The Offering (33 page)

So I crept to the window, shaded my eyes, and peered inside. I could see Amelia in the living room, so I tapped my fingernails on the window. She looked up, startled, then jerked her head toward the door.

“It's okay,” I told Marilee. “Amelia's awake and so is the baby.”

A wistful look filled my daughter's eyes. “Can I hold him?”

“You'll have to ask your aunt Amelia.”

We went inside and joined Amelia in the living room, where she was trying to quiet a fussy baby. Marilee studied little Johny for a moment, then dropped to the carpeted floor and turned on the television.

I knew she wouldn't want to hold the baby until he was quiet. I didn't blame her.

“Keep the volume low,” I reminded her. “Uncle Mario is probably trying to sleep.”

“Mario's worn out,” Amelia admitted, patting the baby on her shoulder. “And I'm about to be. Can you take him for a while? He's been fussing for two hours and I have no idea what's wrong.”

Where did she get the idea I was some kind of baby whisperer? I set the gift-wrapped package on the floor and took Johny from her, steeling my heart against the incomparable feel of an infant in my arms. The beautiful little boy had a head full of dark hair, eyes like milk chocolate, and a round face, now creased in lines of extreme displeasure. Upon opening his eyes and seeing me, his crying shifted from random fussing to the steady, loud, rhythmic cries of a frustrated newborn.

I propped him on my shoulder and rubbed his back. “Is he hungry?”

Amelia shook her head. “I just fed him and now he won't take a bottle.”

“Diaper clean?”

“Just changed it.”

“And how old is he?”

“Eight weeks, so he's too young for teething. I think.” When Amelia bit her lower lip I understood her frustration. Nothing was more unsettling for a mother than not understanding why her child was upset.

“He
might
be teething,” I offered, “because some kids are born with teeth. I always used that ointment that numbs the gums. But this could be colic, and I don't know what to do about that. Marilee never had it.”

After a few minutes of patting, jiggling, and cooing, I gave up and offered the crying baby to Amelia. Sighing, she took the little boy. “Maybe he's sad. Maybe he hates being here with us. Is that possible?”

I looked away, not knowing what to say. Could babies that young hate anything? “Maybe he's confused,” I suggested. “I don't think babies know much, but they're bound to realize something's different when they're dropped into a new place with new people. But you've had him for, what, two weeks? Give him time. Keep him warm and fed and happy and he'll adjust.”

“You'd better be right.” Amelia gave me a wan smile, then pointed to the couch and raised her voice to be heard above the baby's squalling. “Have a seat and tell me how you're doing. We didn't get to talk much at Mama Isa's yesterday.”

I glanced at Marilee to be sure she'd be okay with staying for a while, but she seemed engrossed in the Home & Garden channel.

“Christmas was fun, wasn't it?” I sat on the end of the sofa and tucked my legs beneath me. “Except for the call I got from my mom, the day was completely relaxing. I haven't had a day like that in ages.”

“I noticed you seemed tense when you came out of your bedroom.” Amelia lifted a brow, family shorthand for
Spill the beans.
“What happened with your mom?”

“Nothing, and that's my point. She's a lot more concerned about her social life than she is about me and Marilee.”

“You think so?” Amelia sank into an old rocker and stroked the fussy baby. “Did you tell her about your latest obsession?”

“I'm not obsessed.”

The corner of her mouth dipped. “Could have fooled me. Mama and I talked the other day, and we both think you're making a mistake. But Mama's not going to say anything because you're living under her roof and she wants to keep the peace.”

“You think
I'm
obsessed?” I stared, amazed at her audacity. “Who moped around the grocery for months because the social worker couldn't find a baby for her? Who called social services every other week just to hear the woman's voice?”

Amelia sighed. “Okay, I was obsessed, too. I'm not saying there's
anything wrong with feeling passionate about something. But you can feel passionate about a thing and still be wrong—”

“Is it wrong to want my own child?”

“You don't know that he's your child.”

“I don't know that he
isn't.
Of all people, you should understand how I feel.”

I waited for the words to take hold, but Amelia closed her eyes. “I
do
know, I do, and I'm so sorry you're going through this. I understand the pain of desperately wanting a baby, but you
have
a child, you have Marilee. The other baby isn't yours. He belongs to the people who have loved him for two years.”

“I can love him forever. And I'll soon know if he's my son—I should have the results of a DNA test sometime next week, if the holiday doesn't slow things down. But I will definitely have an answer after New Year's.”

Amelia glanced at little Johny, who had finally quieted. She tossed a thin blanket over his shoulders, then met my gaze, concern and confusion flitting in her eyes. “You were able to get a test without the other couple's cooperation?”

“I didn't need their cooperation to see if there's a link between Julien and Gideon. I had exactly what I needed for that.”

Amelia settled into a more comfortable position in the rocker. “I don't know, Mandy. Something about this doesn't seem right. I've been skeptical since the day you first decided to be a surrogate.”

The idea of her judging me was so absurd I wanted to laugh, though I felt miles away from genuine humor. My cousin sat in front of me with a baby in her arms, a baby she didn't conceive. She was siding with the Amblours because her situation had skewed her perspective.

But she wouldn't agree.

“What,” I asked slowly, “is wrong with a mother trying to retrieve the child she accidentally lost?”

Amelia blew out a breath. “You make it sound like you were on a sinking ship and the baby got lost in all the confusion. That's not
what happened. You signed papers and that other couple took the boy in good faith. If that kid isn't their biological son, they were victims, too.”

“Agreed. But accidental mistakes can be corrected. The situation can be rectified.”

“You're not repairing a damaged car here, you're dealing with people's lives. And though it's hard to put my feelings into words, it seems like you're violating that other family's privacy or something. They're going to be upset when they find out what you're up to. You made a deal, and now you're wanting to renege on your agreement.”

I stared and felt a dozen different emotions collide. “You think I
sold
my baby?”

She held her finger over her lips, reminding me of the sleeping child on her shoulder, then lowered her voice to an intense whisper. “Maybe you didn't do it intentionally. But if that kid turns out to be yours, it doesn't change the fact that they paid you to surrender him. Face it—they paid you to have a baby for them; you agreed with their terms and took their money. So I can't see why anything should change just because the boy looks a bit like Marilee. Maybe he's yours, maybe he's not. But he has spent two years with that other family, so they are his parents. How can you even
think
about jerking him out of the only home he's ever known?”

I sat back, unable to believe what I was hearing. Had her adoption experience blinded her to the fact that competent biological mothers had a right to raise their own children?

I understood the depth of desperation Amelia felt only a few weeks ago. She should have understood mine.

“I would give the money back in a heartbeat,” I said, my voice low and insistent. “Money's not the issue.”

“Mama?” Marilee pointed to the television. “What's happening?”

I looked at the TV. The program she'd been watching had been
interrupted by a special report, something about an earthquake in Turkey. Grainy video footage played on the screen: scenes of debris, collapsing buildings, toppling palm trees, and panicked people running for their lives.

“That's horrible.” Amelia's voice dropped to a somber note. “Can you imagine being caught up in that?”

I couldn't. Or maybe I could. The old dread reared its head and touched the base of my spine with its cold finger, reminding me of the heroes who rushed to face danger and never came back. My husband had given his life to fight terror, yet here was another kind, caused not by man, but by nature.

Not even Gideon and his elite operators could have made headway against the force of an earthquake.

“Experts believe this to be one of the worst earthquakes in recorded history,” a reporter said, his voice playing over the scenes of destruction. “Up to one-third of the victims are expected to be children, since they are the least able to protect themselves against falling debris.”

Children? My gaze fell on the back of Marilee's head and my pulse quickened. My son—the boy who might be my son—was out of my control and in a foreign country. Did earthquakes ever strike France? Even if they never had, anything could happen, especially in this age of bizarre weather patterns.

I squared my shoulders and lifted my chin. This tragedy, as horrible as it was, only strengthened my resolve. I would never feel truly secure until I knew the truth about Julien. And if he was my son, I would never feel real peace until he was safe and with me, where I could keep an eye on him. I might not be able to stop an earthquake from endangering my son, but if we were together, at least I could try to save his life.

I leaned forward and called softly to Marilee. “You about ready to go, hon? I think we might need to help Mama Isa clean up after Christmas.”

Amelia's expression changed, a wry thought tightening the
corner of her mouth. She must have realized I was retreating to maintain the peace between us.

“I'd better go,” I said, standing. “You're obviously exhausted from all the changes around here, so I'll let you get some rest.”

“I'm not exhausted,” Amelia protested. “Only a little less energetic than usual.”

“Whatever. Marilee, we need to go.” I headed toward the door, then turned. “I hope you like the baby present. Your mama says it's completely inappropriate.”

“Then I'm sure I'll like it. And I'll unwrap it as soon as I can move without waking Johny.” She gave me a tentative smile as I opened the door. “Think about what I said, will you?”

“Yeah. See you later.” I waved and walked toward my car, feeling proud because I'd resisted the temptation to have the last word.

On the tenth day of January, an ordinary Monday morning, Marilee went to school, Mama Isa went to the grocery, and Jorge went outside to tend his tomatoes. After breakfast, I went back to bed with a terrible cold, rousing myself at ten only because guilt wouldn't allow me to sleep any longer. My head felt as swollen as a balloon, my nose dripped like a leaky faucet, and my sandpaper lips demanded lubrication. I couldn't have been more miserable, but when I saw the mail carrier stroll through the carport and drop mail in the box, my gut told me my answer had arrived.

I don't remember getting off the couch and walking to the front door. I don't remember going outside in my pajamas and taking the letter from the box. I
do
remember seeing the name of a laboratory in the return address, and getting a paper cut when I ripped the envelope and pulled out a single sheet of white paper.

I didn't read the letter or study the chart on the page; instead my eyes gravitated to a central paragraph:

Interpretation: Based on the DNA Analysis, the alleged Father, Gideon Lisandra, cannot be excluded as the biological Father of the Child, Julien Louis Amblour, because they share the same genetic markers. . . .

Probability Percentage: 99.9942

I read the paragraph again, then looked up and studied my reflection in Mama Isa's foyer mirror. What was I supposed to do next? Should I faint, scream like a celebrating cheerleader, or weep like Tammy Faye?

What was the proper reaction for discovering that you had a son and you'd given him away?

I tilted my head, wondering how the woman in the mirror managed to remain preternaturally calm, and stared beyond my reflection when Jorge came through the door, his hands smudged with dirt, his forehead streaked with perspiration. He mopped his forehead with a crumpled handkerchief, then squinted at me in the mirror, his face alive with troubled question. “Amanda?
Estás bien?
”

His simple query shattered my inertia. I turned, then crumpled in the middle and fell into his arms, my heart squeezed so tight I could barely breathe.

“I did something terrible, Jorge. I sold Gideon's son.”

A
rmed with proof that Julien Louis Amblour should be Gideon Lisandra Jr., I met with my lawyer again. Mr. Pippen reviewed the DNA report and my notes on my conversation with my doctor, then he advised me to keep a copy of my pregnancy journal and the calendar I'd used to chart my hormone shots.

“I don't think we'll need anything other than this DNA report,” Mr. Pippen said, smiling at me from across his desk. “I'll need to confirm it, of course. But when we take this to court and the judge rules that the French couple must return your son, the opposing attorney may want to know how this mistake could have occurred. And if the other couple—”

“The Amblours,” I reminded him.

“If the Amblours decide to sue the Surrogacy Center, it's a sure bet someone will subpoena you and request those items. So keep them safe.”