“No.”
“You kind of seem like you are.”
“Listen, Mister.” I grab him by the arm. Ooh, nice biceps. Thanks, Gym Membership. “You be nice.”
We stop walking and just stare at each other for a moment. He leans forward until I can smell the wine and paella on his breath. He almost certainly would have kissed me except a voice from my left-hand side calls out, “Abby!”
Damn.
I swivel my head to the side. I’m shocked to see none other than Monica Johnson standing only a few feet away from us. We’re nowhere in the vicinity of work. What is she doing here?
“Um, hi, Monica,” I say as I back away from Sam, who on his part looks properly disappointed.
She doesn’t seem at all cognizant of having interrupted us as she clutches her purse to her chest and steps closer to us. “I’m so surprised to see you two here!”
Sam barely acknowledges her, glancing down at his watch then at a streetlamp. He’s not the most social guy in the world under the best of circumstances, but he’s made no secret of how uncomfortable this situation makes him. Monica is pregnant with a child who has half his DNA. It’s an odd situation.
“It’s our anniversary,” I explain. “We were just having dinner.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful!” She clasps her hands together. She’s still wearing the same blouse she had on at work this morning, and I can’t help but notice that while her stomach hasn’t gotten any bigger, her boobs definitely have. She had fairly unremarkable breasts before, but now she’s stacked.
I glance at Sam to see if he’s noticing, but he’s got his hands shoved into his pockets and is looking everywhere but at Monica. At least he hasn’t taken out his phone.
“What are you up to?” I ask.
“Just dinner with some old friends.” She shrugs. “And now, you know, trying to snag a taxi on a Friday night. I’ve heard it helps to show a little leg, but it’s not working.”
“Oh.” I glance down the street, where Sam’s Highlander is parked. “We could give you a ride home, if you’d like.”
Sam’s eyes fly open, but thankfully, he keeps his mouth shut. This woman is pregnant with our child—I’m not letting her wander the city late at night.
Monica’s cheeks color. “Oh, I don’t want to take you out of your way.”
“No, we insist,” I say. “You don’t live that far from us. It’s no trouble.”
I look at Sam for confirmation and he reluctantly nods.
So instead of making out with my husband on the streets of Manhattan on the night of our anniversary, we all trudge back to the Toyota to head back home. Which is fine. I guess.
But here’s the weird part: when Sam unlocks the doors to the car with his key fob, Monica immediately jumps into the shotgun seat. Considering we’re giving her a ride, that seems odd to me. I’m Sam’s wife—I should be the one sitting next to him. Technically this is his car because it’s in his name, but he bought it with money from our joint bank account. And since I earn way more money than he does, that means, in a way, this car is more mine than his. In any case, it’s more mine than Monica’s.
How could she sit in the front seat?
I fume about it for a minute, but there’s nothing I can do. Sam is the one driving, so I have no choice but to get into the back seat. I know it’s a small thing, but it makes me uncomfortable. When I look at Sam and Monica sitting up in front, they seem very much like they could be a couple. On top of that, she’s pregnant with his child. On so many levels, Monica and Sam make more sense than Sam and I do. Yes, she’s over ten years younger than he is, but so what? Men marry much younger women all the time.
I’m beginning to feel like a third wheel back here. I hope Sam drives fast.
We drive in awkward silence for about five minutes. I’m good at small talk, but what sort of conversation do you make with the woman who’s carrying your baby in her uterus? Have you thought of any names for the child you’re giving us? Nothing brilliant is coming to me. It isn’t until we’re stopped at a red light in front of a movie theater that Monica exclaims: “Oh my gosh! The new Quentin Tarantino movie is out!”
Sam’s eyebrows shoot up. Quentin Tarantino is one of his favorite directors and we’ve already made plans to see the movie this weekend. “You like Quentin Tarantino?”
“Uh huh.” She nods eagerly. “My favorite is Pulp Fiction.”
Pulp Fiction is Sam’s absolutely favorite Tarantino movie. Without exaggerating, I would say he’s probably seen it ten-thousand times, and those are just the times we’ve watched it together.
He snorts. “You probably weren’t even born yet when that movie came out.”
It bothers me that she doesn’t contradict him on that point. “It’s still a great movie. Samuel L. Jackson? Classic.” She grins. “Do you know what they call a quarter pounder with cheese in Paris?”
A smile twitches at his lips. “A Royale with Cheese.”
“Right,” she giggles. “Because of the metric system.”
And then they spend the rest of the drive quoting lines from Pulp Fiction. I’ve seen it almost as much as Sam, so I could get in on the fun, but because I’m in the back, it’s difficult. By the end, Sam’s smile has become genuine. When he pulls over at the curb next to her building, he seems disappointed that the fun has come to an end.
“So are you seeing the new Tarantino movie this weekend?” Monica asks.
“Yep,” Sam says, looking at me as if for confirmation. I nod.
There’s a long silence, and for a scary second, I think Sam might invite her to come along. Not that it would be awful, but… well, I don’t want her to come along. In any case, he doesn’t offer, and Monica gets out of the car without further fanfare.
Once Monica is out of the car, I unbuckle myself and get into the front seat next to Sam. He gives me a funny look. “You didn’t have to move,” he says.
“I didn’t want to sit in the back like you’re my driver.”
“Why not? It could be one of those roleplaying games where I’m a taxi driver and you’re the mysterious, beautiful woman I picked up at the airport.”
I laugh. “Is that what you want?”
“Actually, I mostly just want to get home so we can… you know, celebrate.”
“Sounds good to me.”
Sam starts up the car and turns onto Third Avenue, heading back to our condo. I look at his profile in the light of the moon. He’s clean-shaven now, which means he shaved just before we went out. For me.
“Hey,” I say, “didn’t you think it was weird Monica sat up in front?”
He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Yeah. A little.”
“I mean, she was the passenger. She should have sat in the back.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
Sam doesn’t seem particularly upset about it, so maybe it’s better not to push the issue. Yes, it was weird. I’m sure Shelley would agree with me. But Sam doesn’t get bothered by stuff like that. And anyway, it looks like he had lots of fun talking about Pulp Fiction with Monica.
It isn’t until we’ve been driving for several minutes that I remember a conversation we had at a conference table a few months ago:
“Just watched Django Unchained again on Netflix last night,” I said.
Monica, who was arranging coffee on the table, shuddered and said, “Oh God, Tarantino is so violent.”
I laughed. “Yeah, but my husband loves his movies. Especially Pulp Fiction. We’ve seen that movie more times than I can count.”
I close my eyes, trying to remember what Monica said to that. Did she say she’d seen the movie? I can’t recall. But still. Saying that Tarantino is “so violent” is a far cry from calling him her favorite.
Yet somehow, now it’s not only her favorite movie, but she’s memorized every line of it.
I bite my lip hard enough that it hurts. Sam is still driving, whistling to himself. He had a good night tonight—he has no clue what I’m thinking
about.
I’m probably being irrational. Maybe I’m remembering the conversation with Monica wrong. Yes, she said the movies were violent, but she didn’t say she didn’t like them. Maybe she was saying it in a complimentary way, like, “Tarantino’s the only director who satisfies my thirst for violence!” And she never said she didn’t see Pulp Fiction. Most people have seen that movie—it’s a very popular film. A classic, like she said.
Hey, maybe our conversation inspired her to revisit his movies.
I’m definitely making too much of this. So what if Monica sat in the front seat? So what if she shares movie taste with my husband? I’m the one who’s married to Sam. And thanks to Monica’s generosity, we’re going to be parents soon. I don’t know why I’m getting so paranoid.
Chapter 12
This is Monica’s first OB/GYN appointment since her positive pregnancy test.
Based on her last menstrual period, she’s ten weeks along, nearly eleven. Her stomach is still flat as a board and her boobs are huge. She’s wearing a hospital gown, but has nothing on from the waist down. I came with her to the examining room and offered to wait outside while she changed, but she insisted it was “no big deal.”
I turned away when she was undressing, but I couldn’t help but take a tiny peek. And then I wished I hadn’t. I never thought of Monica as particularly attractive, but she’s twenty-three years old, and her body is absolutely perfect. Not that mine is terrible or anything, but everything on her is so tight and… well, like I said, perfect.
“This is exciting,” Monica comments.
“Yes,” I agree. “It is.”
She squeezes her white hands together. “They said on the phone we might be able to hear the baby’s heart today.”
The thought of it brings tears to my eyes. Yes, Sam and I almost had a baby before, but Janelle lived across the country and I never got to go to any appointments with her. I never got to experience anything like this.
Monica has been really wonderful, honestly. That night we drove her home was a little weird, but since then, she’s been so sweet. She updates me every day on how she’s feeling, she helped me brainstorm about baby names (all of which Sam promptly vetoed… what’s so wrong with Worthington?), and she offered to let me come to this appointment. I never would have asked, but I was thrilled by her offer. It’s your baby, Abby. You should be there.
I can’t believe I was being so petty about her sitting in the front seat in our car. Who cares about that? Maybe she was feeling nauseated and needed to be in front. That was probably it.
“By the way,” I say to Monica, “Sam and I want to have you over for dinner next week. Are you free on Wednesday evening?”
“I am.” She brightens. “That would be great. Thanks!”
“It’s our pleasure. You’re our hero, after all.”
She rests a hand gingerly on her abdomen. “Too bad Sam couldn’t make it to the appointment today.”
Okay, full disclosure: Monica invited me and Sam to the appointment today. And I told her I’d ask him if he wanted to come, but I didn’t end up doing it. I’m sure he wouldn’t have wanted to come. It would have been really awkward with both Sam and me here. This is just easier.
“Maybe he’ll come to the next appointment,” she says.
“Maybe,” I say vaguely.
Or not.
Dr. Selena Wong came highly recommended, although it’s not like Monica needs a high risk OB/GYN like I would have if I had ever managed to get knocked up. But I still feel reassured when Dr. Wong enters the room with her broad smile and intelligent eyes. There’s an air about her that makes me trust her instantly.
“Hello.” She holds a hand out for Monica to shake. “I’m Dr. Wong. You must be Monica Johnson.”
Monica nods and takes the doctor’s hand.
Dr. Wong then turns to me. “And you’re… Monica’s mother?”
Oh God. She did not just say that to me. Monica’s mother? Really? Yes, I’m thirteen years older than she is, but I’m not old enough to… well, I suppose technically I could be her mother. It’s not like we’re one year apart in age. But since people in this country don’t generally have babies at thirteen years old, this is highly insulting.
“Abby is going to adopt the baby,” Monica explains, because I’m too flustered to speak. “I’m serving as her surrogate for the pregnancy.”
“Oh.” Dr. Wong’s eyes widen. “Sorry… I thought I saw a family resemblance.”
“It’s fine,” I mumble. If she saw a family resemblance, couldn’t she have guessed “sister”?
Okay, I’m not going to obsess over this.
“So is it Abby’s egg?” the doctor asks.
Monica shakes her head. “No, Abby’s eggs are no good. We’re using my eggs and her husband’s sperm.”
“Oh!” Dr. Wong gives me a strange look, which I probably deserve. Monica is essentially having a baby with my husband. It’s not like I would have considered this if I weren’t so desperate to become a mother. “Well, that’s great.”
Dr. Wong proceeds to go through Monica’s medical history, which is fairly unremarkable. She’s barely had anything more than a cold in her life. Of course, I always thought I was perfectly healthy until I was unable to get pregnant.
After the questions, she does a pelvic exam, which I insist on stepping out for, even though Monica doesn’t seem to care. Then Dr. Wong comes out to bring me back into the room.
“We’re going to try to listen for the heartbeat with a Doppler,” she explains. “Monica thought you’d want to hear.”
My own heart is pounding in my chest. “Yes, that would be great.”
Monica has her pants on again so that she can lift her gown without revealing her nether regions. Her belly is completely flat. I had no idea it was possible to be nearly three months pregnant and have a belly that flat. I look more pregnant than she does.
Dr. Wong dabs gel on her Doppler probe and places it gingerly on Monica’s tummy. Monica shivers and giggles. “Cold!”
“Sorry about that.” Dr. Wong smiles at her. “Okay, now let’s see if we can find that heartbeat. Remember that it’s still on the early side, so I wouldn’t panic if we can’t hear it. We’ll do the transvaginal if that’s the case.”
But then Dr. Wong shifts the probe and we hear it:
Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh, whoosh…
It’s really fast, but I’ve heard fetus’s hearts are faster than adult hearts. It sounds… well, it sounds normal to me, but what do I know? Actually, it sounds perfect.
That’s my baby’s heart.
“Perfect.” Dr. Wong smiles up at us. “One-hundred-eighty beats per minute, which is normal for ten weeks. It will slow down a bit in second trimester.”
I feel a lump in my throat and my eyes are tearing up. All of a sudden, I’m sorry I didn’t invite Sam to come along. I wish he could be here to hear this with me. Our baby.
Monica is gazing down at her belly, her mouth hanging open. “That’s incredible,” she breathes.
And then her eyes start to water. She swipes at them quickly, before the tears can fall, but she’s definitely on the verge of crying. Except why is she crying?
“Can we get a recording of this?” Monica asks.
She wants a recording of this? What the hell?
“Well, you can record it with your phone,” Dr. Wong says.
And she does. She gets out her cell phone and records the sound of the heartbeat for much longer than I feel is necessary. Like, a minute. A minute doesn’t sound very long, but after ten seconds, it’s a bit repetitive, isn’t it?
It makes me think of when she first got the positive pregnancy test, and how she wanted to save the pee stick. I wonder if she still has that stick. She wouldn’t really have saved it, would she?
“Are you planning to do the First Trimester Screen?” Dr. Wong asks, after the recording is (finally) finished. “That’s a blood test to look for signs of chromosomal abnormalities and an ultrasound
to look at nuchal translucency, which is the fluid beneath the skin behind the baby’s neck. It’s pretty accurate in screening for birth defects. We could do it in a few weeks.”
“Oh.” Monica laughs. “Well, I’m only twenty-three. I’m sure the baby is fine. It’s not like we’re using Abby’s eggs.”
Gee, thanks.
“The risk is lower,” the doctor admits, “but not nil. I’d recommend the test. Plus you get to have an ultrasound, so you can see your baby.”
Monica’s eyes widen. At first, I think she’s going to ask me what I think, but instead, she blurts out, “Yeah, that sounds great.”
She should have asked me. I’m going to be the mother of this child. But I suppose she’s the one carrying the baby. Anyway, I’m not going to make a big thing of it. I do want her to get the screening test, so there’s no need to intervene. She’s doing exactly what I want her to do.
So why do I have a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach?
Chapter 13
“So how is that woman doing?”
My mother stubbornly refuses to remember Monica’s name. She only refers to her as “that woman.” Needless to say, she’s not entirely on board with using Monica as a surrogate. I believe her words were: Abby, have you completely lost every bit of your common sense? Or something along those lines.
“She’s doing great!” I say into the phone with enthusiasm I hope doesn’t sound forced. “The pregnancy is going really well. And everything is going according to plan.”
“The plan being a beautiful young woman is pregnant with your husband’s child.”
“Yes,” I say through my teeth. “That plan.”
“Mmm.”
My right hand squeezes into a fist. That always seems to happen when I’m speaking to my mother. “You told me you weren’t going to be judgmental.”
“I’m not! I just said ‘mmm.’ You’re the one who interpreted that as me being judgmental. It must be because you’re insecure that a beautiful young woman is pregnant with your husband’s child.”
The fist tightens. One day when I’m talking to my mother, I’m going to punch a wall and break my hand. “You know Sam and I can’t have a child on our own and the adoptions keep falling through. This is the only way.”
The Surrogate Mother Page 8
