The Offering (6 page)

I studied his face, then smiled. What could possibly be wrong with having a man wrapped around your finger?

I slipped my arms around his neck, then exhaled a long, contented sigh. “You won't be sorry. This is going to be good for us.”

“There's just one thing—well, two.” He loosened his grip so he could look me in the eye. “First, if this is going to risk your health, I don't want to do it.”

“Sweetie, you know I'm healthy.” I pressed my hand to his stubbled cheek. “Don't you remember what the doctor said when Marilee was born? She said all the other mothers should be jealous of my easy pregnancy. I told her I wanted a huge family, so maybe that's why I'd been built for having kids.”

Gideon grunted. “I don't remember that.”

“Because you were too busy passing out cigars. But the doctor said it, and she was right.”

“Okay, I'll take your word for it. And the second thing—”

I rose on tiptoe and gave him a kiss. “What?”

“I want a son.” An eager, hopeful glint flashed in his eyes. “I will always love daughters, but as long as you stay healthy, I want a son or two to carry on the family name. It's important to me.”

I tipped my head back and studied my handsome, intelligent, kind, and undeniably macho husband. “Of course you want a son, and I want to give you one. We'll have another baby—or two or
three or four. Once I finish school, I'll get a better job so we'll be able to afford as many kids as we want.” I squeezed his arm. “You won't be sorry. This will go as smoothly as any pregnancy on record, then we'll give the baby to its parents and get busy living our dream. But for the first time in a long time, we won't have to worry about money.”

“If you say so,” Gideon answered. “But you can't take risks with your health. Promise me.”

“I promise. But I'm sure everything's going to go perfectly.”

I wrapped my arms around him and squeezed tight, determined that he should see how confident I was.

Somehow I kept my mouth shut over the weekend, swallowing my eagerness and offering vague replies when family members asked
“¿Qué pasa?”
at Mama Isa's weekly dinner. We sat around the table passing rice and corn and roasted pork, and every time my eyes met Gideon's I lifted a brow and silently asked if I could share our news. He moved his head sideways and held up a restraining hand, quelling my enthusiasm and urging me to hold off.

But why were we waiting? Now that he'd agreed that I should try surrogacy, all I had to do was find an agency, a couple, and a doctor. And the family should know of our decision beforehand. They would never forgive us if we progressed without telling them, and heaven help us if I became pregnant without forewarning them that we couldn't keep the baby. Gideon's parents might never get over the disappointment.

On Sunday evening I finally convinced my husband that we should tell
la familia
as soon as possible. I stressed all the practical considerations, but truthfully, I wanted to share because I was thrilled about the future stretching out before us. If all went as planned with the surrogacy, in two years Gideon and I would be in a house, with another baby of our own on the way.

I couldn't wait.

No one expected me to arrive at the grocery on Monday until after I'd dropped Marilee at school, but like a kid with a secret she can't wait to share, I let Gideon and Marilee sleep and slipped out of the house before sunrise. Since Mama Isa and Tumelo always arrived at the grocery early on Mondays, I thought I'd get everyone together and make my big announcement.

The approaching dawn spread gray light over the silent highway as I turned into the lot behind the grocery and parked the car. The November morning was cool, not cold, and I barely needed the sweater I'd tossed over my shoulders. I walked through the morning stillness, then opened the back door used only by employees.

Mama Isa's voice and Jorge's laugh rang in the hallway, followed by Amelia's musical murmur as she asked them something in Spanish. She and Mario seemed to be with her parents and Tumelo in the small stockroom, so this should be an ideal time to break the news.

I pulled my sweater closer and walked into the stockroom, then shivered and nodded good morning.

“Mandy.” Mama Isa's brows lifted as she stepped forward and kissed me on the forehead, the traditional family greeting. “What brings you in so early?”

“I have news.” I looked around the circle, waiting for their undivided attention. Amelia lowered her pricing gun and Mario stopped cutting empty boxes long enough to shoot me a curious look.

“Buenos días.”
I smiled and tried to maintain a serene expression. “I have an announcement, and thought it would be easier if I talked to everyone at once.”

“¡Gloria a Dios!”
Mama Isa clapped, and one glance at her hope-filled face told me what she expected to hear.

“Lo siento.”
I gave her a sad smile. “But Gideon and I aren't having a baby. Not yet, anyway.”

Amelia caught my wrist. “You're not quitting work, are you?”

“No.”

“Then what?” Mario ripped a strip of sealing tape from the box he'd been breaking down. “We have customers waiting outside.”

I lifted my chin and spoke with quiet firmness. “I have decided to volunteer to be a surrogate for a woman who can't carry a baby on her own. Doing this will help us be able to buy a house one day, and I'll be able to do something amazing for a childless couple.”

Mama Isa turned to Amelia. “What is she saying?”

Amelia shook her head.
“Ella quiere ser una madre sustituta.”

“¿Qué?”

“You don't want to know, Mama.”

Tumelo elbowed Jorge.
“¿Soy un abuelo? ¿Ella va a tener un bebé?”

Amelia lifted her chin and ripped open a box of plantain chips. “Not if she has any sense, she isn't.”

My cousin grabbed the carton of chips and headed to the front of the store, leaving me to face the others alone.

“Well.” I spread my hands. “I'm still investigating the application process, so this isn't definite. But I have an agency in mind and everything looks promising. I wanted you to know in case it all works out. I didn't want you to be surprised if I need to take some time off for tests and things.”

My heart sank as Tumelo walked away, shaking his head. Maybe I was expecting too much from my father-in-law and the others of his generation. They hadn't grown up with the technology people my age took for granted.

I walked to the checkout stand, ready to begin my day, but as I left I heard Mama Isa ask Mario,
“¿Es ella loca?”

I didn't have to be fluent in Spanish to know she thought I'd gone crazy.

Though my relatives' lack of support cast a pall over my enthusiasm, ultimately it didn't matter. Let them think me
loca
; let them mutter all they wanted. As young adults in the twenty-first century, Gideon and I were going to take full advantage of the opportunities available to us. I was going to be a gestational carrier, and the sooner I got started, the better off I'd be.

At the stroke of seven, Tumelo unlocked the front door. I took care of a customer who'd been waiting for one of the cellophane-wrapped pastries on the counter, then quietly pulled my cell phone from my purse.

Through an Internet search I'd discovered a surrogacy agency in St. Petersburg, so I wouldn't have far to drive for an interview.

Grasping the last shreds of my courage, I unlocked my phone. Though I knew the agency's office wouldn't be open this early, I hoped to leave a message and request a callback. I punched in the agency's number, then lost my nerve and hung up.

Why was I so nervous about committing to a phone call? Gideon had given his permission, and his opinion mattered more than anyone else's. My mom might never see things from my perspective, but she lived two hours away and wasn't likely to drop in for a visit. She would never have to see this baby or even glimpse me pregnant. She could keep her disapproval to herself while she enjoyed her surreal life in The Villages.

As for Mama Isa and Jorge, Tumelo and Elaine, Amelia and Mario—they might not understand my decision, but they wouldn't condemn me, either. They'd grown up with crazy American ideas, so in time they would shrug and resign themselves to my plan. They might whisper about Gideon marrying a
gringa loca,
but they would also take quiet pride in the fact that one couple in the family had proven themselves unconventional.

If all went well, by this time next year I might be planning to get pregnant with my own baby, mine and Gideon's, giving the Lisandra family plenty to cheer about. Another baby would join Marilee, maybe the son Gideon so desperately wanted, and the family would have planted three generations of Lisandra men on American soil.

They would be so excited about the future, they would forgive the recent past. I knew they would.

I gripped my phone and punched in the agency's number again.

S
o, Mandy—now that we're better acquainted, tell me why you want to be a gestational carrier.”

Natasha Bray, whose red hair hung in graceful curves over the shoulders of her dark suit, asked the question as casually as if she were asking my opinion about the weather. I chose my words carefully, though, because I knew my answer might determine whether or not she would confirm me as a participant in the Surrogacy Center's program. In the three weeks I had been working with Ms. Bray, I had completed two phone interviews, an initial medical screening, and a home visit. Only two additional requirements stood between me and official acceptance into the program: this private interview and the results from my psychological screening.

“Gideon and I,” I told her, “have enjoyed our daughter so much that we want to give another couple the opportunity to have a child. I carried Marilee with very few problems and had no complications during her delivery. I don't expect things to be any different with a subsequent pregnancy.”

“Your statement seems to imply that you did experience some problems—what were they?”

I shrugged. “Nothing unusual. A little spotting in the first trimester, a few days of morning sickness, and a strange craving for
Cheez-Its.” Though nervous, I allowed myself to laugh. “I went through boxes of crackers like I was eating for five. But now I'd eat squid before I'd eat a cheese snack.”

Natasha smiled and scanned the open folder on her desk. I knew the file contained my application and reference letters from family and friends. I thought about asking Natasha if the references were positive, then decided I didn't want to know what people really thought about me being a surrogate.

“You seem to have made a lot of friends at your church,” she said.

“We've met some really nice people there.”

“Is faith important to you?”

“Yes.” I smiled so she wouldn't think I was part of some grim religious cult. “I became a Christian not long after I met Gideon.”

“No religious objections to being a surrogate, then?”

I blinked. “Why should anyone object if I do a good deed for someone else? Isn't that what Christians are supposed to be about?”

Natasha lifted one shoulder in an elegant shrug. “One never knows why some people do the things they do.” She turned a page and smiled. “I understand your daughter is quite talented. Does musical ability run in your family?”

I barely managed to keep a giggle out of my voice. “My husband plays the guitar and sometimes pretends to be Ricky Ricardo. His grandfather also plays the guitar and sings.”

“So that's where the gift originated.”

“Probably.” I tilted my head and added, “To be honest, I'm not sure where my daughter's talent comes from, but her teachers at the Takahashi school say it's extraordinary. The money from this program—if I'm accepted—will help us pay for her tuition in the years ahead.”

Natasha flipped another page. “You passed your initial medical screening with flying colors, and I really enjoyed our home visit. Your daughter is lovely and your husband is quite charming.” She folded her hands on the desk and smiled. “As long as the
psychologist didn't spot any problems in the screening interview, you should be on your way.”

I pressed my damp palms together, hoping Natasha wouldn't notice my trembling fingers. I'd never been more thrilled, but what if the shrink found faults that wouldn't be acceptable in a gestational carrier? Maybe Natasha would learn that I consistently run late for appointments. Or that I have a tendency to wallow in guilt when I make a mistake. Or that my husband spoils me far more than he should.

Maybe the psychologist had added up all my shortcomings and declared that I wasn't suited for motherhood of any kind, even the traditional variety.

Natasha arranged her papers in a neat pile, closed the folder, and looked over at me. “Did you bring the marriage satisfaction questionnaire? And the personality tests?”

“I have them in my purse.” I pulled an oversized envelope from my bag and handed it across the desk. “Was there anything else? I've been so scatterbrained lately and with all the Christmas parties—”

“I have nothing else.” Natasha put the envelope in the folder, then pushed the folder aside and picked up her pen, her eyes glinting. “I'll look those pages over later, but now I want to know what you will enjoy most about being a gestational carrier.”

I crossed and uncrossed my legs as I searched for an honest but commendable answer. “What will I enjoy? Helping someone. I really mean that. At college I majored in psychology because I've wanted to be a social worker ever since middle school.”

Natasha clicked her pen. “Not the typical choice for a middle school girl. Did something specific lead you to social work?”