The Surrogate Mother

by Freida McFadden

  Why on earth would she dye her hair black?

  I clear my throat. “So per our arrangement, I think it’s time to resign. I can start looking for replacements for you right away.”

  Her eyes fly open. “Resign?”

  “Yes,” I say tightly. “That was the agreement. When you started showing, you would resign.”

  She stares at me for a moment, her mouth hanging open. “Is this because I came up with a better idea than you at that meeting with Cuddles?”

  Ouch. Admittedly, I’ve felt a smoldering resentment toward Monica because of that meeting. Ever since then, Denise has been acting like Monica’s the new office prodigy. I can barely remember the last time I got that kind of mentorship from Denise. At a meeting yesterday, Denise told Monica that she was “really going places” at Stewart Advertising.

  “It’s not because of that,” I say quietly. “This was our agreement from the beginning, Monica.”

  “But it’s not in the contract.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “It’s not in the contract,” she repeats. “I said maybe I’d leave, but I didn’t sign anything saying I would definitely leave.”

  Now it’s my turn to stare. “But we agreed…”

  She shrugs. “Yes, but I changed my mind. I like it here. I want to stay.”

  I feel like she just punched me in the gut. I don’t even know what to say. This was our agreement and she’s backing out. It raises the question, what else will she back out of?

  “Monica.” I’m trying to keep my voice even. “If you keep working here, I could get in a lot of trouble for our arrangement. It could look like I… that I pressured you into it.”

  “Well, maybe you should have thought of that beforehand.” She sticks up her chin. “I don’t want to give up my job, Abby. I shouldn’t have to.”

  I want to leap across the desk and shake her, but that would be a bad idea for so many reasons. I have to stay on Monica’s good side. There is so much riding on her.

  “If this is really what you want,” I say quietly, “we’ll figure out a way to work it out. We can go to HR and explain the situation. As long as you back me up that I didn’t coerce you into anything.”

  I watch Monica’s face. I’m terrified she’s going to refuse to go along with it, but then her lips curl into a smile. “Sure, Abby. Of course.”

  Thank God. This is still going to be a total disaster, but maybe there’s a way to mitigate the damage.

  _____

  I don’t know why I’m so bad at getting envelopes open. Considering how much snail mail I get every day, you’d think I’d have acquired reasonable skill at this. But it feels like every envelope I open results in a twenty-five percent chance of a serious paper cut.

  Where the hell is that letter opener Sam got me?

  The top drawer where I usually keep it only has papers in it. I rifle around, trying to find it. Wow, my desk is getting to be a mess. I always used to be so organized, but somehow, the top of my desk has become a hurricane of papers. I don’t know how I let that happen. I’ve got so much on my mind…

  I’m still searching for my letter opener when Denise strides into my office without knocking. I look up, and the expression on her face unsettles me. It’s not like Denise doesn’t always seem a little pissed off at me, but right now, she’s got a pink circle on each of her cheekbones and there are veins standing out on her neck.

  “Abigail,” she says as a vein pulses in her neck. I hope she doesn’t burst an aneurysm right in front of me.

  Well, I mostly hope that.

  “Yes, hi,” I say. “What’s up, Denise?”

  She glowers at me. “I was hoping you could explain the meaning of this email to me.”

  She holds out her phone in my direction and I take it from her. I immediately recognize an email I thought I had sent to Shelley, asking her opinion on the latest copy I had written for Cuddles. Except it turns out I accidentally cc’d the message to Denise Holt.

  Also, I prefaced the message by writing: Let me know what you think. Of course, no matter what, Denise will probably be a bitch again and make me redo everything.

  “Uh…,” I say.

  This is fantastic. I called my boss a bitch in an email, then accidentally cc’d the email to her. Of all the stupid things I’ve done recently, this has got to take the cake.

  Denise yanks her phone out of my hand. She places her fists on her hips and stares at me, waiting for an explanation. Her face is noticeably pink under her concealer. I wonder how old Denise is. Shelley and I have debated it countless times and we can’t figure it out. She looks mid-forties, but she looked mid-forties when we started working here ten years ago. So… mid-fifties? Sixty? Seventy? Who can tell?

  “I’m really sorry about that,” I say, trying to sound as genuine as I possibly can, considering I very much meant what I wrote to Shelley. “I was just blowing off some steam and… well, obviously, I didn’t intend for you to see it.”

  “So you didn’t intend to send me an email calling me a bitch?” she snaps at me.

  I lower my eyes. Is she going to fire me? Oh God, I can’t be fired right now. Or ever. No time is a good time to be fired.

  And then just when it seems like this situation can’t get any worse, Sonia Watson from Human Resources taps on the door to my office. At first, I’m certain Denise called her here to deliver my pink slip, but it quickly becomes obvious Denise had no idea Sonia was coming.

  “Hi, Abby,” Sonia says, her hands clutched in front of her. “Denise. I’m glad you’re both here. Would it be possible to speak in the conference room?”

  My stomach sinks. Sonia from HR wants to speak with me and Denise together in the conference room? This morning is not getting any better.

  Denise narrows her eyes. She doesn’t like surprises. “What’s this about?”

  Sonia tugs on her cream-colored pencil skirt. “It’s best if you come with me.”

  I feel like I’m following Sonia to my own execution. And I don’t feel one bit better when I see none other than Monica Johnson already sitting in the conference room. For the very first time, she’s wearing maternity clothes to work. She’s got on a light blue top that cinches below her breasts and stretches comfortably over the swell of her belly. She looks beautiful, actually.

  Denise sees her, and her eyes fly open. It would be comical if it weren’t all so, so horrible.

  “Monica,” she gasps. “You’re… pregnant?”

  “Yes,” Monica says. “I am.”

  This must drive her crazy, considering the way she’s taken Monica under her wing lately, and as we know, Denise hates pregnant ladies and children and probably also animals and flowers and Christmas snow.

  “Please take a seat,” Sonia says to me and Denise.

  Denise is clearly very confused. It’s interesting to watch her off her game, because she’s always so damn composed. “What’s this about, Sonia? Do we need a meeting to discuss pregnancies now?”

  “No, we don’t,” Sonia says, patting her cornrows self-consciously, “but I think we need to have a meeting to discuss the circumstances of Monica’s pregnancy.”

  Denise’s eyes dart around the room, trying to figure it all out. “Circumstances?”

  Sonia nods. “It’s come to my attention that Monica and Abby have an arrangement in which Monica is acting as a surrogate for Abby, and Abby will be adopting her baby.”

  The look of surprise on Denise’s face is absolutely priceless. I wish I could photograph it. I couldn’t have imagined her being more upset than she was when I called her a bitch, but here it is. Well, it’s been nice working here.

  “Abigail,” Denise gasps. “You… you…”

  “The arrangement has nothing to do with the company,” I say, my voice surprisingly firm considering I’m about eighty percent sure I’m going to be fired. No, make that ninety-five percent sure. “It was something Monica and I arranged outside of work and we have a signed contract.”

  “
Granted, that may be true,” Sonia says, “but given Monica is your assistant, she is in a compromised position here in terms of entering into any agreements.”

  “She doesn’t work for me,” I point out. “I don’t pay her salary. I wasn’t even the one who hired her.”

  “But she is your assistant,” Sonia says.

  “That’s her job title, yes,” I admit. “But practically—”

  “I can’t believe this,” Denise sputters. “How could you force Monica to do something like this, Abigail?”

  Everyone in the room is staring at me. I’m at a loss for words. I could point out that I thought Monica was going to quit prior to this point, but I don’t think that would make things better.

  “Monica,” Denise says gently. I don’t think she’s ever talked to me that nicely in all the time I’ve known her. “I am so sorry about what Abigail did to you. If there’s anything the company could do—”

  “It was my idea,” Monica says suddenly.

  Sonia blinks a few times, taken aback. “What?”

  “It was my idea to be a surrogate for Abby,” Monica says. She crosses her legs slowly, adjusting the weight of her belly. “I felt terrible for her after everything she went through, so I offered to help her out. She didn’t ask me. I mean, you know she’s been trying to have a baby for a long time…”

  “It still wasn’t appropriate,” Denise snaps, her eyes flashing.

  “I had an attorney look over the contracts,” Monica says. “We have a very fair arrangement. Like I said, it was my idea. I wanted to do it. Abby in no way coerced me. She shouldn’t be punished for something that was my idea.”

  Sonia and Denise are exchanging looks, but I don’t know what that means. However, I’m beginning to have a tiny shred of hope that I might not lose my job today.

  “Monica,” Sonia says carefully, “you don’t need to defend her.”

  “I’m only telling the truth.” She sticks up her chin. “If you’re going to fire someone today, then I’ll be the one to leave.”

  Wow. I did not expect that.

  “Nobody is going to be fired today,” Sonia says hastily, although Denise shoots her a look. It’s clear Denise would like nothing better than to say goodbye to me forever. And keep Monica instead.

  Sometimes I worry Sam feels the same way.

  “I’m so sorry about all of this,” I say. “Honestly, I didn’t mean to involve the company in our arrangement.”

  “Didn’t mean to involve the company!” Denise bursts out. “How could you possibly think that—”

  Sonia holds up her hand. “If Monica insists the arrangement was made fairly and is willing to sign paperwork to that effect, I think it would be in our best interest not to pursue it further. Monica, are you comfortable signing some documents for me?”

  She rests a hand protectively on her belly. “Of course.”

  Denise is glaring at me like she wants to reach out and strangle me with her bare hands. This probably isn’t the best time to discuss my upcoming maternity leave.

  Chapter 22

  “So it sounds like Monica saved the day then.”

  I glare at Sam, who is wearing his “I ate some pie” apron and attempting to cook meatballs. He’s got them in a pot on the stove, simmering in tomato sauce, but he’s babysitting them too much. Every thirty seconds, he lifts the lid of the pot to stir them.

  While he’s been cooking, I told him the whole story about what happened today, about how I got called into HR thanks to Monica. But he doesn’t seem to get it.

  “Yes, she ‘saved the day,’” I admit. “But she wouldn’t have had to save the day if she had left the job like she was supposed to. It really got me in a lot of trouble. Denise hates me.”

  A smile twitches at Sam’s lips. “Maybe you shouldn’t have emailed her that she was a bitch.”

  I groan. I’ll never live that down. I told Shelley what happened, and she couldn’t stop laughing. This isn’t funny. This is my career. Maybe we’ve got enough money to get by without my salary, but that doesn’t mean I want to give up everything I’ve worked for.

  “I just feel like this is a bad sign,” I say. “If she’s going to go back on our agreement about work, what else will she back out on? Giving us the baby?”

  Sam opens the pot and peers down at his meatballs. “She won’t.”

  “How do you know?”

  “She said she wants to focus on her career right now. And maybe go back to school at night after all. Possibly to study graphic art or maybe math—maybe both. Either way, she can’t do that with a baby.”

  I narrow my eyes at Sam. “And when did she say all that to you?”

  Any trace of a smile fades from his lips as he quickly busies himself with the pot again. “What?”

  “It just seems like you know a lot about her plans for the future, that’s all.”

  Sam fiddles with the knob on the stove. “We had lunch a couple of days ago.”

  Well, great. My husband is having lunch with a young, attractive woman who happens to be carrying his baby. And he’s lying to me about it.. “Were you planning on telling me about it, Sammy?”

  “It wasn’t a big deal,” he mumbles.

  “Then why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Because I knew you’d make a big thing of it.” He shakes his head. “Look, Monica is at a crossroads in her career and I want to help her, you know? That’s part of what I do—advise students.”

  “Yes, but she’s not your student! She works at my company. Don’t you think if she really wanted advice, she’d come to me?”

  He lowers his eyes. “I think you intimidate her a little.”

  “I intimidate her?”

  “Yes, that’s what she said.”

  “Oh, Lord.” I roll my eyes. “That’s the horseshit she’s been feeding you?”

  “It’s not horseshit. You can be intimidating, Abby.”

  “Oh, really? Do you find me intimidating?”

  “The first time I met you, I did,” he admits. He smiles crookedly. “You had on that power outfit of yours with the matching black skirt and short jacket and your hair up in that elaborate knot. It was so goddamn sexy. You got me so nervous. I didn’t even know what I was saying.”

  I can’t suppress a smile. “You mostly started talking about math.”

  “I know—that’s what I do when I’m nervous. I thought I’d made a complete idiot out of myself. I couldn’t believe it when you agreed to go to dinner with me. I almost didn’t bother asking.”

  My anger from earlier is starting to fade. “I’m glad you did.”

  “Me too.” He lifts the lid from the pot one more time and fishes out a meatball with his fork. “Want to taste?”

  “Um, you first.”

  He clutches his chest with his free hand. “Are you afraid to try my meatballs?”

  I peer at the lopsided gray blob hanging off the fork. “What is in them?”

  “Well, ground beef, obviously. Um… breadcrumbs, parmesan cheese, an egg…”

  Bread crumbs, parmesan cheese, and an egg. How could he mess that up?

  I lean forward and take a bite from the meatball on his fork. And…

  “Sam!” I cry. “This has eggshells in it!”

  “It does?” He looks down at the meatball, baffled. He takes a tentative bite. “Oh. It does. Damn.”

  He looks down at the pot of meatballs, crestfallen. I want to tell him I’m willing to eat them anyway, but I’m not. Crunchy meatballs are not pleasant to eat. Even to spare my husband’s feelings. Plus I’m pretty sure he doesn’t want to eat them either.

  “Pizza?” I say.

  He sighs. “Sure.”

  But before I can grab my phone, Sam reaches out to take my hand. “Hey,” he says.

  “Yes?”

  His brown eyes meet mine. “I just wanted to say… I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have gone to lunch with Monica.”

  “Oh…”

  He squeezes my hand in his. “I figured…
well, I didn’t think it was a big deal when she asked me, and honestly, she’s doing so much for us, I felt like I owed her. But then when I was there, I realized it was a mistake. I knew you’d be hurt if you found out, and I felt terrible about it. I felt like an asshole.”

  Sam is really good at apologizing. He’s harder on himself than I would ever be on him.

  “It’s okay,” I say. “You’re right—it wasn’t that big a deal. I mean, it was just lunch.”

  “I won’t do it again. I promise.”

  And now I feel guilty for giving him a hard time. “It’s fine.”

  I suppose I’m making too big a deal out of all of this. Lunch is lunch—not an affair. Sam wouldn’t do something like that. If there’s one thing I know for sure, it’s that my husband isn’t a cheater. And he’s right—Monica stuck up for me today and saved my job. If she wanted, I could have been clearing out my office as we speak. I suppose it’s not crazy that she might want to keep her job. At age twenty-three, you’re allowed to change your mind about your career path.

  Everything is going to be fine.

  Chapter 23

  “Knock, knock!”

  I look up at my office door and see a face peeking in. It takes me a second to recognize Gertie, my old assistant pre-Monica. She hasn’t been back once since she fell on those stairs and broke her hip. She limps into the office, holding a plate of chocolate chip cookies that I can smell all the way across the room. She’s got a cane in the hand that isn’t holding the cookies, and she leans on it heavily as she walks.

  I miss Gertie’s cookies. I miss Gertie. I miss having an assistant I’m not worried is making a play for my husband. I don’t care that she didn’t know how to use the fax machine and sometimes even seemed confused by the phone. Right now, I’d give my right arm for another Gertie.

  “How are you, Abby?” Gertie beams at me over the plate of cookies. “It’s so great to see you again! You look like you’re hard at work!”