The Surrogate, The Sudarium Trilogy - Book one (6 page)

1:11

The sensation came over Hannah again. A vague queasiness that grew in acidity as it rose from the pit of her stomach until it reached the back of her throat, where it lodged like a large wad of unchewed bread. The first time it had happened, she’d dashed to the bathroom, thinking she was going to throw up. But she hadn’t. Now she knew that if she just kept still, breathed in deeply and waited, the sensation would pass, which is why she was sitting on the edge of her bed at 10:30 in the morning, holding on to the headboard, her eyes half closed.

She was due at the diner in another half hour and contemplated calling in sick. But she wasn’t really
sick
sick. Just temporarily indisposed. Dr. Johanson had told her to expect something like this, when she’d been back to see him two weeks ago. The HCG test had confirmed what they all had hoped for, what Hannah had somehow known before her blood had been drawn: the implantation had taken. She was pregnant.

She could hardly believe the words or the joy they had given her. She could hardly believe them now, except that she wasn’t feeling much joy at this particular moment. She was feeling woozy and thinking about it only made it worse. The reflection in the dresser mirror didn’t help.

Well, she had to expect some discomfort. She wasn’t getting paid for nothing. Her first check from Partners in Parenthood had, in fact, arrived two days after Dr. Johanson had called her with the official announcement of her pregnancy. A separate letter, specifying the pre-natal vitamins she should begin taking immediately, followed next, then a perky brochure entitled “Exercise for Moms-to-Be.” Now she could count on a mailing from Partners in Parenthood just about every other day. With the flood of junk mail that was arriving, as well, Box 127 was proving to be a busy place.

She liked to check it en route to the diner. If she got moving now, she told herself, there would still be time. A couple more deep breaths, and the wad of bread sensation seemed to diminish. Now there was just the grayish pallor to contend with.

Waiting for her in the post office box was another of the elegant greeting cards that Jolene Whitfield favored for her correspondence. This one was a landscape by El Greco that showed a Spanish town lit by jagged strokes of lightening in a spectral sky. The moody picture was not quite in keeping with the cheerful message Jolene had scribbled inside (in her trademark lavender ink), which reiterated her and Marshall’s happiness and invited her to come to lunch soon.

“Just the two of us. Nothing but girl talk! Please call, when you can,” the note concluded. Jolene had underscored the final words three times by way of suggesting that sooner would be preferable to later.

The Whitfields lived in East Acton, a suburb on the northeastern outskirts of Boston, so it meant an even longer drive than the one to Boston, Hannah reflected. The old Nova hadn’t seen this much use in months. The mechanic at the Esso Station had been telling her it was past due for a tune-up, so if these trips kept up, another big expense was probably in the offing. Then Hannah remembered what Mrs. Greene had said - how much the Whitfields had wanted to “share” in this pregnancy. There wasn’t a whole lot to share right now, just the occasional wave of nausea, but if that was part of it, far be it from Hannah to keep it to herself.

Jolene’s instructions were good and East Acton wasn’t that hard to find. There really wasn’t that much to the town - a single main street, three blocks long, with the sort of upscale stores befitting the prosperous bedroom communities that hugged Boston. A quaint Victorian train station in the center of town suggested that some of the inhabitants commuted to Boston by rail. Pansies had been recently put out in the planters in front of the station.

Hannah kept her eyes peeled for the red-brick Catholic Church. (“You can’t miss it,” Jolene had assured her. “It’s modern. All the others have white steeples and are 200-years old.”) When she saw it, she slowed down and prepared to turn right onto Alcott Street. (“A third of a mile on Alcott, number 214, left-hand side. Look for a red mailbox.”) Alcott Street, in keeping with the promise of Main Street, was clearly a prestige address. The homes, when they were visible, were large multi-storied structures, built around the turn of the century. Some had wrap-around porches and fanciful turrets, and there were even a few porch swings in evidence, although their function was now more decorative than utilitarian.

The red mailbox stood out sharply against a ten-foot privet hedge. Hannah eased the Nova onto a winding gravel driveway, lined with clumps of rhododendrons newly in bloom. What she saw first was a barn every bit as red as the mailbox. One of the two doors was open, and a beige mini-van was parked inside. An arbor, covered with wisteria vines, ran from the side of the barn around to the back of the house.

At the sight of the house itself, Hannah sucked in her breath. It might have belonged to a farmer 100 years ago, but in the ensuing decades, it had expanded outward and upward, so that it now easily passed easily for a banker’s residence. Built out of gray fieldstone, it had been positioned to catch the afternoon sun, which even now glinted off the large-paned windows on the first two floors. A series of smaller dormer windows peaked out from under the eaves. Two massive chimneys, one emitting a lazy tendril of smoke, completed the impression of solidity.

The driveway looped around a brass sundial. Even though she’d slowed to a crawl, Hannah could hear the Nova churning up the loose gravel. All of a sudden the front door swung open, and there was Jolene Whitfield, waving enthusiastically, a bright blue dish towel in her hand, as if she were helping a small aircraft to land right there on the front lawn.

“You made it,” she called out. “Your timing’s perfect. Soup’s on.”

Soup was Jolene’s homemade cream of mushroom, and they ate lunch in a sunroom, filled with potted plants, hanging ferns, and wrought-iron garden furniture.

“I thought it would be more cheerful here,” Jolene explained.

The view from the back of the house encompassed a large lawn leading to a stand of thick pines. At the halfway point stood a stone birdbath. Someone had been hard at work on the flowerbeds, repairing the winter damage and readying them for their spring colors. Hannah imagined how cheerful it would be once everything was in flower.

“Eat up your soup, dear,” Jolene counseled between mouthfuls. “It’s Marshall’s favorite. Low in sodium. No chemicals to worry about. We’re lucky to have an organic food store in town, so you can rest assured on that count.”

“I beg pardon?”

“Your diet. You can rest assured there’s nothing harmful for the baby. You are watching your diet, aren’t you?”

“I’ve started taking pre-natal vitamins. I’m afraid I still have a cup of coffee every morning.”

“As long as it’s just one. Oh, listen to me! Nagging already,” Jolene laughed. “I’m sure you have talked this all over with Dr. Johanson, so pay no attention to my fussing. I’m just that way. ‘Fiona Fuss-budget,’ Marshall calls me.”

Lunch was tasty and Hannah ate with appetite.

“What do you say to dessert? I prepared a carrot cake with vanilla icing, specially for today. Not to worry. All natural ingredients. The frosting’s made of soy.”

After Hannah had dutifully sampled the cake and pronounced it “er… very interesting,” Jolene proposed a tour of the house. The Whitfields had moved in less than a year ago, but the rooms bore evidence of their world travels and, even more, of Jolene’s outgoing personality. Like her clothes, her taste in interior decoration ran to the bright and the bold. If it was a bit at odds with the house’s conservative architecture, it was still - Hannah searched for another appropriate adjective - “unique.” She wondered if the modular sofa was as uncomfortable as it looked.

On the second floor, Jolene paused in the hall outside a closed door. “I just can’t wait to show you this.” She pushed open the door and stepped back, clapping with the tips of her fingers.

The room was painted robin egg’s blue, while the furniture -a dresser, a crib and a rocking chair - was all white. A braided rug lay on the floor, and sitting in a wicker basket (also white) was a collection of stuffed animals, awaiting their future master - the standard stuffed bear, among them, but also a woolly lamb and even a donkey.

“We finished it only last week.”

“It’s adorable,” said Hannah, who was thinking that Jolene had definitely gotten a head start on events.

“I knew you’d love it. And look.” Hanging over the crib was a mobile, made up of stars dangling from silver threads. Jolene flicked a switch and the stars slowly began to revolve to the tune of “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.”

Jolene hummed along with the music box, then noted proudly, “The ceiling is painted with stars, too. Dozens of them. Oh, you can’t see them now. They’re phosphorescent, they come out at night. My idea. It’s like staring up at the heavens.”

The nursery connected with the master bedroom, which Jolene breezed through, barely stopping to point out the abundant built-in closets or the sauna in the bathroom. It wasn’t until they’d reached the third floor that her excitement started to bubble up again.

“And now, the piece de resistance,” she announced. Part of the third floor was given over to storage space, but what had formerly been two maid’s rooms had been reconfigured to make a spacious bedroom. Curiously, Jolene’s flamboyant tastes stopped at the door, giving way to more traditional decor: a four-poster bed, starched white curtains, a drop leaf table the color of maple syrup and a wing-tipped armchair covered in tweedy fabric.

“What do you think?” Jolene asked. “It’s for guests.”

“You’ve done a beautiful job.”

“You’re not just saying that?”

“Not at all.”

“Because if you don’t like it, feel free to tell me.”

“No,
really
, it’s very pleasant.”

Jolene breathed a sigh of relief. “Well, that certainly makes me happy. I kept saying to Marshall, ‘What if she hates it?’ He told me I was just being silly. ‘What’s to hate?’ he said. But I know how fussy people are about their surroundings. Personally, I’ve always felt imprisoned in a four-poster bed. But that’s me. And anyway, he said, ‘if she doesn’t like the furniture, we’ll change it.'”

“I don’t understand.”

“It’s yours.” Jolene clasped her hands delightedly and brought them to her mouth, waiting for Hannah’s reaction.

“Mine?”

“I’m not saying you have to move in right away. But whenever you say so, it’s yours. This is our guest suite and, frankly, Marshall and I can’t imagine a nicer guest. We would feel so…well, so privileged to have you living with us.”

“That’s very kind, Jolene, but—”

“Hush, hush. You don’t have to decide anything now. We just want you to know it’s here, that’s all. So don’t give it another thought. The right time will come. I’ll say no more.” With an exaggerated gesture, she pretended to lock her lips with an imaginary key, threw the key over her right shoulder and headed back down the stairs.

1:12

Hannah took off her brown and white checked apron and, turning sideways, checked her profile in the ladies’ room mirror. At her first monthly check-up, Dr. Johanson had told her she could expect to gain a pound a week. Eight weeks, eight pounds, she was right on track. But the weight didn’t show. If anything, her face looked gaunter than before. That was the fatigue.

In the past, the lunchtime shift at the Blue Dawn Diner had barely phased her. But after only an hour or so, the small of her back had started to ache, and then her arches gave way, and her only desire was to collapse in the back booth and raise up her feet. Weren’t the pre-natal vitamins supposed to do something about that?

Her ebbing energy had been accompanied, unfortunately, by a surge in business. All through the waning months of winter, the clientele had dwindled down to the hard-core regulars. But now that the trees were in leaf (and the jonquils had actually come and gone), people were out and about and there was renewed demand for Bobby’s homemade meatloaf. Tips were up, even if Hannah’s stamina was down and she was not at all relishing the prospect of an evening shift that would begin in another few hours.

“Whatever the world believes, the life of a waitress is not an easy lot,” proclaimed Teri. “You look pooped.”

“I am. I think I’ll go home and grab a nap before tonight. Do you mind?”

“Hell, no. I’ll do the prep work. Give yourself an extra fifteen minutes.” Teri watched the younger woman plod wearily out to her car. Someone, she thought, should warn her about burning the candle at both ends.

As Hannah made her way up the walk to the house, all she could imagine was how good it would be to crawl under the covers and escape into dreamland for 90 precious, unbroken minutes. She heard the television in the living room, then Ruth’s voice calling out, “Is that you, Hannah? What are you doing home so early?”

“Hi, Aunt Ruth. I’m just going to my room.” Not wanting to get drawn into a conversation, she started up the stairs.

“Are you going to be up there long?”

“I thought I’d lie down a bit before I went back to the diner.”

“You’ve been tired a lot lately, Hannah. You don’t suppose you’re coming down with something, do you?”

“No, Aunt Ruth. It’s been busy at the diner, that’s all.”

The television clicked off. “Nineteen-year-old girls shouldn’t be tired all the time,” came the voice from the living room.

“It’s not just me. Teri and Bobby are pretty wiped, too. Mr. Hatcher’s thinking about putting on another waitress.”

“Well, I guess that explains it. I guess there’s no cause for me to be concerned then.”

Hannah recognized the tone, both vaguely accusatory and self-pitying. Ruth was in one of her moods, which was all the more reason to get upstairs quickly and shut the bedroom door. She made the mistake of lingering a few seconds longer and asking, “Are you all right? Do you need anything?”

“Oh, I’m fine. Leastwise, fine as can be expected. Under the circumstances.”

Hannah saw her nap evaporating. Whether she liked it or not, she was going to be subjected to Ruth’s latest complaints. With a sigh of resignation, she turned and went back down the stairs. “What’s wrong, Aunt Ruth?”

Her aunt was sitting erect on the couch, staring straight ahead, her mouth pulled into a thin line. “Maybe you should tell me, young lady.” She acknowledged her niece with a stony look, then her eyes traveled to the coffee table in front of the couch.

There, lying on the polished wood, was the brochure, “Exercise for Moms-to-Be,” that Letitia Greene had mailed out two months ago. It took Hannah only a moment to comprehend what had happened. And all this time she’d made such an effort to be careful. She’d re-directed the calls from Partners in Parenthood to the diner and the mail to Box 127. Anything relating to surrogacy, which was very little, she kept hidden at the back of her closet.

“I’m still waiting, young lady.”

“It’s something I sent away for,” Hannah mumbled, after a long silence.

“Oh?” Ruth said. “And what about these?” She produced a plastic bottle of capsules and placed it down hard on the coffee table.

“Did you send away for these, too? Pre-natal vitamin formula! What’s this all about?”

“What have you been doing, Aunt Ruth, going through my things?” Hannah’s outrage was matched by a feeling of helplessness, as if she were a child again, caught in a fib.

“Never mind what I’m doing., This is my house. I can do whatever I like. What have
you
been doing? That’s the question.” The woman waved the brochure in Hannah’s face. “All this talk of overwork! Overwork, my ass! This is why you’re tired all the time, isn’t it? Well, isn’t it? Go ahead and admit it!”

“You have no business in my room,” was all Hannah could muster in her defense.

“All this time, I’m thinking, ‘The poor thing. Stuck at the diner day and night. No boyfriends. Never having any fun.’ Well, you sure pulled the wool over my eyes, didn’t you?”

“It’s not what you think.”

“It’s not? What is it then? Do tell!”

After all the years under the Ritters’ roof, it was still the yelling that troubled Hannah the most, awakening all her old childhood fears, fears that the world could go out of control in an instant, that what was snug and secure one minute could be a mass of wreckage the next. She started to cry.

“Oh, yes, go ahead, cry! A fat lot of good that will do you now.”

Hannah backed into the hall. She hated her aunt to see her this way. Any display of weakness only goaded her to more vituperation.

“Just like your mother,” Ruth was shouting. “Little Miss Perfect. Doing everything our parents asked of her. Kissing up to her teachers. Running off to church every Sunday. Butter wouldn’t melt in that one’s mouth. Well, I knew the truth. I knew about the boyfriends. I knew what was really going on. You’re just like her. Sneaky. A sneaky, little tramp!”

“Don’t say that about my mother. You have no right! It’s not true and you know it.”

“Your mother was a phony, who thought about no one but herself.”

“And you…you’re…you’re nothing but a bitter, old woman.” Hannah couldn’t stop the words coming out of her mouth. “Bitter and spiteful because God punished you for having an abortion and you could never have children of your own. You’re mad at the whole world, even though it was all your own fault. You’ve always been jealous and hateful—”

The tears in her eyes blinded her to her aunt’s advancing hand, but Hannah felt the sharp sting of the woman’s palm on her cheek. The force of the blow knocked her back onto the stairs and robbed her of her breath. Something in Ruth seemed to have snapped.

Hannah lifted herself up and bolted for the front door. Outside, her feet sank into the lawn, which was spongy from the spring rain, and water seeped into her shoes. She flung open the door of the Nova.

As the ignition turned over, grinding to a start, Ruth screamed from the doorway for all the neighborhood to hear.

“And if you think you’re going to bring a little bastard into this house, you’ve got another thought coming.”