“Maybe,” she said.
“Is there anything in particular you’re unsure about?”
“What happens in the procedure?”
“You mean the insemination?” Mr. Kovak asked. “I think our colleagues at our partner clinic in Pittsburgh might be better placed to go over that with you.”
He knew full well what the procedure was; in fact, he’d observed it once through a two-way mirror. But he had no desire to explain the mechanics of it over the phone. He often surprised himself with his queasiness with such matters. The word “speculum,” for example, greatly bothered him.
“Will it hurt?” she asked.
“No, it will not,” he said. “I can promise you that much.”
“What if I change my mind?”
“Before or after insemination?”
“Either.”
“Before, well, no one can force you to go through with the procedure, but you will have broken the contract. You’ll be obligated to return the on-signature portion of the payment. After…well, we’ve never had that circumstance occur. But, please, if you have any doubts, don’t proceed.”
“No,” she said. “No doubts.”
Was that a quiver in her voice?
He ignored it and asked, “So, is it a yes?”
A moment’s pause, then, “I guess.”
“Good,” he said. “Do you still have the contract I gave you in Pittsburgh?”
“Yeah,” she said.
“Then sign all three copies and return them to the address on the first page. Can you do that? The sooner you get them back to me, the sooner I can release the five thousand on-signature payment to you. And the sooner we can look for a match.”
“Okay,” she said.
That quiver again.
“And please understand, for things to proceed, we need an intended parent to pick you out of our portfolio. It’s quite possible this will never go further than your signing the contract.”
“I understand,” she said.
He thought: Do you?
Do you really?
20
ANNA HELD THE PHONE IN her hand long after the call ended.
She sat on the bed, the comforter wrapped tight around her, trying and failing to keep out the cold. Frost had begun to form on the inside of the windows. She really should have put the heat on, but the propane was so expensive these days. Another blanket might do the trick. She pulled one from the bed and layered it over the comforter.
Yesterday she had spent fifty-three dollars and forty-eight cents on groceries. That left her not quite four hundred and eighty dollars to her name. God knew how long it would take to get the money from the clinic. And she supposed she would have to pay tax on it. Five thousand sounded like a lot when you said it out loud, but when you thought about it, when you thought about rent and gas and propane and electricity and all those tiny things that ate the cash right out of your pocket, it really wasn’t much at all.
It would be almost nothing to some rich New York couple who wanted a baby so bad they’d pay, against the law, to get one.
Anna wondered what it would be like to feel a life grow inside of her. To feel it move, kick, toss and turn. To watch her belly swell day after day, week after week, for all those long months. And nothing but an empty space at the end of it all.
Can I really do that?
She had asked the question a hundred times over the last two days.
Yes, I can.
With the answer given, finally and for real, she gathered the comforter and blanket around her, dropped the phone on her bed, and went to find the contract and a working pen. She’d signed nothing more significant than the lease on her home before today. Now she was going to sign away a living, breathing piece of herself.
And she was okay with that. Really.
She found the contracts in the manila envelope and dug in the drawers for a pen. The third one worked, black ink that left ugly blots on the back of the envelope. She sat at the table and signed her name six times, twice for each contract.
I will carry and deliver a baby that I will never know, she thought, that will be raised by someone I will never meet. I can do that.
I know I can.
She wept then for no reason she could understand, her tears pattering on the table and the envelope. Only later, much later, did she realize they were tears of grief. She grieved for a tiny life that could never be hers.
Once the sobbing had passed, she counted the money in her head, left her home, and drove to the post office.
And then, for a while, she put it out of her mind.
21
LIBBY SAT NEXT TO MASON on the couch, Dr. Sherman on the armchair. He had driven from Brooklyn to Albany just to see them, and he seemed excited when they answered their door to him. Libby and Mason shared a modest house in the city’s suburbs. They could easily afford a bigger place in a better neighborhood, but there were other things to spend money on.
Like this.
“We’ve got a candidate that I’m very excited about,” Dr. Sherman said, grasping an iPad.
They had signed up with the clinic three months earlier. It was an agency of sorts, an introduction service, no more. Dr. Sherman had been very clear about that, and insisted that they also be clear about it, given the legal issues with paid surrogacy in the state.
Mason had been skeptical from the start. Libby had shown him the clinic’s website, the images of their pristine offices, all white surfaces and glass. Mason had wondered if they were stock photos, but Libby had stopped listening to his objections.
Dr. Sherman tapped at his iPad and said, “Take a look.”
He handed the tablet over, and Libby had to turn it this way and that to make the p
hotograph orient correctly. When she did, she saw a portrait of…
“That’s you, isn’t it?” Mason said. “An older photo, but it’s you, right?”
Libby shook her head slowly, trying to make sense of it. The woman in the photograph did indeed look like her, but a few years younger, and a few pounds lighter. She stood against a door, shoulder-length red hair pushed behind her ears, a nervous expression on her face.
“No, it’s not me,” she said.
“Jesus,” Mason said.
Dr. Sherman grinned and said, “It’s a remarkable likeness, isn’t it?”
“Who is she?” Libby asked.
“As we discussed, Mrs. Reese, I’m not at liberty to reveal the candidate’s identity. You can’t know anything about her, other than her appearance and her health. Which is excellent, by the way. No conditions, genetic or otherwise, no issues with alcohol or drugs, she’s never smoked, she’s a good weight for her height. All in all, you couldn’t ask for a better candidate. And when you factor in the resemblance to the intended mother, well, I guess you can see why I’m so excited about this prospect.”
Libby looked to her husband. His face remained blank. She nudged him.
“She’s perfect,” she said. “Isn’t she?”
He forced a smile. “Sure.”
Libby felt the urge to shake him, to scream at him. Every step of the way, he had acquiesced but never freely given his approval. He had never wanted it, not like she did. Now here was the opportunity she’d been seeking, and she wouldn’t let his apathy alter her course. She turned back to Dr. Sherman.
“What’s the next step?” she asked.
“The candidate has already signed a contract, so the next step is insemination.”
From the corner of her eye, she saw Mason wince, stoking her anger once more. Come on, she thought, it’s not like you have to fuck her. You jerked off into a cup. That’s as far as your contribution goes. That and the money, of course.
