The Surrogate Mother

by Freida McFadden

  “This is a little awkward, I know,” I say to break the ice. “But I think it would be great for us all to get to know each other better.”

  “Uh huh, absolutely.” Sam taps on the legal pad with his pen. “Monica, do you live in Manhattan?”

  She nods eagerly. “Yes. I live downtown with a roommate.”

  “And what’s your roommate’s name?”

  “Chelsea Williams.”

  He writes it down, then makes her tell him the roommate’s phone number, which he jots down as well. I want to grab the pen out of his hand.

  “Sam,” I murmur. “You’re being rude.”

  “No, it’s fine,” Monica says quickly. “I mean, I know this is a really important decision for you guys. Anything you want to know—I’m an open book.”

  She tugs at the top button of her white blouse. She’s got her shirt buttoned all the way up to her throat, although I notice that’s something she often does. Monica is not an unattractive girl, but she seems reluctant to show off her sexuality at work. She usually wears slacks or skirts that fall below the knee. I assume she’s got breasts under there somewhere, but you’d never know it. That’s something I respect about her. Too many girls are willing to flash a little skin to get what they want, but Monica doesn’t go that route. She’s got integrity.

  A waiter approaches us to take our drink orders. I get a glass of red, because damn, do I need it. Sam sticks with water, and then the waiter turns to Monica: “And for you, Miss?”

  She glances down at the menu. I try to send her telepathic messages: Don’t order alcohol. Don’t!

  “Water’s fine for me too, thanks,” she says.

  And Sam nods his tacit approval. Not that he doesn’t drink himself, but tonight, Monica needs to be a saint.

  “Do you mind if I ask a few questions about your family?” Sam asks, when the waiter’s gone to fetch our drinks.

  “Of course not,” Monica says. “Like I said, I’m an open book. I really want this to work out.”

  He puts down his pen on the table and peers across the table at her. “Why?”

  She blinks a few times. “What do you mean?”

  “I understand you respect Abby and want her to have a baby,” he says, “but if you don’t mind my saying so, you seem very eager to make this happen. It doesn’t make sense to me.”

  I kick my husband’s leg under the table. “Sam…”

  “No, I think it’s a fair question.” He doesn’t take his gaze off Monica’s face. “Don’t you, Monica?”

  Her eyes dart briefly in my direction, then she nods. “Yes, it’s a fair question.”

  The waiter comes by at this moment to drop off our drinks. Water for Sam and Monica, wine for me. I take a big gulp.

  “Dr. Adler, Abby tells me you’re a math professor,” Monica says.

  He hesitates, then nods.

  “So I’m assuming you like math a lot,” she adds.

  “Yes,” he agrees.

  I snort. That’s an understatement.

  “So say you finished college and you weren’t allowed to keep going to school to learn math.” She takes a sip of her water. “And the cost of going to school to learn more math was more than you could ever hope to save in a reasonable amount of time. What then?”

  “I’d take out loans.”

  “Well, what if your loan payments were already more than your rent?”

  Sam is quiet for a moment. “There’s always a way.”

  “Right.” Her eyes meet his. “There’s always a way.”

  He frowns at her. He picks up the straw in his water glass and stirs the ice cubes around the glass. After a minute of silence, he picks up his pen again. “So when is the last time you’ve had a physical exam?”

  I smile to myself. Monica may not realize it, but she’s swayed him. We’re that much closer to getting our baby.

  Chapter 7

  “On a scale of one to ten,” Shelley says, “how much do you hate Denise?”

  “Twelve,” I say.

  “Might I remind you, this is a scale of one to ten.”

  “A hundred.”

  “I feel like you’re not taking the parameters of this question seriously.”

  I signal to the waiter that we’re ready to order. We can’t spend very long at lunch today because Denise saw us walking out. And asked very pointedly where we were going. And when Shelley replied “to lunch,” she looked aghast. I don’t know if I’ve ever used the word “aghast” before, but the expression on Denise’s face when we informed her we’d be leaving the premises to eat lunch was a perfect personification of the word “aghast.”

  The waiter approaches our table carrying a wine glass filled with dark red liquid and places it down in front of me. I suppress an urge to roll my eyes—poor service is something I have low tolerance for.

  “I didn’t order that,” I inform our waiter.

  “I know.” He jerks his head in the direction of the bar. “That gentleman over there asked me to bring you a glass of pinot noir.”

  I glance over at the bar, where a man with blond hair raises a glass and winks in our direction. He’s got a cocky smile and he’s wearing a gray business suit. Brooks Brothers—I’m pretty sure.

  Shelley giggles. “Looks like you’ve got another suitor, Abby.”

  I push the glass away from me. “It’s probably for you.”

  “No,” the waiter, a baby-faced young man, insists. “The man said it was for the woman with black hair in the white dress. He said he hoped you would join him after your lunch.”

  Shelley laughs harder. “I told you you’ve got a suitor.”

  My cheeks burn as I push the glass more firmly away from me. “I’ve also got a husband. Please remove the drink.”

  “And her husband is very hot,” Shelley informs the waiter, who I’m sure really cares.

  As awkward as that encounter was, I can’t say it wasn’t a boost to my self-esteem. Sometimes I think Sam just gets more attractive as he gets older while my own looks slide away. I don’t get hit on nearly as much as I used to. It’s nice to know a handsome stranger at a Mexican restaurant saw me across the room and found me desirable.

  I look down at my watch, cursing the fact that I didn’t make the waiter take our order while he was here. Shelley raises her eyebrows at me. “What time is that meeting you need to be back for?”

  “It’s at one-thirty. But it’s fine. Monica is getting everything set up.”

  Shelley nods in approval. “Nice. She’s really efficient.”

  “Actually, she’s amazing. I really like her.”

  “Me too.”

  “I like her so much,” I say, watching my best friend’s face, “I’m asking her to be a surrogate so Sam and I can have a baby.”

  Shelley laughs. She thinks I’m joking. I told her after the failed adoption attempt that Sam and I would be trying for an older child. This sounds like a joke. And admittedly, even as the words were leaving my mouth, they sounded comical. Who asks their assistant to carry a fetus for them in her womb? Last month, we got a memo saying we weren’t allowed to have our assistants do laundry for us.

  I clear my throat. “That wasn’t a joke.”

  “Yeah, right,” she snickers.

  I don’t say anything.

  Shelley’s mouth falls open. “Wait. Are you serious?”

  “I am.”

  She stares at me, shaking her head. “I… I don’t understand…”

  Briefly, I outline everything that’s happened so far. Monica’s offer. The terms of what our contract would be. Sam’s reluctant agreement to “think about it.”

  “I can’t believe Sam is going along with this,” Shelley mutters. “I thought he had more sense than this.”

  “So you don’t think I have any sense?”

  “Clearly not!”

  My face burns. Shelley doesn’t get it. When we both started here as assistants, we were single and happy about it. Then I found Sam and she found Rick, and everything
changed. After Sam talked me into trying for a baby, Shelley started trying too. We jokingly talked about how they’d be the same ages so they could play together. When Shelley got pregnant before I did, we joked her daughter would be a big sister to my child. Then she got pregnant again, and I was informed my eggs were useless.

  Even though Shelley and I are still best friends, she scrupulously avoids talking about her kids in front of me. We talk about work, our husbands, the latest movies—but never kids. Not until the promise of this adoption—the one that’s now fallen through. Shelley knows how much I want this. She knows how much this means to me.

  “You don’t get it,” I finally say.

  Shelley lets out a sigh and takes a sip from her Diet Coke. “I know you want this, Abby. I get it. But… you really don’t see why this is a bad idea?”

  “I really don’t.”

  “You’re using Sam’s sperm, right?”

  “Uh, yeah.”

  “So,” she says, “this pretty assistant who is over ten years younger than you will be pregnant with your husband’s child. And that doesn’t bother you?”

  “It will be our child. Sam’s and mine.”

  “Unless Monica changes her mind and decides she wants it.” She gives me a pointed look. “And then Sam’s on the hook for child support. Or worse.”

  “No.” I shake my head emphatically. “We won’t sign the contract if she’s allowed to change her mind.”

  “Can you do that?”

  “Sure, why not?”

  Shelley keeps shaking her head. I know she doesn’t approve of this, but I wish she’d be supportive anyway. She’s got her two babies. It’s my turn now.

  “Stop looking at me that way,” I say. “It’s not a bad idea.”

  “Listen to me, Abby.” She folds her arms across her chest. “I’m going to try to explain this to you the best way I can.” She pauses. “I’m sure you’ve noticed Sam possesses some physical attributes which women find… desirable.”

  Yeah, no kidding. When the math department was trying to attract more female students a few years ago, their big idea was to put a photo of Sam in their brochure and mention he was one of their professors. Sam found the whole thing baffling, but he went along with it. And the crazy part is, it worked. Their female applications tripled thanks to him.

  And he’s not just eye candy either. I’ve read over some of the reviews he gets from his students, and it’s obvious they find his enthusiasm for the subject just as attractive as his more superficial qualities. He gets equally revved up to teach freshman calculus as he does from his grad level courses. And it shows. I’ve never had a professor as excited to teach me math as Dr. Adler, one student wrote. Then they may or may not have mentioned his butt.

  To be fair, my husband does have a very nice butt.

  “I’m aware,” I say.

  “And don’t you think Monica has noticed?”

  I flinch. “She’s not like that.”

  “She’s female, isn’t she? If she isn’t a lesbian, she’s noticed. Trust me.”

  “So?”

  “So.” Shelley gives me a look. “So what if she decides she wants him?”

  “Shelley…”

  “Hear me out.” She lifts a finger. “Let’s assume her intentions are good going into this…”

  “They are.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Okay, we’ll give her that. But even if that’s true, think about how she’s going to feel a few months into her pregnancy. There she is, hormones raging, parasite growing inside her uterus, getting fat—and she knows Sam is the father of this baby. They’re connected by blood. And of course, she’ll see what a great guy he is, that he does dishes, laundry, and that he’s an excellent kisser…”

  I can’t argue with any of that. Sam does do dishes and laundry. And he is an excellent kisser.

  “I trust Sam,” I say stubbornly. “And I trust Monica.”

  “Sam—fine. He wouldn’t cheat. But how well do you know Monica?”

  “Very well,” I insist. “She’s been my assistant for almost six months.”

  “Right. So you know her for six months. Which isn’t very long at all.”

  “I trust her.” It’s hard to explain that good feeling I got the first time I sat across from Monica. How I saw so much of myself in her and wanted to take her under my wing. I trust Monica as much as I trust myself.

  Shelley peers at me over the rim of her Diet Coke. She’s thoughtful for a moment. “You know, I’ve seen her listening outside the door to your office.”

  My heart skips a beat. “What?”

  “I’ve seen her. She stands outside your office door when it’s closed, and I think she’s trying to hear your conversations.”

  “I…” My mouth feels dry all of a sudden. Monica is trustworthy—I know it. I don’t need to hear this ridiculousness from my supposed best friend. “Maybe she was just checking to see if I was busy before she knocked on the door.”

  “But isn’t that what knocking is for? To see if someone is busy?”

  I glare at her. “So… what? You’re saying Monica is spying on me? Is that what you think?”

  “No!” Shelley’s cheeks redden. “Look, all I’m saying, Abby, is be careful. You can’t trust anyone a hundred percent. Especially when it comes to something like this.”

  “Yeah,” I mumble.

  She’s right. That’s why I intend to investigate all of Monica’s references before jumping into this. I’m not making a mistake. I don’t care what Shelley says—I know Monica. I can trust her. This is all going to work out.

  Chapter 8

  “Yes, this is Jean Johnson. Who is this?”

  “Hi.” I clutch my cell phone in my hand so tightly, my fingers start to tingle. “My name is Abigail Adler. Your daughter Monica…”

  I don’t even know how to complete that sentence. Your daughter Monica agreed to allow my husband to impregnate her then give me the baby. When you put it that way, it does sound a bit odd.

  Thankfully, Jean Johnson knows exactly what I’m talking about. “Mrs. Adler! Yes, Monica told me all about it…”

  And then there’s the awkward silence.

  There’s a whistling sound in the background. “Sorry about that,” Mrs. Johnson says. She has a pleasant, husky voice that makes her sound like a film star from another era. “I had put a pot of tea on a few minutes ago. I’m just going to turn off the oven. Sorry about that, Mrs. Adler.”

  “Abby,” I correct her.

  “Abby,” she repeats. There’s shuffling on the other line, the sound of boiling water being poured into a teacup. “So you work with Monica in New York, is that right?”

  “Yes.” I clear my throat. “And you’re in… Indianapolis?”

  “Yes, I am. Born and raised.”

  “It must have been hard when Monica moved away.”

  “Yes, well…” She sniffs. “Children do what they want to do. You’ll find that out someday.”

  I analyze her tone, trying to figure out if it was a dig. I don’t think it was.

  “I want you to know,” I say quietly, “what Monica is doing for me… it means the world to me.”

  She’s quiet for a moment. “Well, that’s Monica—she always wants to help people.”

  “Really?”

  “Oh, yes. To a fault even.” She sighs. “Whenever someone tells her their problems—she’s got an open sort of face that makes people confide in her—she has to figure out a way to put it right for them.”

  I feel a little jab in my chest. Monica is giving me the thing I want most in the world and here I am, investigating her. But this is Sam’s strict condition—he won’t go through with this unless we have all the information. He’s sorting through Monica’s medical records while I make these calls. He wanted to hire a private investigator, but I drew the line at that.

  “We’re going to compensate her,” I say, desperate not to sound like we’re taking advantage. “We’re going to send her to graduate school in g
raphic arts.”

  “Perhaps. But you have to know, she’d do it even if you weren’t paying her a penny.”

  “Yes,” I agree. “I think she would.”

  “Well, anyhow.” Mrs. Johnson lets out a sigh. “What information do you need about my Monica?”

  I look at the list Sam scribbled out for me in his nearly illegible handwriting. “I guess… I was wondering if there are any serious illnesses that run in the family.”

  “My mother has the diabetes,” she says thoughtfully. “But she’s still living. Monica’s father is healthy—well, no, a little bit of high blood pressure. Monica’s always been healthy as a horse.”

  “Any…” I look at the next question and wince. “Any history of mental illness?”

  “Mental illness?” Mrs. Johnson repeats. “You mean craziness? No, of course not! What sort of family do you think this is?”

  “I, um…”

  “Look, my Monica is a good girl,” she says. “Always did well in school, always was kind to everyone. I have to be honest with you, Mrs. Adler, I told Monica not to do this. That we’d find another way to raise the money for her to go back to school. But she wanted to do it. And now it feels like… what’s the expression? You’re looking a gift horse in the mouth.”

  I fold Sam’s notes in half and push them across my desk. “You’re right, Mrs. Johnson. I’m sorry to take up so much of your time.”

  I thank her again, but as I put down my phone, there’s something tugging at the back of my mind. Something not entirely right. But that makes no sense. Mrs. Johnson was perfectly nice, especially given what we’re proposing to her daughter. Nothing she said raised any kind of red flag.

  So what is that nagging feeling that I’m missing something?

  _____

  There’s a baby in a booster seat at the table next to mine. An adorable little girl with beautiful blond curls. She’s got a handful of Cheerios sprinkled all over her tray and she’s picking them up awkwardly and stuffing them in her mouth. I watch her, trying to ignore the growing ache in my chest. I almost had a baby. I was so close.