A Mother's Secrets

by Tara Taylor Quinn

  And when she’d made the difficult decision to give him up, she’d put the photo away, upstairs in a trunk in the attic, and had never looked at it again.

  “Right in here,” Danielle said, leading them to an opened door leading into an office with a big messy desk and two chairs directly in front of it, telling them to have a seat.

  She didn’t want to have a seat. Not in the enclosed space, alone with Jamie. She just needed a minute or two by herself. To breathe and distract her mind from things she couldn’t change and guide it to that which made her happy. Her work. The clients at The Parent Portal. The lives of the healthy children she’d helped others bring into the world. The families her work helped create. Picturing the bulletin board filled with their pictures on a sidewall in her home office, she took the seat closest to the door.

  And talked about the fact that it looked like it was going to rain. There was a window in the room. She focused on the sky and tree limbs she could see beyond it.

  Dr. Adams didn’t keep them long. She didn’t have a lot to say, other than that everything looked pretty good. She was a little concerned about the lining of Christine’s uterus, wasn’t sure it was thickening as much as she’d like. Said she wanted them back for another ultrasound in a month and said that while there was absolutely no worry, she might put Christine on progesterone shots as the pregnancy progressed.

  “I don’t understand,” Christine said, sitting up straight. “I had no problems whatsoever when I carried my son. I’m older now, but still well within healthy childbearing years...”

  She was making too much of a small thing. She knew it even as she said the words. This whole thing was hard enough, though, without finding out that there was something lacking in her.

  Dr. Adams smiled, shaking her head. “If you’d conceived naturally I suspect there’d be no issue,” she said. “And there might not be one at all. If this were a natural conception, I wouldn’t even be concerned. But we see this sometimes when we’re dealing with implantation. The surrogate’s body doesn’t produce the hormone quite as profusely as it might normally do. It’s just something we watch.”

  She nodded. Feeling like she was going to cry anyway. She’d never even considered the fact that she might not be good enough to get this job done. This was what she had to give. She’d damn well get it right.

  “The progesterone has no negative effect on the fetus,” Dr. Adams explained, “although in rare cases, if the baby’s a boy, he could have one of the most common birth defects we see. It has to do with his urethra placement, but even if that were to happen, it’s generally easily treated with no adverse effects.”

  “And the side effects for Christine?”

  “The injections themselves can be painful. There might be discomfort at the site. But otherwise there are no negative effects.”

  “And if she needed the injections and didn’t have them?” Jamie asked.

  Christine felt his glance on her, but couldn’t look at him. She really just wanted to get out of there. Get herself together. Hit some balls against the wall until she was her normal self.

  “Then you risk her losing the baby.”

  “Well, that’s not going to happen,” she said. “Not if I can help it.”

  She nodded. She’d already been given progesterone before the implantation. “So, are we done here?” she asked, looking from the doctor to Jamie. “Or, at least, done with me?”

  The doctor nodded. Jamie stood.

  And Christine got the hell out of there.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Jamie wasn’t all that surprised when he walked out into an empty waiting room. Christine wasn’t in the parking lot, either. Nor was her car.

  Disappointment settled around his edges at a time when he should be flying to the moon. Or, at least, be fully focused on the family he was making. Feeling a bit bittersweet was understandable, probably even healthy, considering that his wife wasn’t there physically to share the experience with him.

  Feeling let down because his surrogate wasn’t sharing the moment could not be healthy. He needed her to have her own life. Because he expected her to deliver the baby and hand it to him.

  She’d been right to leave.

  The reminder of who and what they were to one another had been a kindness.

  He went to Mission Viejo, sat in his office on campus and met with a few students, individually, who were in town prior to classes starting and needed to discuss their academic futures with him. Thought about calling his mother and letting her know she was going to be a grandma, but wanted to wait until they’d surpassed the three-month mark. Between one in four and one in ten natural pregnancies, or 10 to 25 percent, resulted in miscarriage. And more than 80 percent of the lost pregnancies occurred within the first twelve weeks. Some authorities said those risks increased with implantation.

  He’d done his reading.

  And needed the stats to back up the material. He made sense of his world through numbers.

  And, perhaps, numbers failed to consider key factors that could leave him with less than expected.

  The thought shot through him as he was on the freeway home to Marie Cove. Emily had often teased him, laughed with him, about the spaces she filled up for him. Like their first dance at their wedding. He hadn’t given a single thought to a song he’d like for that dance. It just hadn’t factored in to his thoughts concerning that day.

  He’d wanted to be married and be done.

  He had wanted to celebrate. The wedding just hadn’t seemed like some humongous, life-changing moment to him but rather a continuation of a life that they’d already been living, another milestone on the road they’d been traveling since they were kids.

  And then there was the time he’d been in a car accident and hadn’t called her right away. His vehicle was totaled, but he and everyone else involved, including the young kid at fault, were fine. She hadn’t laughed about that one. She’d been truly upset with him, telling him his calm was a wonderful asset most times, but there were moments that required more. She hadn’t been able to fill the gap in his emotional maturity for him that time. She’d fallen into it.

  So was Christine Elliott doing the same? Had he pushed this whole baby thing, certain of his “life” calculations, without considering key factors? The things you couldn’t measure?

  Like love? Sacrifice? Pain?

  He’d asked a woman who spent her life caring for others and helping them have the families they wanted, to grow and protect his child, without considering the emotional ramifications to her. Not that she couldn’t take care of herself, but he should have taken Christine’s well-being into account...

  And he hadn’t given nearly enough weight to the physical impact it would have on her. The energy it would take to carry around all the extra weight every second of every day. Weekly injections that would not only be uncomfortable to receive, but left discomfort in their trails. The birth.

  Why those possible shots brought it all home to him, he didn’t know. Maybe it was the reality of having seen the baby inside of her. The concrete proof that there was more than just a flat stomach going on in Christine’s midsection.

  The almost panicked way she’d left the doctor’s office...

  As soon as he was back in town, he went straight to her office. Told she was at the racquetball court, he drove there.

  He texted her. Let her know he was outside. Would have left immediately if she’d asked him to do so. When she sent back You up for a game instead, he quickly grabbed his bag out of the back of his vehicle and headed inside to the locker room.

  The silver shorts and black T-shirt were clean. He changed out the contents of the bag every night—part of his bedtime ritual. He was at the door to her court in five. Planning to go easy on her—and his baby—he hoped to find a way to apologize for his lack of more thorough emotional forethought where their situ
ation was concerned. And to talk to her about the injections.

  Just because he took things calmly didn’t mean others were capable of the same. It had taken Emily a long time to help him see that one can’t choose which emotions to feel.

  How one deals with those emotions is their choice.

  The first sight of Christine in black spandex shorts and a purple, close-fitting T-shirt sent a slew of feelings raging right down to his crotch.

  He knew what to do with them. Wasn’t sure telling them to be gone was enough. Ignoring them helped. Nothing really worked.

  He still wanted her.

  “You serve,” she said, tossing him the little rubber ball and grabbing an extra paddle out of a bright yellow duffel bag in the back corner.

  He did. Lightly. Barely giving effort to his movement.

  And was promptly scored upon.

  So noted. He’d give his attempt a bit more oomph. Racquetball required finesse. And physical effort. But not the strength he used to serve an ace out on the tennis court.

  By the fourth serve, he was using every bit of strength he used when he was playing to win on the tennis court. Neither of them had said a word, other than to announce score. Christine didn’t run all over the room. For the most part, she hardly moved, other than with her upper body. She just commanded the room from where she stood. Knew exactly how and where to place the ball, with how much punch, in order to make it hardest for him to return.

  She didn’t move, but she had him running all over.

  By the second game, he’d caught on. Paid attention to strategy. Power. Placement. He still lost, but this game was a lot closer.

  And then, when he was gearing up for the best three out of five, she stopped. “That’s it for me,” she said. “I’m giving myself an easy hour or a hard half hour,” she said. “I’m not going to overdo it.” Hardly sweating, she approached him, took his racquet and grinned at him. “I’m pregnant, you know.”

  His penis hardened at the sight of that grin. Thank God for loose T-shirts. And the support of boxer briefs.

  As her gaze met his, he grew serious. “I wanted to see you, to let you know, seriously, that I don’t just expect you to do the injections as a precaution. Obviously, if the baby’s life is seriously at risk, I’ll ask for them, but your comfort, both emotionally and physically, are equally important, Christine. You’re a person, not a machine. You matter, and your well-being counts as much as anyone’s.”

  He’d repeated the words in his brain all the way home from the university. By the time he’d given them voice, they sounded rehearsed. Not sincere.

  The whole point in seeing her, rather than calling, was so that she could see how much he meant what he said.

  “It’s all in the contract, Jamie,” she told him, sandwiching his racquet together with hers and putting them, and the ball, in her bag—her backside in full view as she bent over.

  Wrong of him to notice. He cleared his throat. Turned a bit. “I’m not talking about the contract,” he said. “I’m talking about two people, you and me. And I’m telling you, I’m not going to hold you to sentences in a contract that give me the right to decide matters like these—choices that don’t affect your health, but could affect the baby’s. The injections won’t affect your health, according to Dr. Adams, but they’ll affect your physical comfort. I’m telling you that we will consider together whether or not you do them.”

  Turning, her bag strap on her shoulder, with one foot propped up behind her, she leaned against the wall. Her short dark hair was mussed, looked windblown and far too sexy.

  It also made him want to wrap his arms around her and protect her from anything in the world that might cause her pain.

  Like what—he was some he-man of old and she was a damsel in distress? The idea almost made him laugh inside. He’d never been one of those guys that had to prove their masculinity by thinking there were others who were weaker than him. And Christine would never resemble a damsel in distress. Or any other kind of person who couldn’t take care of herself just fine.

  “I appreciate your consideration,” she said, after watching him for a moment. “It’s nice,” she said. “Really nice. And noted.”

  He heard a “but” coming and waited for it.

  “If something comes up that becomes an issue, then I hope you’ll still feel the same,” she said. “But the injections won’t be an issue, either way,” she told him, her expression easy. Calm. “If I need them, I’ll do them. It’s not a big deal.”

  Painful injections on, at minimum, a weekly basis? Okay, so it wasn’t peeling off skin or anything, but...

  “They won’t be nearly as painful as giving birth,” she told him, with a cock of her head. Reminding him that she knew what she was talking about.

  He’d never witnessed a birth live. She’d done more than that.

  “It’ll be an extra minute out of my day once a week,” she said.

  She’d been so upset in Dr. Adams’s office that morning. But it apparently hadn’t been about the injections. Maybe he’d known that from the beginning. Maybe he just wasn’t sure how to talk about the emotional pain being pregnant seemed to have been causing her that morning.

  Maybe he’d been wrong about that tear he’d seen.

  And her abrupt departure from their appointment?

  “More than a minute. You’ll need to make weekly trips to the doctor’s office and...”

  She was shaking her head.

  “Progesterone shots can be given in the thigh. I can do that myself.”

  He shook his head. Sure, some diabetics and others learned how to give themselves injections, but it took time. He’d watched his father’s struggle when he’d had to do at-home injections. He knew this one. “You’d have to learn how to...”

  Her headshake back interrupted him. “Enough already, Jamie. I knew what I was doing when I signed the contract and I’m fine. I’m a pro at giving injections,” she said. “I’ve been doing them since I was in junior high. My grandmother was diabetic,” she said. “I spent all of my junior high and high school years coming home for lunch to give her her shots. She said Gramps hurt too much when he gave them and she had a needle paranoia and couldn’t give them to herself. Her hands weren’t really steady enough, either.”

  “You left school every day?” He stood there, wanting to stay and chat for as long as she’d allow it. “You never had lunch with your friends?”

  Shrugging, she said, “I had great lunches. Gram was a phenomenal cook, and she always had something good waiting for me.”

  He wanted to say more about how she’d missed out on some of the most important teenage socialization time, but knew that no good would come from pointing that out. Realized, too, that she’d know more than he what she’d sacrificed. “Maybe that’s why I don’t remember you from high school,” he said. “Emily and I looked you up in our junior and senior yearbooks, and neither of us recognized you.”

  “I was two years younger, not in any of your classes.”

  “And never in the cafeteria,” he said, beginning to understand a bit more who Christine Elliott really was. A woman who’d been sacrificing herself seemingly most of her life, to tend to others.

  He didn’t like being one of those using her to find his own happiness.

  Who tended to her beside Christine herself?

  Who sacrificed for her?

  Jamie didn’t like questions without answers.

  Problems without solutions.

  But he sure as hell liked her.

  Too much.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The next seven weeks settled into a routine that transitioned to a sense of normality. Christine lived her life as she had before impregnation: working, volunteering, spending a couple of evenings a week at the center, having dinner out with friends. Racquetball changed from focusing on rigor to prec
ision. And her diet changed a bit, with the addition of vitamins and the omission of foods she used to like but suddenly had no taste for, plus those she could no longer eat. Tuna was first on her list of foods no longer welcome anywhere near her. The smell made her nauseous, exactly as it had the first time she’d had a baby—and that was the extent of any signs of morning sickness. Just like back then.

  So many similarities. Right down to giving up the child at the end of the pregnancy. She’d done it before. She could do it again. And it should hurt less this time. The baby wasn’t biologically hers; she knew it was going to a loving home. And she had the chance to see it if she wanted to.

  Her clothes were getting a little tighter, and her stomach developing a paunch so slight most wouldn’t even notice.

  Olivia continued to be her dear heart. It was like the pregnancy was drawing them closer. The pediatrician was in clear support of her “project” but was focused on Christine’s emotional well-being more than anything.

  The biggest change in her life, though, was the few times a week she met up with Jamie Howe. They’d have a bagel downtown, meet up at a big box store if they both had shopping to do. A couple of times he filled her car at a gas station, saying that this was part of her living expenses. She’d argued, telling him that she was receiving a monthly stipend that covered those, but gave in when he agreed to only catch a few of the tanks full along the way, because of the extra driving she was doing to meet him.

  He’d been to her house once, to interview a plumber with her because it was someone she didn’t know, but whose bid had been the most economical, and with her pregnant he hadn’t wanted her alone in the house with a stranger, but he’d left almost as soon as the plumber had. They’d agreed with a look and a mutual shake of the head that she wasn’t going to hire the guy. Sometimes the lowest bid wouldn’t be the cheapest way to get the job done in the long run.

  The sale on his house had closed, but a week before he was to give up vacancy, thirty days after closing, the inspection on the home he was purchasing came back with possible foundation problems. His old home’s new owners had made a deal to allow him to stay put, renting the house for two months, while possible repairs were completed. She’d been with him to meet the inspector at the new house only because they’d gone three days without seeing each other and that was the only time they both had free.