The Offering (22 page)

Gideon hooked his thumbs behind the straps of my cupcake apron and grinned. “I don't know about that, but I
could
be persuaded.”

“We'll talk about that later.” I took a heaping bite of the syrup-drenched bread, then closed my eyes. “Umm, that
is
good. I'd be happy to consider your terms.”

I had taken no more than three bites when Marilee hopped off her stool and addressed us with unusual solemnity. “I'm finished. May I open my birthday presents now?”

I glanced at Gideon. “Do you know where they are?”

“I have a pretty good idea.” He bent forward, his hands on his knees, and tugged a hank of Marilee's hair. “Why don't you sit on your stool and wait for me? I'll be right back with the goodies.”

As she hurried to comply, I forked up a bite of sausage and chewed slowly, aware of the extra weight at my center. If Gideon didn't return soon, I was going to have to take yet another bathroom break.

I heard the closet door open and close, then Gideon strode back into the kitchen, two small packages riding atop a huge box in his arms. Marilee's eyes widened. “All that, for me?”

“For you, birthday girl.”

Gideon set the smaller boxes on the counter and left the big one on the floor. “Have at it, kiddo.”

Marilee opened the two smaller presents first, thanking us for the doll and the new ballerina outfit as soon as she opened them. Then she set those gifts aside and jumped from her stool, approaching the big box almost hesitantly. “Oh my goodness, what is it?”

I propped my chin on my hand. “Open the box and you'll see.”

Marilee tore the top fold of wrapping paper away, then squealed so loudly that I thought she might hurt her throat. “Oh my goodness, oh my goodness, a piano!” She turned the half-wrapped package so I could see the box. “Look, Mommy, a piano!”

“I know, sweetie—do you like it?”

“I
love
it!”

I grinned at Gideon, who leaned against the counter, watching us with fondness in his dark eyes. “Here.” He bent to help her. “Let me get that thing out of the box for you.”

The expensive pink piano was a far cry from the full-size practice keyboards they used at her school, but it was a kid-sized instrument and came with a matching pink stool. I knew it wouldn't do much to enhance Marilee's music lessons, but she'd be able to play it in her room—for fun, not for practice. Sometimes I worried that we were forcing too much on her too soon, and I wanted her music to remain a source of pleasure. If a toy piano helped her retain that sense of fun, it'd be worth the extravagance.

Gideon kicked the box out of the way and lowered the pink piano to the kitchen floor. Marilee dragged the little stool over and sat on it, her fingers stroking the appliquéd flowers, the curving painted lines, and the decorative etching. Finally her fingers caressed the keys, then she played one of her favorite songs, “Blow
the Man Down.” The tone was a little thin and stringy, but I had never enjoyed a concert so much.

When she finished, she hopped off her stool and ran to me, throwing her arms around my neck. “You are the best mommy in the whole world! Thank you so much for my piano!”

I kissed her cheek, then watched as Marilee gave Gideon the same enthusiastic thanks. At moments like this, I decided, blinking away tears, parenting was worth every gut-wrenching labor pain.

I had just finished clearing away the breakfast dishes when a knock on the door followed the sound of commotion on the street.
“Gid?” I called up the stairs to the spare bedroom, where he was working out. “Are you expecting someone?”

Gideon came jogging down the steps, bare chested and sweaty with a towel around his neck. “Someone out there?”

“Will you check? I don't have any makeup on.”

Gideon walked through the foyer and stepped out the front door. When he didn't return after a few minutes, curiosity got the better of me. Telling Marilee to stay inside, I ran my fingers through my messy hair and peeked out the front door.

A delivery truck had backed into our driveway, and someone had lowered the automatic lift at the back. Gideon stood on the lawn, his arms crossed as he watched two men struggle with a large shrouded object.

“What is that?” I called, but Gid couldn't hear me over the loud whine of the mechanical lift.

I tiptoed out and squeezed Gideon's arm. “Did you arrange this?”

He shook his head.

“Then who are these men, and what's in the truck?”

He turned, giving me a warning look that put an immediate damper on my curiosity. “You won't believe it.”

“What?”

“You'll see.”

The men lowered the object on the lift, then wheeled it toward our front door, the wooden dolly creaking beneath the weight.

“Gid—” I tugged on the towel around his neck. “Tell me now.”

“They said it's a gift,” he said. “From the Amblours.”

My thoughts scampered in confusion, then settled on a fragment of a recent email conversation I'd had with Simone. Once again she'd said she didn't know how to thank us, but apparently she had found a way.

I didn't identify the large object until the dolly passed me, then I recognized the harplike shape beneath the cargo blanket. The Amblours had sent us a piano—and not just any piano, but a baby grand.

My mind went blank with shock. I followed the deliverymen and sat speechless on the sofa while they screwed legs on the body, brought in a tufted leather stool, and shifted my furniture to accommodate the instrument. We now had no open space in the center of the living room, but, by golly, we had a grand piano.

When they had finished, I turned to my husband. “We can't accept this. I should probably call the agency and tell Natasha; there might be some kind of rule—”

“Please, lady.” One of the workmen straightened and wiped his dripping brow with a handkerchief. “This is the wrong time to be sayin' things like that.”

“I'm sorry, but I didn't realize . . . I couldn't believe it.”

Gideon eyed me with concern. “Do you want to send it back?”

I might have said yes—I was about to—but just then Marilee came downstairs and froze on the bottom step, her eyes as wide as dinner plates. “Oh my goodness!” Her squeak of excitement reached a register I'd never heard before. “Oh my goodness, oh my goodness, oh my goodness gracious! This is the best gift ever!”

After that, what could I say?

After the big family celebration at Mama Isa's, where once again I tried to remain in the shadows so still-waiting-for-the-social-worker's-call Amelia wouldn't have to stare at my belly, Gideon
and I came home and put our exhausted birthday girl to bed. My mom, who had arrived that afternoon to share the day with us, fell asleep on the sofa, reportedly exhausted from her two-hour drive to see us.

I slipped into my nightgown and went downstairs to drape a blanket over my mom, then stared at the Knabe grand piano, now shoved into a corner of our living room. “I have to admit it's beautiful,” I whispered to Gideon, who had crept up behind me, “but it's probably against the rules or something. I should call Natasha and tell her about it.”

“You can wait until Monday.” Gideon's hands fell on my shoulders and began to knead my tight muscles. “In the meantime, let's go upstairs and relax. I'll bet you could use a back rub.”

I followed him up the stairs, then dropped onto our mattress and felt my mouth twist when the bed groaned beneath my weight. I was getting bigger, no doubt about it. Dr. Hawthorn might enjoy comparing pregnant bellies to fruits and vegetables, but I saw my stomach as variations of a ball: a golf ball, a tennis ball, a soft ball, a soccer ball. Only two stages remained for me—basketball and bowling ball. I wasn't looking forward to either one.

“Know what?” I turned and put my feet in Gideon's lap. “What I'd really like is a foot rub, if you're up to it.”

Gideon leaned against the headboard and grinned. “I think I can manage that. Just let me turn on the TV.”

He powered on the television with the remote, then set to work massaging the ache out of my tired feet. I propped my head on a bunched-up pillow and closed my eyes, content to remain in that spot for as long as he wanted to work on me. . . .

I tuned in to the voice on the television when Gideon's fingers stopped moving.

“Over two hundred foreign tourists were killed and another two hundred injured tonight as terrorists exploded bombs in the Tel Aviv shopping district,” a reporter said, speaking in the low tone reserved for dreaded topics. “Emergency personnel are
scrambling to help the injured in what will go down as the deadliest act of terrorism in Israeli history.”

I opened my eyes to study Gideon's face. I didn't see how he could even be aware of me, so intense was his focus on the flickering scenes of carnage. He was thinking about bombs and weapons and how the attack could have been prevented, what he would have done if he and his unit had found themselves in that situation. . . .

His phone would ring soon, and once again he'd be called out into the darkness. If not tonight, then tomorrow or the next day, the duffel bag would again disappear from our closet.

And Marilee and I would be left alone to play house.

S
unday morning I awoke to find a note on Gideon's pillow:
I'll meet you at the river.
As I suspected, the duffel bag had disappeared.

Marilee and I went to church, then we showed up at Mama Isa's house uninvited. But it didn't matter. Isa and Jorge took one look at my face and opened their arms, welcoming us to Sunday dinner at the family table. After a few hours in their company, I knew I could go home and carry on a little while longer.

Though I knew I'd break my daughter's heart if I returned her birthday gift, Monday morning I called Natasha Bray to ask if she had any problem with me accepting a grand piano from my intended parents. I was halfway hoping she would gasp and tell me that such an expensive gift could be considered unethical, but she said nothing of the sort.

“Why, that's wonderful!” Her voice brimmed with surprise and pleasure. “I'm always happy to hear that my intended parents appreciate their gestational carrier. Their approval gives me confidence in my matchmaking abilities.”

So . . . the piano could stay.

Throughout the next few days I managed to restrain the urge to express my resentment toward the Amblours' overly generous gift, but I couldn't stop thinking about that piano. Like a
pebble in my shoe, thoughts of it rubbed against me, mocking me, reminding me that the Amblours held the upper hand in our relationship.

On those nights I went to bed without playing Simone's recordings for the baby. Monday afternoon I poured out the fancy French cleaner and used good ol' Soft Scrub on my kitchen sink, happy to see it gleam for the first time in weeks. Tuesday I stopped at Burger King on the way home from preschool and ordered hamburgers for Marilee and me. In a red-meat-eating frenzy, we gobbled them up on the drive home.

I knew I was being childish and petty, but I didn't care. I wasn't hurting the baby—no matter how peeved I got, I could never intentionally do that—but I desperately wanted to thumb my nose at his overprotective, controlling parents. They had been much more relaxed during the first trimester, when they worried about me losing the baby. Now that I had safely passed through the most crucial period, they were speaking their minds all too freely.

I wanted to talk to someone about my frustration, but Gideon was gone and I didn't think Amelia would understand. I tried to tell Mom how I felt about the shiny baby grand in my living room, but she looked aghast when I mentioned that I hadn't been pleased when the surprise showed up at our front door.

“You weren't
thrilled
?” She blinked, her mouth falling open before she recovered. “This couple sends you an expensive gift—exactly what you need and want—and you aren't happy about it? Have pregnancy hormones affected your brain?”

I blew out a breath. “It's completely inappropriate. They're paying me to carry their child; they have no business giving me expensive gifts.”

“But they're grateful you're doing such a good job. Trust me, Amanda—it's hard to find people who take their work seriously, no matter what that work is.”

“I'm carrying their baby, Mom. It's not like I'm doing something as difficult as curing cancer.”

“Not everyone takes responsibility so seriously. If these people want to show their appreciation in a tangible way, I think you should write them a gracious note and thank the good Lord that you've been blessed.”

Relief settled over me when Mom drove back to The Villages on Thursday.

I did send the Amblours a nice email, thanking them for the lovely piano that arrived on Marilee's birthday, but I couldn't bring myself to write out a proper card. How can you honestly express gratitude for a gift you don't want? But when the next Saturday approached and with it a reminder that I would be paid for attending the Surrogacy Center support group, I put a blank card and envelope in my purse, telling myself I'd write the Amblours' note in group if the speaker droned on and on about the obvious.

I had attended seven meetings since achieving pregnancy. I didn't pretend to enjoy the group, though I did learn a few things about surrogacy in the first three or four sessions. Everyone knew we were bribed to attend, so we all showed up with bored expressions and bellies in various states of prominence. One of the girls always brought her knitting (by my count she'd made four baby blankets—one pink, one blue, one light green, and one yellow); another brought her iPad and spent the hour answering emails and playing Angry Birds. But we received a hundred dollars for every meeting we attended, so we came.