The Surrogate, The Sudarium Trilogy - Book one (7 page)

1:13

“So, no boyfriend then, huh?”

“No, ‘fraid not.”

“What’s that say about my powers of deduction?” Teri expelled the air in her lungs with a loud whoosh. “Hon, you could tell me you were having a sex change and I doubt I’d be any more flabbergasted. Who knows about this?”

“No one in Fall River. You’re the first person I’ve told.”

“And you got this idea all by yourself?”

“Yes.”

“Goes to show how little we really know about people. You’re more complicated than I thought. Everybody is, of course. I guess most of the time we don’t bother to look below the surface. You don’t suppose Nick moonlights as a Chippendale dancer, do you?”

Hannah didn’t pick up on the joke.

The two of them were sipping hot tea over the breakfast table in Teri’s kitchen. The room, like the house itself, wasn’t neat by any stretch of the imagination. (How could it be when her family consisted of two hyperactive kids and a burly husband, who spent most of the week on the road driving a 16-wheeler, and then crashed for 48 hours, once he got home?) But it was cheerful and reassuringly normal - from the piles of laundry waiting to be folded to the finger-paintings scotch-taped to the refrigerator door.

“What do you think I should do?”

“Oh, boy, that’s a toughie. There’s really only one thing you can do. Level with your aunt and uncle. Tell them what you’ve told me. You can’t let them think you got knocked up by some greaseball in a cheap motel room.”

“Do you believe it’s wrong?”

“No, honey. It’s just that you are so young and vulnera—. Well, shit, none of that matters right now. What’s done is done. You really want to have this baby, right?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Well, there you are. It’s not like you’re going to have to raise the kid. It belongs to someone else. So this is a temporary situation. The important question is what happens now? How do you deal with your aunt and uncle? Want my honest advice? Give them another chance. I’ll bet they come around, if you explain it to them the way you explained it to me. If you want moral support, I’ll go with you.”

Hannah slid her cup way from her. “Thanks. But Aunt Ruth would consider than an unforgivable invasion of privacy. This is a family matter.”

“Like hell it is. It’s your life, your body. You’re an adult. Well, almost. And not all of us are living in the dark ages. Now that the shock is wearing off, I gotta say you’re doing a brave thing.
Unusual
, but brave.”

“I don’t think Ruth will see it that way.”

Teri collected the cups and ran a quick sponge over the kitchen table. “Let me make up the fold-out sofa for you, hon. The bathroom’s yours. Oh, if you want to use the tub, just toss the boys’ inflatable submarine on the floor.”

The next morning, Hannah helped Teri with some of the humdrum chores, which had a way of putting events in perspective. For most people, Hannah realized, life came down to getting from one meal to the next and staying on top of the dirty laundry. Drama was for the movies.

She mulled over Teri’s advice all through the evening shift at the diner and by the time Bobby flicked off the Blue Dawn sign, her mind was made up.

Herb was watching “The Tonight Show” by himself, when Hannah came in the front door.

“Where’s Aunt Ruth,” she asked.

He gestured toward the kitchen. Hannah saw the red glow of a cigarette and realized that her aunt was seated at the kitchen table, smoking in the dark. As Herb got up to turn off the TV set, a distant memory sprang into Hannah’s mind. It had been exactly like this the day of her parents’ funeral: Herb in one room, Ruth in another, the TV blaring, nobody attempting to comfort one another, not that anyone could with the noise. After the set had been turned off, an oppressive silence had settled over the house, as if to emphasize everybody’s separateness.

Like now.

“You didn’t come home last night.”

“I stayed at Teri’s.”

“Don’t you think you should have informed your aunt? She was worried about you.”

“I’m an adult. I can do what I want.”

“Obviously.” He shifted uneasily in his lounge chair. “Is what your aunt told me true?”

“It’s not what you think, Uncle Herb.”

“You’re not pregnant then?”

“Yes I am, but…” The sentence trailed off.

“But? There’s no buts about it, far as I know. You’re either pregnant or you’re not. Do you know who the father is?”

Hannah looked her uncle straight in the face. His brow was a web of deep lines and the white light from the lamp next to his lounge chair seemed to etch them even deeper. “Yes, I do. Of course, I know who the father is. I know who the mother is, too.”

“Are you being smart with me?”

“No. I’m a surrogate mother.”

“What the hell is that?”

“I’m carrying this child for another couple. A couple that can’t have children on their own.”

“Sweet Jesus!” Herb leaned back his head and closed his eyes, as if he were experiencing a momentary dizzy spell.

“I went through an agency. They matched me up with a couple who’s been trying to have a child for years. It’s a form of artificial insemination. It was all done in a doctor’s office.”

“They pay you for this?”

Hannah nodded.

“How much?”

“Thirty thousand dollars. Plus expenses.”

Herb opened his eyes and whistled. “Why didn’t you tell your aunt?”

“She didn’t give me the chance.”

“She was pretty upset – you bringing up the abortion after all these years and everything. Did you really tell her God was punishing her?”

“I’m sorry, Uncle Herb. I shouldn’t have, but I was upset, too.”

“Well, it’s never been a secret that your aunt and I were unable to have children afterwards. That abortion caused her…caused
us
…a lot of heartache. And there have been times when I’ve said some things I probably shouldn’t have. But we’ve tried to put it all behind us and now we have this situation.
Your
situation. And, well…”

He seemed to have run out of words. “You gonna come in here, Ruth?”

Ruth stubbed out her cigarette and got up from the kitchen table. Normally, she was the assertive one, but tonight she seemed grateful to let Herb take charge. She ventured as far as the living room archway and stopped, her eyes red and watery from crying. “Are you really doing this for another couple?” she said.

“I swear. I didn’t get pregnant through sex. I hardly even know these people. You can ask the doctor if you want to. Ask Mrs. Greene—”

“Well, I won’t have it. I won’t have it in my house. This is the final slap in the face. Did you ever once think how I might feel? Did you? Answer me!” Ruth’s voice rose to a wail.

“What do you mean?”

“You expect me to, to watch you day in, day out, getting bigger, going through, I don’t know, everything you go through when you’re pregnant…and all for some people you’ve barely met! I won’t do it, hear me. I won’t.”

She retreated back into the protective darkness of the kitchen.

At once, Hannah understood why Ruth had been so indignant the day before, why the mood in the house was so tense now. Her aunt and uncle weren’t worried about her or her welfare. They weren’t even worried about what the neighbors would say. No, the truth was Ruth simply couldn’t bear the idea of having to see her carry a child. It was a reminder of what she had been unable to do, a reminder of the terrible mistake that had poisoned her life long ago. Whatever accommodation she and Herb had managed to strike with one another, Hannah’s pregnancy now threatened to destroy.

Herb cleared his throat before speaking. “You have to understand how difficult this would be for your aunt. After all she’s been through, all
we’ve
been through…” Dejection seemed to come off him in waves.

“I can’t help it, Uncle Herb. I made my decision.”

“Well, I guess I’ll have to make a decision, too, then. I think it’s time you found your own place to live. You said you’re an adult. You’ve made an adult choice. From what you said, they’re paying you well. So in the next few days…as soon as possible…well, as I said, I think it would be best for everyone.”

Joining his wife in the kitchen, Herb tried to put his hand on her shoulder, but Ruth sloughed off his touch.

Hannah lay awake a long time that night. She had always assumed that one day she would make the break with her relatives, not the other way around, and the reversal of the scenario made her feel powerless and exposed. She ran through her limited options, determined to hold panic at bay. Teri’s was out. An apartment would seriously deplete her savings.

There was only one place to go, one place where she was truly wanted.

1:14

From the third story window, Hannah looked down at the Whitfields’ garden and marveled at the change that had come over it. The lilacs, the forget-me-nots and the iris were holding forth in various shades of purple and blue, and the lawn was actually chartreuse in places with new growth. The water in the stone bird bath, which had been empty last month, glittered in the sun.

Hannah counted twelve birds, twittering noisily in the shallows, and when a cardinal suddenly dropped into their midst, she uttered a cry of delight herself.

There was a light knock at the bedroom door. “Hannah, are you up?” Jolene spoke in a stage whisper.

Hannah let the woman in. “Good morning. You’ll have to excuse me. I’m still in my nightgown.”

“No excuses called for. You need every bit of sleep you can get.”

“I was just watching the birds.”

Jolene beamed her approval. “Aren’t they wonderful! I keep a list, you know, of the different species. It’s up to 42 already.”

They went to the window. The cardinal, regally disdainful of the dun-colored sparrows, was still preening in the center of the bird bath.

“I would love to have this place filled with animals,” Jolene sighed. “But Marshall says he’s not Old MacDonald. The baby will be a full-time job. We won’t have time for a farm, too. So what I’ve decided to do is make our little property a haven for wild life. Let them know that the welcome mat is out, in a manner of speaking. And they’re coming. There’s even a raccoon that visits now and then. Some people think that raccoons are vicious, but I believe that if you respect them, they won’t bother you.”

She paused for breath. “What am I going on about? All I did was come up to ask if you wanted some French toast. I made it for Marshall this morning and I was about to have some myself. What do you say?”

“Let me get dressed.”

“Heavens, no. Just throw on a robe.”

Two weeks after Ruth and Herb had issued their ultimatum, Hannah moved out of Fall River. She would have left sooner, but she didn’t feel right walking away from the Blue Dawn Diner, until they’d had a chance to train her replacement. On her last day, Teri and Bobby summoned her to the back booth, where they had a going-away cake waiting for her. Teri cried and Hannah cried and eventually, even Bobby cried. Teri said she’d always known he was “a sentimental old prick.”

Leave-taking at the Ritters had been less fraught, although Ruth managed a cursory hug and Herb said something about staying in touch. But even as Hannah drove the Nova down the street, she had the feeling that her life there was over. Now, after only three days at the Whitfields, she wondered why she had hesitated even a moment before coming here.

Jolene’s French toast, layered with butter and drenched in real Vermont maple syrup, was a treat. Hannah wolfed down her first helping and without hesitation asked for seconds.

“That’s what I like to hear,” Jolene said, as she dipped another slice of bread into the bowl of batter. “It’s all good for you. Eggs, milk, calcium.”

Jolene dropped the battered bread drop into the skillet, where it produced a sharp sizzle, like static on the radio. “Do you want a refill on the orange juice? Sunshine in a glass - isn’t that what they call it?”

Hannah watched her adroitly flip the toast with a spatula. World traveler, gardener, artist and cook - was there no limit to Jolene’s enthusiasms? The kitchen had all the newest appliances, but it still seemed cozy and old-fashioned. Hannah was content to sit there in the warmth and have someone make a fuss over her. She curled her toes in her socks and listened to the sizzle of the skillet.

“Voila. Mademoiselle est servie.” Jolene placed a plate before Hannah. The French toast was a perfect golden brown. The rivulets of butter even looked like melted gold.

“A healthy appetite. Nothing could please me more this morning. Eat up, dear, before it gets cold. Then I want to show you my studio.”

Minutes later, Hannah followed her out the kitchen door and through the arbor that led around to the back of the barn.

“And now, tah-dah, here it is, my very own studio.”

It had probably been a tack room once, but a thorough remodeling had obscured its origins. Partitions had been knocked down and posts taken out, and part of the weathered exterior wall had been replaced with panels of sheet glass to let in as much light as possible.

The floor, to the extent that it could be seen under the clutter, was tiled with slate. Like artists’ studios everywhere, this one gave off a sense of incipient chaos. Several of Jolene’s works hung on the walls and a large work-in-progress, measuring at least three feet by five, sat on an easel in the center of the room. One look was all it took for Hannah to know that she was out of her depth.

Jolene was an abstract artist, but there seemed to be more to her paintings than that. They were a bizarre patchwork of fabric and paint, strips of leather and newsprint, glued together - and in some cases, stitched together with twine. Or was that wire? The thick paint oozed and dribbled, like blood, and in places, it appeared that Jolene had actually slashed the paintings repeatedly with a sharp knife. Hannah wondered if paintings was even the right word for them. They gave off such an aura of…"pain” was the only word that came to her mind.

She fumbled for something intelligent to say, but all that came out was, “I don’t know very much about modern art.”

Jolene read the puzzled expression on her face. “Oh, it’s not as difficult as that. Just let yourself experience them.”

Hannah concentrated. “Do they mean something?”

“They mean what you want them to mean.”

“Like what?” she asked, fishing for a hint.

“Well, an artist is never supposed to talk about her work. Rule number one. But I suppose look on them all as wounds.”

“I beg pardon?”

“Yes, wounds, injuries. The canvases have all been injured, assaulted, traumatized in some fashion. They’re hurt and bleeding. So I try to mend them, you could say. I sew up the wounds and cauterize the bruises. Like a doctor treating someone who’s had a bad accident. That way, the viewer has the experience of both the injury and the recovery. Does that help any? I like to think of my art as an art of healing.”

“I see,” said Hannah, but she didn’t.

“The canvases are ill. I make them well again.”