The Offering (23 page)

Today's speaker wasn't a nurse, a nutritionist, or a midwife, but a former surrogate. Natasha introduced her as “Millie,” and gave the pretty brunette a chair in the circle. About my age and still thick from her pregnancy weight gain, Millie flashed an awkward smile, then opened her hands, revealing wadded-up tissues in each fist.

“I knew I'd cry,” she said, glancing around the circle. “So I wanted to be prepared. Maybe it's hormones, but I can't talk about my experience without crying.”

I suppressed an inward groan. Was she one of the unfortunates
who bonded with her baby? The subject of attachment almost always came up at these meetings, along with the warning that we should never, ever forget we were only babysitting. We knew the babies within us belonged to someone else; we knew we could never keep them. So we steeled our hearts against any sort of attachment; with every kick and movement we told ourselves that someone else's child was restless or attempting the backstroke.

“I want you to know,” Millie said, tears spilling from her eyes, “that being a surrogate was the most amazing experience of my life. I cried and cried when I said good-bye because I was so proud of what I'd accomplished. The baby's father came over, held my hand, and thanked me, saying that he'd never imagined himself as a daddy because he'd been told he would never be one. The mother hugged me and thanked me, too.”

I shifted my weight, wondering if her IPs had ever sent her anything as wildly extravagant as a grand piano.

“Then I watched them take the baby and try to give it a bottle,” Millie continued. “A nurse had to show the dad how to hold a newborn because he was clueless. But he got the hang of it right away. Then the mother fed the baby, and a nurse took pictures. Natasha took pictures, too, and the nurse snapped a few shots of Natasha with my IPs. They asked if I wanted to be in the shot, but I told them no—I was a mess, and didn't want the baby to grow up thinking that the woman who carried him always looked like a disaster.”

Her smile wavered as she touched a tissue to her streaming eyes. “I cry whenever I tell this story because it was such an emotional experience. I developed a real bond with my intended parents, and I plan to maintain our relationship—not anything intense, but a letter or two every year. They've promised to send pictures in a Christmas card. I don't want to intrude on their lives, but it would be nice to see how their son is growing up. Because I know one thing for sure—he wouldn't be here if not for me. And realizing that makes me incredibly happy.”

She looked down, her chin quivering as she studied her fisted hands. “The dad told me he was going to spend the rest of his life thanking God for me. If I hadn't found the Surrogacy Center and signed up to do this, I don't think I would have done anything really significant with my life. So I'm the one who's grateful.”

She looked up, smiling and batting tears away, as Natasha reached over to squeeze her hand. Then Natasha looked around the circle. “Do any of you have questions for Millie? Anything you want to ask about your relationships with your IPs? About labor and delivery? Anything at all?”

One of the skinny girls asked about the schedule for her OB checkups, but I studied Millie and wondered about her personal life. Did she have a husband and child of her own? How had her surrogacy affected them? Did she ever want to reach through the telephone lines and smack her intended parents?

But I didn't feel comfortable asking those questions, no matter how confidential the meeting might be. And, unlike Millie, I hoped my lifetime would hold far more significant feats than having someone else's baby.

I was going to build a home with Gideon. We were going to have a large family. And we were going to be happy for the rest of our lives.

Given how I felt about that piano, I suppose it was inevitable that something would shift in my relationship with the Amblours as the pregnancy dragged on. My email replies to Simone's questions became terser and my attempts at small talk disappeared. Yet if she realized that my attitude had changed, she didn't let on.

Maybe she thought I was feeling grumpy because I was tired and huge—at least that's what I told myself.

I knew the third trimester would be the hardest on my body—not only was I carrying a soccer ball out in front, but the top of my uterus was crowding my ribs and frequently left me breathless.
Pressure from the baby funneled fluids to my legs, resulting in a major pair of cankles. My rounded belly became a hand magnet, drawing perfect strangers who invaded my personal space to poke and pat my midsection.

At my first November appointment, Dr. Hawthorn asked me to start coming in every week so she could check the baby's position and make sure my cervix had begun to thin. “He's still small,” she said, checking her chart after measuring me. “About the size of a pineapple.”

“With or without the leaves?” I joked from the exam table.

She eyed me over the top of her glasses, apparently unamused. “I want to see you again next week. Keep eating. Keep taking those vitamins. And strap on your seat belt, because the home stretch is filled with all kinds of uncomfortable stuff.”

I pushed myself up and groaned, knowing what she meant.

“The rest of the journey isn't pretty,” she reminded me. “Back pain, near constant urination, burning feet and heartburn—I could go on, but you probably remember what it's like. Fortunately, this stage doesn't last long.”

“I'm ready to be done,” I answered, giving her the perfect truth. “More than ready, actually.”

Amazing that I could feel so ambivalent about a baby in my own belly. Sometimes, like when I sat on the sofa stroking a protruding foot or arm, I wanted to fight to keep him; at other times I couldn't wait to hand him over to the Amblours. I chuckled at his movements and smiled at his hiccups, but during the night he lay heavily on my midsection, his weight a stone that threatened to squeeze the life right out of me. I told myself that my ambivalence was rooted in my feelings toward Simone—they, too, had waxed and waned over the months.

I couldn't explain exactly why, but ever since the day Simone and I had gone shopping together, a rift appeared between us. A tiny tear opened up in that baby boutique and grew wider as the weeks passed. When the piano arrived, the rift became a major
fault line. Marilee was delighted to have a grand instrument, of course, but
I
wanted to be the one who bought a piano for my daughter, and I wanted to wait until she was sixteen or seventeen. If I had worked and sacrificed to provide her with a nice instrument, maybe she would appreciate it more.

But with one thoughtless stroke, Simone and Damien ripped that possibility away.

“You're looking good.” The doctor's words snapped me back to reality. She finished her exam and told me to hang in there, the baby was intent on taking his time. Apparently he wasn't the least bit eager to leave.

“And he's still undersized,” she added. “He might surprise us, but he'll probably weigh under six pounds and we want to give the little ones all the time they need to develop. Don't worry, Mandy, he'll come out when he's good and ready.”

Darn that petite egg donor. If she'd been a bigger woman, maybe this kid would have already run out of room.

“I won't worry,” I promised Dr. Hawthorn. “I'll take my vitamins, I'll try to get some rest, and I'll prop my feet up whenever I can. But that won't be easy with my husband away.” I slid carefully off the exam table, then waddled toward the cubicle where my clothes waited. “I'll do anything I can for the little pineapple.”

“Before you leave today,” Dr. Hawthorn called, “have you filed your birth plan?”

Safe inside the dressing area, I stared at my reflection and blinked. I had taken care of Marilee's birth plan early on, but this time I hadn't even thought about filling out the doctor's questionnaire. Was I really so unattached to this child?

“Um, no,” I called, reaching for my jeans. “I haven't.”

“No worries; we can handle that today. When you come out, you'll see that we've made it easy for you.”

I had no idea what she meant, but finished dressing as she wished me a good day and left the room.

When I came out, I found an iPad waiting on the exam table. A
sticky note on the surface provided the code to wake the tablet out of hibernation. I followed the directions and watched, thunderstruck, as an electronic form opened, complete with check boxes for various answers to dozens of different questions—all of them pertaining to my impending labor and delivery.

Make sure you type your name at the top,
the screen informed me.
When you click Submit, your responses will be sent to our computer and relayed to the hospital of your choice.

I sat on a small stool, typed in my name and address, then drew a deep breath. Basic information: done.
Name of birth coach?
I bit my lip and finally typed
Simone Amblour.
Since I didn't think anything short of an armed guard could keep her out of the delivery room, I might as well have her do something useful. She could remind me to breathe as well as anyone.

Labor: Did I want to have an enema upon admission to the hospital? Did I want to wear my own clothes instead of a hospital gown? Did I want to play my own music during labor? Did I want to labor in a birthing tub or shower?

On and on the questions went, ranging from the general (Did I want people to knock before they entered the room?) to the intimate (Would I rather tear than have an episiotomy or would I rather have an episiotomy than tear?).

I checked the simplest procedure in each category, particularly in the anesthesia section:
I would like to have an epidural as soon as permissible.

And anything else they wanted to give me.

I paused, however, when it came to the section on delivery: Who did I want to catch the baby? Did I want the baby placed on my stomach immediately after delivery? Who did I want to cut the cord?

Did I even have the right to answer those questions? Or should the baby's parents decide those things? And if I dared to check the box for wanting to see and hold the baby against my skin, would Simone overrule me?

Would such a decision even be wise?

The last few sections dealt with newborn care and breastfeeding, so I ignored them. But those topics in between—who decided?

I finally left the questions blank and decided to let the situation unfold naturally. This child wasn't mine, and if Simone and Damien wanted to arm-wrestle for the privilege of cutting the cord, I'd let them. I'd simply lean back and drift away on a sleepy narcotic tide.

I wasn't being paid to referee.

Though the baby was due December first, on November fourteenth Dr. Hawthorn mentioned that my cervix hadn't even begun to thin out. “I don't want to worry you,” she insisted, “because babies keep their own timetables. I just thought I'd mention it so you won't worry about this little guy coming in the middle of your Thanksgiving dinner. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if he chooses to make an entrance a week or so after his due date.”

I drove home, irritated by the thought of being pregnant longer than I wanted to be, then a new email from Simone annoyed me further. She and Damien had decided to come to Florida early, she wrote, so they were going to rent a house on the beach before the baby's birth and stay until they felt comfortable with the essentials of infant care.

“We need some time to relax,” she said, “so we thought we might take a vacation and soak in the sun before the busy day arrives. We do not want you to feel like a watched pot, of course, but if we rent a place we will be only minutes away from the hospital when you go into labor. We thought the news would put your mind at ease—we will arrive on time, so you should not worry about us flying over the Atlantic. We will remain in Florida a few weeks, since the grape harvest is finished and there is no urgent reason to return to Domaine de Amblour. In any case, our doctor says a newborn should not fly until he is at least a week old. Too much exposure to germs in that closed environment.”

Though I would never ask the question outright, I wondered if their decision to linger in Florida had anything to do with alleviating the public impression that the couple had taken an overnight trip and returned with an instant baby. If they remained away from home several weeks, some of their neighbors might even wonder if Simone had been pregnant and given birth while abroad—or maybe I was being paranoid. Surrogacy was no longer the deep secret it had once been, and why should I care about what they told their friends and neighbors?

I wanted to hand over their baby, receive my final payment, and wave good-bye as they flew back to France. I wanted to welcome my husband home and start preparing for a son of my own.

After delivering the baby, I wanted to get busy living the rest of my life.

By the time I sank onto a bench outside Macy's, I knew I had to be out of my mind.

It was all my mother's idea, of course. She'd driven over for Thanksgiving, endured the big holiday dinner at Mama Isa's, and then insisted we do something the next day with “just our side of the family.” That meant that she, Marilee, and I got up at 5:00 a.m. and went out to commemorate Black Friday . . . while I was a week shy of full term.

After three hours of standing in long lines, fighting the crowd, carrying heavy shopping bags
and
a bowling ball out in front, I felt as exhausted as a runaway dog.

Mom dropped beside me on the bench, a bag in each hand, and gazed at me with wide, innocent eyes. “Are you tired?”

I glanced at Marilee, who was dancing with curiosity because both of Mom's shopping bags contained gifts for
her.

“I'm wiped out,” I answered, resisting the urge to employ a little sarcasm. “The honeydew melon I'm carrying keeps kicking my kidneys. It
really
doesn't like all this walking.”