The Offering (14 page)

I flashed back to the day before, when the doctor had finished the embryo transfer and called it
simple
.

“Nothing says parenthood has to be complicated,” I answered. “And I hope everything goes smoothly for you. Just think—in as little as six weeks, you could be a mommy.”

Amelia's eyes widened. “
¡Caramba!
Sort of sobering when you think about it in those terms.”

I squeezed her hand. “I know you'll be a good mom. And let me know when the baby's on his way because I want to throw you a shower. I'll even serve Cuban food, if you want it.”

“You'd better, if you want the family to come.” She backed into the stockroom, a smile trembling over her lips. “
Gracias,
Mandy. Thank you for understanding.”

Of course I understood. We were both pregnant with hope, waiting for the confirmation of a child.

Sheltering whatever life might lie inside me, I dropped my hand to my abdomen and watched her walk away.

F
our days after the embryo transfer, Gideon stomped across the front porch and walked through our front door. Marilee and I both dropped what we were doing and flew to his side, amazed and grateful that he'd come home safely.

When I looked up that afternoon and saw my husband sitting across from me at the kitchen table, I could almost pretend we weren't waging a war against illusive and lethal enemies. I could smile and ask how he liked his chicken pot pie, ignoring the fact that not even Gideon and his Special Forces comrades could ever defeat the sort of terrorists who valued destruction and the murder of innocents more than their own lives.

Though I wanted things to appear normal, I was still tiptoeing through the house as though I were a fragile bubble. I refused to lift Marilee lest I strain an abdominal muscle, and I didn't even try to budge the big box UPS left on our porch Friday afternoon. Gideon brought the heavy carton in the house, and inside we discovered a large basket of gourmet French foods: pastries, cheeses, macaroons, chocolates, truffles, pork sausage, fancy mustards, Petits Trésors, and cornichons.

“I don't even know how to pronounce some of these things,” Gideon said, helping me unpack the basket. “What the heck is a cornichon?”

I studied the jar. “Tiny cucumbers, I think.”

Gideon removed boxes of crackers and mustards, then he chuckled. “Did you notice what's not here?”

I looked over the crowded countertop. “What could possibly be missing?”

“There's no wine. Nothing alcoholic for the expectant mother.”

“For the
possibly
expectant mother. And I appreciate Simone's thoughtfulness. I wouldn't want to be tempted.”

I didn't want to raise anyone's hopes, including my own, but I had been feeling a bit out of sorts ever since the transfer. Maybe I was imagining things, but Thursday I experienced some mild cramping and almost panicked. The cramps subsided by Friday morning, so after lunch I reached under our bathroom sink and pulled out a home pregnancy test I'd picked up at Walgreens. I did the test and felt my heart sink at the negative result, but maybe it was too soon to tell.

The doctor had scheduled a beta pregnancy test nine days after the transfer, but I didn't want to wait until next Wednesday for an answer. So I lounged around over the weekend and did another home pregnancy test on Monday morning: still negative.

I stared at my reflection in the bathroom mirror and tried to convince myself that the tests weren't accurate because I was testing too soon. But if the result was correct, how could I break the news to Simone and Damien? I didn't even want to tell Gideon if the procedure had failed. He'd made sacrifices, too.

I decided to keep my mouth shut. I would leave all the announcements to Dr. Forrester, who was paid to be right about such things.

Tuesday afternoon, the day before my beta test, Gideon packed his duffel bag, hugged me, and told me he'd meet me at the river. I knew he had to go; I knew something had come up and his unit needed him.

But this would be the worst parting ever. Not only was he flying off to fight only God knew who, but how was I supposed to face
disappointment if the pregnancy test was negative? Who would comfort me if all our sacrifices proved to be for nothing? No one in the family even knew I'd been through the embryo transfer, so whose shoulder was I supposed to cry on?

Wednesday morning, tired and red-eyed, I took Marilee to school, then drove to the reproductive endocrinologist's office. I sat in the waiting room, but dropped my magazine when a television on the wall flashed an urgent news update: In what they were calling “the Passover Tragedy,” a suicide bomber had just killed twenty-nine people in Israel. The terrorist, dressed as a waiter, had walked past security and into a hotel's dining room, where more than 150 people were celebrating the Seder. Many of those present were Holocaust survivors.

Horrified by the news, I remained quiet when nurse Nancy called my name and led me back to a desk where she drew blood. Ice spread through my stomach as I thought about how the evil and hatred that ignited the Holocaust had never really gone away. Today it had blazed forth from another channel.

And who stood against that hatred? Millions of people, including men like my husband, who, for all I knew, might have been in Israel at that moment.

“You're awful quiet,” the nurse said, loosening the rubber strip around my upper arm. “Are you feeling queasy?”

“I'm fine.” I forced a smile. “Just thinking about the sad state of the world.”

“A lot of that going around.” Nancy slid the needle out of my arm and pressed a cotton ball on the insertion point, then gestured for me to apply pressure.

After the nurse applied a Band-Aid, I picked up my purse and told the receptionist I'd be home in the afternoon if they wanted to call with the results. Then I drove to the grocery, worked my usual shift, and left at one-thirty to pick up Marilee from school.

The phone was ringing as we came through the front door. I hurried to grab it, said hello, and heard Nurse Nancy singing “Be My Baby.”

I swallowed hard and sank into a kitchen chair. “Does this mean—”

“Congratulations, Amanda. Your test was positive.”

Positive. A baby. Maybe two. The home pregnancy tests hadn't been able to pick up the HCG in my urine, but my blood told the truth. I was going to have the Amblours' baby.

“What happens next?” I croaked, barely recognizing my voice.

“Call your surrogacy counselor, then make an appointment with your OB/GYN. From this point forward, you're an ordinary pregnant woman. Good luck, honey.”

I thanked her and hung up, then sat absolutely still as the happy realization twirled in my head. All our sacrifices—mine and Gideon's and Simone's and Damien's—had been worth it.

The dark visions that had occupied my imagination for the last few hours faded away. How dark could the world be if people still longed to care for innocent babies? Every time God sent a new baby into the world, he was giving mankind another chance to make things right. Babies were a bundle of hope.

Marilee strolled into the kitchen, then stopped and stared at my face. “Mommy?”

“Yes, darling girl?”

“You look funny.”

How long had it been since she saw pure happiness on my face? “I probably look happy.”

I slid out of my chair and wrapped her in an embrace so tight she complained. “You're squeezing my breath out.”

“Then I should let you go.” I released her, then pointed to my cheek. “How about a kiss?”

She gave me a polite peck, then ran off to practice her piano while I climbed back into my chair and picked up the phone.

I knew I should call Natasha Bray first, but I pulled out the little notebook in my purse and dialed France. I was so eager I forgot to figure out the time in La Roche-sur-Yon, the small town where the Amblours lived. The phone rang three times, then a woman answered:
“Allô?”

“Simone?” I glanced at my watch and hoped I wasn't interrupting her dinner.

“May I say who is calling?”

“Mandy—Amanda. From Florida.”

“One moment, please. Let me fetch Madame.”

I waited, tapping my foot, and finally I heard Simone's familiar voice:
“Allô?”

“Simone, it's Mandy.” Without indulging in pleasantries, I drew a breath and gave her the news: “We're pregnant.”

“Are you—are you certain?”

“I am. The doctor said so.”

“Merveilleux!”
Her voice rang with the happiness of pealing bells, then she broke into a sob. “
Dieu merci,
I am sorry, but I am so overcome—”

“I'm not sure what all that means, but I'll take it as something good,” I said, laughing. “Please give my congratulations to your husband.”

“I am so sorry, I spoke without thinking.” She sniffed. “Thank you for telling us. And . . . is it one baby or two?”

“I don't know,” I admitted. “I'm not sure we'll learn that until I see my OB—or during the ultrasound, which I'll have in a couple of weeks. Don't worry, I'll let you know everything as soon as I learn it.”

“You will email me a photo?”

“I will email you pictures, notes, anything you like.”

“
Merci beaucoup,
Mandy. You have done so much for us.”

“My pleasure. I'm just so happy everything worked out.”

As I hung up the phone, I realized that helping the Amblours had filled me with an unexpected joy. In the midst of war, during a time I would usually be worried sick about my husband, the awareness that I was doing something good for someone else was . . . empowering.

Unless I was simply basking in an abundance of pregnancy hormones.

The next morning I found an email from Simone in my inbox.

My very dear Amanda:

You may never know how your happy news affected Damien and me. When I disconnected the call, I sat for a long time and imagined how it would feel to finally bring a baby into our home. My emotions felt paralyzed—joy and fear, in equal measure, held me hostage.

Yet I will always remember every detail of yesterday—the way the fire crackled to chase away the chill even as the mimosa trees outside my window budded with new life. If I went into the village, I knew, I would see the first colorful Easter candy displays in the
patisserie
window. For years I have avoided those displays, knowing they were designed for children, but this year I will study them with hope in my heart. Next year we will have a baby to charm with Easter eggs and cakes, and this wonderful expectation is all due to you and your kindness.

You may have realized how disappointed I was to learn we would have to use a donor egg—I was heartbroken at first, but I've decided not to expend so much emotional energy on things that cannot be helped. My heart has been broken many times, but this time, I am sure, all will be well.

I wanted to tell you more about our background when we met on the day of the transfer, but we did not want to share anything that might taint our budding relationship. I probably sounded a bit tense when Natasha mentioned testing, but I had my reasons for concern.

As you may have heard, you are not the first surrogate we have contracted. The first was a young woman in California who told us she did not drink alcohol or use drugs. We believed her, but Damien kept feeling uneasy, so during the sixth month of the pregnancy we asked the agency if they would test her for drugs. When they did, we discovered that she had miscarried a month earlier. We suspected her drug use had been the reason she lost the pregnancy; she blamed my egg and said the pregnancy was doomed from the start.

So we resolved not to make the same mistakes again.

The second time we contracted a surrogate, we engaged an older woman, a mother who already had children, so we felt we were working with a more experienced and mature surrogate. We also asked the agency to require frequent testing—ultrasounds every other week, amniocentesis at appropriate intervals, surprise drug tests for the mother.

She got pregnant and we waited by the computer for test results after every medical appointment. She lost the pregnancy in the fourth month, however, and she also blamed us—she said we had been too demanding and required too many tests.

Again, Damien and I decided to revise our approach. No tests, unless medically necessary. No pressure that might affect our carrier's health.

So if in the months ahead you think Damien and I seem pensive or unusually concerned about details, please be patient with us. We have already lost two babies because our gestational carriers did not understand how much we valued the precious cargo they carried. We are striving to balance our trust in you with our concern for our child. It is not an easy thing to do.

However, I have a sense about you . . . maybe it is because your husband gives so much to serve his country, or perhaps it is because I can see how you adore your lovely daughter. But you have demonstrated such concern that we are sure you will carry our child as if it were your own. And for that, I am unspeakably grateful. I wish I could think of a unique way to show our gratitude—financial support doesn't begin to express what we are feeling.

So while I was initially disappointed that my egg harvest failed, this will be the child who was not born under my heart, but in it. He or she will be the sum of our expectations and our hope for the future. Damien is especially pleased to know his heritage will be passed on to another generation.

I cannot imagine what sort of impression you have of my husband—perhaps you think he places too much emphasis on the estate and his family's status in this district. But he is not a bad man, I can assure you.
He is, in his way, quite tender, and I know he will be a good father. A quiet father, perhaps, but a dutiful parent.