The Surrogate’s Gift

by Davis, L. G.

  A flash of humor crosses her face. “Whatever you think it’s worth.”

  I frown. “I—what do you mean?”

  “I’m terrible at math, so I let the customer decide.”

  “Nancy, stop teasing the customers.” An old man wearing a Santa costume in July emerges from a door behind the counter. “What my daughter is trying to say is, we’re a donation only shop. Our products are made from junk found around town. Junk is free, so we don’t charge for raw materials. All you pay for is the work put into the product, and you get to decide what that’s worth. Call it a donation. Half of what we earn goes toward several charities in town.”

  “I can’t do that.” I look down at the beautiful bag and smile at the woman. “I’m not good at math either. Please help me out.”

  “Then have it for free,” the man says. “You’ll still be helping our little corner of the Earth stay clean. Tourists do it all the time.”

  “That’s kind, but I won’t take it for free.” Touched by what they’re doing, I hand him forty-five dollars, all the money I have in my purse. “I wish I could give you more, but this is all I have.”

  “This is too much,” he says, counting the money. He tries to give me back twenty dollars. I refuse and walk out of the store with the promise to return again in the future.

  I continue my walk down Main Street. When I come across the Wellice-based MereLux boutique, I’m tempted to enter, but I decide not to. I spend enough time around the Thorpes and their possessions. Today is my day off.

  I only stop walking when my legs start to ache, and the straps of my sandals cut into my skin.

  I need to sit somewhere, to give my feet a rest and get out of the hot sun.

  The first time I visited Wellice, Marcia took me to Latte O'Clock, a small café nestled between the post office and an ice cream shop.

  “It’s not the food that draws people to it,” Marcia had said. “It’s like the kitchen of Wellice, where residents gather to catch up on each other’s lives. Come on, let me show you what I mean.”

  The place is packed, but it does feel good to be surrounded by life. I look around for a free table with no luck.

  I’m about to turn away when, over the sounds of laughter, cutlery clinking, and the rock music, someone speaks to me.

  “Why don’t you join me? This is a table for two and I’m by myself.”

  The woman is at the table closest to the door. She’s dressed in all black and has dark bags under her eyes, her lower lids like ice cream melting in the heat. Despite the kind offer, her lips don’t look like they’ve been touched by a smile for a long time.

  In front of the empty chair is an untouched cup of coffee that someone probably left behind. She stretches out a shaky hand and pulls it toward her. I’m too tired to search for another place to sit and I like the atmosphere.

  “That’s kind of you. Thank you.”

  I take a seat and order a salad and a fresh glass of orange juice. I eat my food while she stares at me from across the table, occasionally taking a sip of her coffee. The food has trouble getting down my throat. I don’t like people watching me when I’m eating. Maybe this wasn’t a good idea.

  “I’m new in town,” I offer. I might as well strike up a conversation. The tension is too unbearable.

  “I’ve heard about you,” she says. “You’re the young lady helping out the Thorpes.”

  “It’s not a big deal.” I stab a lettuce leaf and bring it to my lips.

  “It sure is. Not many people would be willing to do what you’re doing for strangers.”

  I shrug. “They’re not strangers, not really. I’m a friend of the family.”

  “It must still be hard.” She lifts the cup of coffee to her cracked lips.

  “You mean being a surrogate? Well, it’s—”

  “I mean doing something for people who don’t deserve it.” She drains her cup of coffee and lowers it back to the table.

  “Why do you say that?” I ask, frowning.

  “I’m sorry.” She waves her hand dismissively. “Ignore me. I have a habit of saying everything I’m thinking. I better get out of here. You can have the table all to yourself.” She rises to her feet and grabs her purse. “Nice meeting you.”

  She rushes off before I have a chance to ask any of the questions she has planted in my head.

  Eight

  The coughing starts and continues for so long I forget how to breathe. When I finally catch my breath, I recognize the smell.

  Cigarette smoke.

  When I open my eyes, I jump. A woman is sitting in the armchair next to my bed.

  “Who are you?” I sit up and wrap my arms around my body.

  The woman must be in her mid-fifties with an updo, large pearls around her neck, and an expensive-looking cream and black pantsuit.

  “I should be asking you that question.” She removes her glasses and cleans them with a red silk cloth. “I own this place. Who are you?” She takes a drag of her cigarette and blows the smoke in my direction.

  I flap my hands to break the cloud of smoke, but some of it still manages to sneak into my nose. I cough again and clear my throat.

  I’m about to get out of bed and escape the stench, when the door opens and Marcia’s standing there, cheeks flushed red and eyes bulging. She’s wearing a white silk bathrobe and her damp hair is combed back.

  “Mother, what are you doing in here?” she asks. “And why are you smoking around her?” She comes to the bed and uses a pillow to chase away the smoke. “Grace is inhaling this junk. It’s not good for the baby.”

  This woman is Agnes Thorpe, the woman who tightly holds the reins of the MereLux brand? Her husband, Marcia’s father, died five years ago, and she took over and drove the business to greater heights of success.

  I saw photos of her online, but she looked much younger and heavily made up. She also had a smile on her face, unlike now.

  I never thought we’d meet like this.

  Agnes laughs. “Do I look like I care, darling? It’s not as if that woman’s carrying my grandchild.”

  The words hit me hard, and I react by coughing again, so hard I clutch my chest. I slide out of bed to distance myself from her and the plume of smoke that will be headed my way soon.

  Marcia mumbles a string of curses as she throws open the windows to let in the fresh morning air. Then she turns back to her mother, her hands on her hips. “How can you say something like that? The baby that Grace is carrying is mine and Travis’s. I expect you to respect our decision to bring her into the world in a way that works for us.”

  She’s still convinced it’s a girl. I pray for her sake that she won’t be disappointed.

  Agnes smirks. “Stop fooling yourself, Marcia. That child is not yours. It’s that woman and Travis’s biological child.” She jabs a finger in my direction.

  “Get out of here,” Marcia orders. I’ve never seen her this angry before. In fact, I have not seen her angry at all.

  Her mother’s mocking smile stretches across her face, then she takes another drag and blows the smoke my way. The cloud disperses before it reaches me, but the particles hang in the air.

  When she leaves the room, Marcia drops onto the bed with a grunt, her eyes holding an apology.

  “I’m sorry you had to meet my mother this way. She can be quite insensitive sometimes.” She attempts to sweep her bangs from her eyes, but they swing right back into place. “She doesn’t have anything against you personally. I hope you know that.”

  No, I don’t. I don’t know anything. I’m shocked to know she doesn’t approve of the pregnancy.

  “How did she get into the guesthouse?” I ask. It’s a stupid question. Of course, she came in with the same key that Marcia and Travis use to come and go as they please.

  I’m not surprised I didn’t hear her. When I do manage to fall asleep, I fall hard. I’ve always been that way, even as a child. My mother used to joke that the house could burn down, and I wouldn’t even know it.
r />   “I had no idea she was coming here.” Marcia massages the back of her neck. “She’s not allowed to smoke in the house, so I asked her to do it outside. She said she was going to the river.” Her shoulders slump forward. “I was going to warn you about her before breakfast. I guess she beat me to it.”

  Suddenly I feel cold, and I lift an oversized white terrycloth bathrobe from the hook behind the door and put it on before responding. “So she’s not on board with the surrogacy?” I tighten the cords of the robe above my round belly.

  Marcia looks away. “She thinks it’s a sin.”

  “A sin?” I sit in the armchair Agnes had occupied previously.

  “Yep. She tried to talk me out of doing this, but it’s my life, not hers. My mother has always been controlling. She’s been like this my whole life.”

  That must be where Marcia gets it.

  “You don’t have to worry about her,” she continues. “I’ll make sure she doesn’t bother you.”

  “Thanks. Does she live close by?”

  “No. She lives here, with us. She was on a long vacation in Turkey with a friend. Now she’s back to make my life hell, just because I married a man she thinks is wrong for me.”

  “She doesn’t like Travis?”

  “She thinks he married me for my money, even though he didn’t know about my money until we were engaged.”

  Just what I need, a bitter old woman to be hanging around as well, watching me like everyone else. I have a feeling she’s going to be worse than Travis and Marcia combined.

  “Marcia, I’ve been thinking.” I give her a few seconds to turn her attention back to me. “You’ve been so kind to me, and I get that you want me to be well taken care of. But I don’t think this arrangement is really working for me.”

  “Do you mean staying here? Or are you talking about being our surrogate?”

  “Staying here. I’m thinking maybe it wasn’t such a good idea.”

  A frown sweeps across her features. “What do you mean by that? I thought we were getting along really well. If you ask me, I think it’s the perfect arrangement. We’re like one happy family.”

  “I don’t mean it like that,” I say. “Staying here is not terrible. What I mean is that I need my personal space.” I place my hands on both knees and squeeze out my frustration. “I think it’s best for me to stay somewhere else until the baby comes. I could get a room at the same hotel I stayed at when I first came—”

  “Nonsense,” she snaps. “I will not have you staying in that cheap hotel. What will people think of us?”

  “They might not think anything at all.” I pause. “I just need my space. You and Travis are constantly watching me.”

  Sometimes the truth is the only way out of a bad situation. Except she doesn’t know the whole truth about why I’m doing this in the first place.

  Would she feel betrayed if she knew how I manipulated my way into their lives? Would it even matter? They want a baby and I’ll give them one. That’s what counts in the end, right?

  Marcia gets up and comes to stand in front of me.

  “I’m sorry if I’ve been making you uncomfortable, Grace. I didn’t mean to. We’re just so excited about the baby. You have no idea how it feels to watch your stomach growing, and knowing that you’re carrying our baby.” Her eyes fill with tears. “I can’t carry my own child, but when you involve me, it makes some of the pain go away. Please, don’t cut us out. I’ll try harder. I’ll have a word with Travis. We’ll give you the space you need. You don’t need to move out.”

  I want to continue to fight for my freedom, but the broken look on her face and the tears on her cheeks make me swallow my words. I don’t want to hurt her or rob her of this opportunity. I’m here to make her pain go away, not make it worse.

  I make a spur-of-the-moment decision I might end up regretting. “I’m sorry. I do want you to be on this journey with me. I want you and Travis to be involved.”

  “You mean you’re not leaving? You’re staying till the end?”

  I smile through my tears. “Until the end of this journey, but the beginning of another chapter for you and your baby.”

  She hugs me tight. “You’re such a wonderful person, Grace. I’ll never forget this.”

  I’m the first to pull away because there’s more for me to discuss.

  “Marcia, if I’m staying here, some things need to change. I’d prefer to prepare my own meals here, in the guesthouse. We can’t let that beautiful kitchen go to waste.”

  If Marcia’s mother is going to be hanging around until the baby is born, I will do whatever it takes to keep a distance from her.

  Sitting at the dining table sharing a meal with her when it’s clear she doesn’t want me there would be torture. I also don’t want to be around all that smoke. I need to protect the baby. It’s my job.

  “Done,” Marcia smiles. “But I will buy all the groceries for you. I’ll make sure the kitchen is fully stocked every week with healthy food for you and the baby. You will also have to allow Beatrice to continue cleaning up this place for you every day.”

  Beatrice is the housekeeper. I hardly see her. She only cleans the guesthouse when I’m not indoors. When I do see her, it’s often from a distance.

  “Sure. I don’t mind that. You can buy the groceries, and Beatrice can clean.”

  I’d prefer to do my own cleaning, but it would lead to a fight I won’t win. Marcia will not want me to lift a finger when they have someone who’s paid to do the work. She told me that Beatrice has been working for them since she was a child. In fact, she started out as her nanny.

  “Another thing,” she says. “You need to have at least one meal a week with us.”

  “I can do that.” As long as I have the other days to myself, I can definitely survive one meal with them.

  “Great.” Marcia squeezes my hand. “I want you to be happy, Grace. Only then can you bring a happy bundle of joy into the world.”

  She moves her hand to my stomach and caresses it. Another thing I can’t stand. Both Travis and Marcia seem to think it’s okay to touch me anytime they feel like it. No permission needed.

  While Marcia’s hand is still on my belly, the baby kicks and she squeals. I almost feel guilty for wanting to keep her at a distance, but if I’m going to keep my sanity, boundaries need to be set.

  After talking to the baby and rubbing my belly some more, I tell her I need to take a shower before breakfast. I watch her through the window as she makes her way back to the main house, but at the last second, she turns and heads for her studio, hands swinging at her sides, eyes focused ahead. She pulls a key from her pocket and lets herself in.

  Like Travis, I cannot wait to see the painting she’s working on. She promised we’ll love it, and it will be worth the wait.

  Before jumping into the shower, I grab my calendar from the nightstand and cross out today’s date. I’m acting like a prisoner in a jail cell, counting down the days until I’m free. Being the Thorpes’ surrogate is turning out to be a prison sentence, and I’m doing my time.

  Why do I feel like I’m on death row?

  Nine

  The moment I enter the café, the hairs on my arms rise. The woman in the black scarf is watching me. I’ve been coming to the café often in the last two weeks, hoping to see her again, and today she’s finally here.

  I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about what she said to me, her words haunting my quiet moments.

  Why did she have to say those things? What did she mean?

  She’s sitting alone in a darker part of the café, all in black. She doesn’t smile or wave. Her posture is wooden, her hand wrapped around a single cup of coffee while another cup sits in front of the empty seat across from her.

  I left the house early, before Marcia, Travis, or Agnes got in my way. The café is mostly empty.

  It’s been a week since I spoke to Marcia, and I do have a bit more freedom now, but not much. The one thing that has changed is that she and Travis now kn
ock before coming into the guesthouse, instead of barging in.

  What hasn’t changed is that they continue to watch me from a distance.

  Regardless, I try to get out as much as I can. Marcia doesn’t approve. She hasn’t said it in words, but I can tell from her behavior when she asks me where I’ve been or where I’m going. A slight twitch of the lips as she attempts to smile. The barely audible sharp intake of breath.

  She pretends she’s okay with it. We both know she isn’t.

  It doesn’t bother me. I don’t need her permission to be an adult.

  The one good thing is that Agnes doesn’t speak to me. After that first time I found her in my room, she has been ignoring me. I tried talking to her once, but she acted like I wasn’t even there. The act she puts on doesn’t stop her from mumbling to herself when we happen to pass each other in the yard, though. She repeats the words sin and unnatural quite a bit, but I fight the urge to confront her.

  “This one’s on the house,” Clayton, one of the baristas, says, sliding a glass of orange juice in front of me at the counter. “Freshly pressed.”

  “You don’t have to do that,” I say, smiling up at him.

  His olive black eyes twinkle and he flings a dish towel over his broad shoulder. “I know that. But I want to.”

  Clayton is another reason I come back to the café. He’s over six feet with close-cropped caramel hair, tanned skin, and a wide smile. But it’s not his good looks that keep me returning.

  When the mysterious scarf woman deserted me at the table that day after dropping a bomb, he came and sat with me. I was surprised when he said he recognized me from the first time I visited Wellice to meet Marcia.

  He even knew me by name. It’s easy to be famous in a small town. As I suspected, the surrogacy is a hot topic among the locals. I heard the whispers on the street. But unlike the others, Clayton didn’t look at me like I was an alien. I like to think we have struck up some kind of friendship.

  “Thank you for the drink,” I say to him and look back at the woman, watching her watching me.