The Choices We Make (5 page)

10

HANNAH

We had an off-site photo shoot and I didn't have to be at the restaurant we were featuring until ten. At nine o'clock I rang Kate's doorbell, nervously tapping the toes on one foot as I mentally rehearsed how I was going to justify what I was planning to do.

I could tell she wasn't feeling well when she opened the door, even though she was smiling. Her eyes were dull and her face pale.

“Thank God,” she said, kissing my cheek and taking the tray of coffees from my hands. “I really do need to set that timer. David usually makes the coffee, but he didn't get a chance this morning.” She smelled like peanut butter and tea tree oil, which I knew she used on the girls' hair every morning before school, claiming it had kept them lice-free even during the school's inevitable outbreaks.

“How's the migraine?” I asked, following her into the living room. I sat on the couch beside her and tucked my legs under me. She took a sip of the latte and closed her eyes. “So much better now. Thank you for this.” Then she opened her eyes and looked at me in a way that made me even more nervous, her deep brown eyes holding steady on my face. “Out with it, Hannah. What's up?”

I cleared my throat, shifting to grab my own coffee. “So I've done something... Something I probably shouldn't have. No, definitely shouldn't have.”

“What have you done?” Kate asked slowly, as though she was giving both of us time to prepare for whatever it was.

It all came out in a rush. “I emailed a surrogate even though I told Ben I wouldn't, and now she wants to meet, like tomorrow, and I said I'd meet her and I didn't tell Ben and I'm not sure I want to because I know he's going to lose it and she's asking for forty grand to do this and she's really religious and we're not and she wants to have a relationship with the baby after it's born but I really want to meet her. I think. I'm pretty sure—”

“Stop talking,” Kate said, and so I did. She casually took a long sip of her coffee and then got up. “This calls for chocolate.” A moment later she was back, a huge dark chocolate bar on the coffee table in front of us. Kate popped a piece of the chocolate in her mouth and sucked on it, melting it on her tongue. I didn't bother reminding her chocolate was one of her headache triggers.

“First of all, I have to say I'm sort of impressed. I mean, going on a secret surrogate-hunting mission? That is a very un-Hannah-like move.”

I squirmed, knowing she was trying to make me laugh but feeling worse by the second. “I didn't mean for it to be a secret, I just... I don't know. I just did it before I could think too hard about what I was doing.”

Kate nodded, looking at me thoughtfully. “Who is this person?” she asked, snapping off another square of chocolate.

“Her name is Lyla. She's a mom, married and healthy, and she wants to be a surrogate. My—our—surrogate.”

Kate narrowed her eyes. “How did you find her?”

“A classified ad.” I tried not to cringe, hearing how it sounded. I mean, you went to the classifieds to find a dining room table or tickets to a sold-out concert, not for a woman to carry a baby for you.

Kate paused, the chocolate square partway to her lips. “You're kidding me.”

“Nope, not kidding.”

“And you're sharing this with me instead of Ben because...?”

“Because I needed to tell someone who was going to be on my side,” I said, my voice dropping. The sweetness of the chocolate locked up my throat and I coughed hard a few times.

Kate rubbed my back. “Oh, honey. Ben is always on your side.”

I shook my head. “Not this time, Katie. Sure, he humored me and went through the ads with me, but I know he doesn't want to do this. He thinks it's... He wants to try adoption.”

Kate took my hands in hers and gently tugged on them until I looked at her. “And you don't?”

“I'm not sure what I want anymore,” I replied. “No, that's not true. I know exactly what I want.”

Kate squeezed my fingers. “You want a baby.”

I nodded. “A baby. And when I read through Lyla's ad, something just... I don't know, something just told me to email her. I didn't even consider what I'd do if she responded back.”

“When are you going to tell Ben?”

“After I meet with her? I mean, maybe once I see her, talk to her, I'll be sure it's not the right thing to do.” I looked at Kate, then looked away quickly when I saw her face—she was right, of course. I had to tell Ben.

“Besides, you can't go alone. What if she's nuts? Has some kind of weird secret agenda, like pretending to be pregnant so she can get your money and then take off?” I didn't want to admit that very thought had crossed my mind more than once.

“You're right. This is a bad idea. Sorry, I just—”

“You just want to be a mom,” Kate said, holding my hands tighter. “Listen, I still think you should talk to Ben before you go meet any sort of potential baby mama, but if you really want to go through with this first, I'll come with you. I don't want you going by yourself.”

“Thank you. But... I should never have sent that email. I can't shut Ben out of this, no matter how much easier it might be.” Kate gave me a small, sad smile. “I'm going to cancel.” My phone's alarm went off. “Gotta run. I need to be at the restaurant by ten.”

I stood and hugged Kate tightly. “Thanks for talking me off the ledge.”

“Thanks for the latte. I needed it. You gonna be okay?”

I nodded. “Fine. You know me—I'm not a quitter.”

“No,” Kate said, shaking her head. “You are not.”

“Let me know if you need a hand with the girls after school, okay? You can put your feet up and I can make dinner.”

“Deal,” Kate said. A minute later I was waving at Kate as she stood in her doorway, heading toward the BART station. Fifteen minutes later while I waited for my train, I pulled out my phone and checked my messages. One from Ben, wanting to take me out for dinner tomorrow night; one from my mom, making sure I wouldn't forget to call my uncle George after his gallbladder surgery; and another one from Lyla, confirming our meeting the next afternoon. Ignoring the messages from Ben and my mom for the moment, I hit Reply and told Lyla I'd see her there and was looking forward to it, then got on the train trying not to feel guilty about lying to everyone.

11

HANNAH

As I stood in the coffee line, secretly observing Lyla—who was engrossed in something on her phone—all I could think about was how tiny she was, her hips narrow and legs so short her feet only just grazed the floor when she was sitting down. I had good hips for pregnancy—wide and sturdy. I was also, at five-eight, on the tall side for a woman and so assumed that when Ben and I had a child he or she would probably end up tall—perhaps a volleyball player like Ben had been, or a rower like me.

I still hadn't allowed myself to really consider what I was doing here—that this woman, waiting for her green tea latte and cinnamon coffee cake, was prepared to use her own eggs and body to carry a child for me, a complete stranger. Lyla looked up and smiled, and I smiled back, face flushing at being caught staring.

The guilt that swept through me was deep and swift, and I had the sudden urge to run back out through the coffee shop's front door and pretend like I hadn't agreed to this. Or better yet, I wished I could go back and erase that first email I'd sent Lyla, finish my ice cream and go back to bed instead of hitting Send. I should have told Ben—I had lied to him about something important exactly once in our relationship, back when we were still figuring out who we were to each other, and had promised him at the time I wouldn't do it again. That was not who we were. My stomach knotted, and I felt sick.

“Fourteen seventy-five,” the young guy at the cash register said, and I had the feeling based on the tone of his voice that it wasn't the first time he'd told me what I owed.

I mumbled an apology and fished a twenty out of my wallet, handing it to him with a smile. He gave me my change and the place card holder with my number, and I went back to our table.

Lyla looked up as I sat down and I noticed her eyes were brown, flecked with amber highlights that almost looked like there were tiny lights behind her irises. They were pretty. I had accepted that if we were to go the surrogate route, the baby would not look like me. Lyla was quite fair skinned, so at least Ben's coloring would shine through. For some reason that mattered to me—that the baby looked like one of us—though I knew I should have let go of that ages ago.

“They'll bring it out to us.” I placed the numbered card on the edge of our table.

“Thank you,” Lyla said, her voice exuberant and her smile wide. “So, Hannah, why don't you tell me a bit about yourself?”

Her forwardness caught me off guard, until I remembered this wasn't the first time she'd sat across from a woman she was considering carrying a baby for. I hated that I was the inexperienced one—the desperate one. The one who needed something and who had so much to lose.

“Well, let's see,” I said, chewing one of my cuticles—a nervous habit I had been trying to break since I was a girl. You could always tell the state of my anxiety or stress based on the shape of my cuticles. “I'm thirty-five, grew up in Marin—Mill Valley, specifically. I'm a recipe developer at
Femme
magazine, which means I spend a lot of time in the kitchen, cooking and eating, so as you can imagine it's a great job.”

“Oh, I love the recipes in
Femme
,” Lyla said. “I don't know how you stay so thin, having to eat everything.”

I smiled at the compliment and wished I could record it for my mother. “Well, we have a little industry trick. We don't swallow most of what we taste—we spit it out. It sounds gross I know, but it's the only way to avoid buying a new wardrobe every year. I gained about ten pounds the first six months I was at the magazine until I learned the taste-and-spit trick.”

“Huh, I never even thought about that, but it makes sense. What about your family? Are they here in San Francisco?”

“My dad died when I was ten,” I said, then thanked her when she told me she was sorry to hear that. “My mom lives over in Pacific Heights with my sister and her husband.” I cleared my throat and looked over to the coffee bar, hoping our drinks were on their way. The nervousness in my belly was increasing with every word.

“Are ya'll close?” Lyla asked. “You and your sister?”

I looked back at her. “Claire's five years younger than me, but yeah, I guess we're close? Or as close as you can be when you have that many years between you.” Claire was an associate partner at her husband Peter Todd's law firm and expected to make full partner within the next year—which would make her the youngest partner at the firm. And it had nothing to do with nepotism. She worked hard; she got what she wanted. As for me, I liked my job—a lot most days. I got to work with food—my first love—and it was the sort of work that allowed room for motherhood, too. But careers and age difference aside, the truth was that Claire and I were different in every way we could be—she was ambitious and confident, petite and pretty, while I was less so in all areas.

Lyla nodded. “I get that. My two boys are quite close in age, but have very different personalities. Luke is the oldest, and a risk taker—he's going to turn my hair gray soon. Jason, my husband, says we're going to spend a lot of time in the ER with Luke.” She smiled. “And Johnny is only fifteen months younger, but he's an old soul. He's a very quiet and responsible boy.”

“Do you have a picture?” I asked.

“I do!” Lyla shifted her chair to come beside me. She smelled like lavender and mint, and I took a deep breath in, the scent pleasant and relaxing. “Here's Luke last year in the school play.” I looked at the screen on her phone, seeing a boy—around six or seven I guessed—dressed in a brown sheet cinched at the waist with a belt and sandals, a huge smile on his face—Lyla's smile. “He played Joseph.” I nodded and murmured how sweet he looked, glancing at the next picture she pulled up. “And this is Johnny, also last Christmas.” Johnny sat in front of a fully decorated Christmas tree. He wore glasses and smiled, though he showed no teeth.

“They're very handsome,” I said. “And really look like you.”

Lyla looked at the photos, still smiling. “I get that a lot.”

My stomach dropped, thinking again that no one would ever say that about my child—if I could even find a way to have a child. I pushed the sadness away and focused on my coffee and brioche, which had just arrived.

Lyla went on to say she and Jason had just celebrated their ten-year anniversary, and had moved from Texas to San Francisco a year ago to move in with his mother, who was ill. Jason was working as a security guard but wanted to become a police officer, and while Lyla had worked as a medical receptionist in Texas, she was taking care of Jason's mom and the boys now. I commented how tough it must have been to make the move, and she shrugged, saying that she wasn't close to her own family and Jason's mom was like a mother to her.

“So why are you looking into surrogacy?” Lyla asked.

I was suddenly uncomfortable—as much as I knew this was the conversation we needed to be having, I didn't want to be having it.

“Oh, well, wow. Where do I start?” I laughed, but it came out sounding forced, and Lyla gave me a sympathetic smile. “We've been trying for six years, which when you say it out loud seems like way too long, doesn't it?” I shook my head and took a deep breath, hoping it might relieve the tension sitting in a band across my chest. It didn't. “I've been pregnant three times but miscarried very early on. And other than that, no luck. We've been working with a fertility specialist for about four years now.”

“I'm sorry, Hannah. That must be real difficult for you and Ben.”

“Thanks, yeah, it hasn't been...easy. But I'm lucky. He's amazingly supportive.”
Except he has no idea I'm here talking with you, and I'm not sure what that says about me. About us.

“Are ya'll married?” Lyla's tone was casual, but the way she looked at me suggested otherwise.

“Yes! Didn't I mention that? Seven years.”

“Oh, good,” she said, stirring her latte and sucking some of the green-tinged foam off the spoon. “Sorry if that sounds strange, but that's real important to me and Jason.”

“Of course, I understand completely.”

“Do you and Ben belong to a church?”

I had been dreading this, knowing it was important to Lyla, and wasn't sure how to answer. I went with the truth.

“No, we don't.” I took a bite of my brioche and left it up to her to decide what to do with that.

“That's okay,” Lyla said, forking her cinnamon cake and popping the piece into her mouth. I waited while she chewed and swallowed. “I just need to let you know I won't do any genetic testing with the baby or anything like that and I'm pro-life.” She said this casually, as if we were discussing a new restaurant opening or the weekend weather forecast.

I sat there with my mouth open for a moment, surprised at how quickly we were at this stage of the conversation. “Of course,” I said again, swallowing hard. I hadn't thought any of this through, and it was becoming clear I had not been ready to hit Send on that email.

“Do you have any questions for me?” she asked, pressing the back of her fork into the sugary crumbs that dotted her plate. She licked her fork and looked at me expectantly, her face open and friendly.

Yes, Lyla, I have no fewer than a million questions for you. Like, why are you doing this? How does this whole thing work? Do we pay you in one lump sum or monthly? Will we get to come to all the ultrasounds and be at the delivery? Will you agree to take a multivitamin every day and never drink a sip of alcohol? Will you talk to the baby while it grows, tell it about us?

“A few,” I said, trying to decide the best way to ask her the questions that overtook my mind, certain I couldn't find a diplomatic way to ask the most important question:
How will you place this baby into my arms, knowing it is part of you?
“But how about another piece of cake first?”