The Surrogate’s Gift

by Davis, L. G.

  I look away and notice the café filling up fast with couples, singles, and teenagers staring at their phones. “Take a seat,” Clayton says. “I need to take a few orders, then I’ll come and join you in a bit. Is there anything else I can bring you?”

  “Not right now.” I make my way to a table that still gives me a great view of the woman in the scarf.

  “Curious about her, are you?” Clayton asks, startling me. I didn’t notice him following me to the table.

  I raise an eyebrow. “Who do you mean?”

  “Cora Lane,” he says. His grin reveals a slightly crooked tooth that enhances his looks rather than taking away from them. “She’s a regular. Comes at least twice a week. She always orders two cups of coffee, but never drinks them both.”

  “Why does she do that?”

  “She used to come here with her daughter.” Clayton’s expression grows serious, and he lowers his voice. “Now that her daughter is dead, she still continues to show up. I think she orders the other coffee for her.”

  Sadness sweeps over me as I watch the woman staring into her coffee cup.

  “What happened to her daughter?”

  “She was hit by a car. It was all over the papers.”

  “That’s sad,” I say, then lean closer. “Last time, she made a weird comment to me. She said it must be strange for me to be doing something good for people who do not deserve it.”

  “She said that?”

  I nod. “I asked her what she meant, but she stood up and left, as though she had said too much and needed to get away before she could say more.”

  “I might have an idea why she made that comment,” he says. “But before I tell you more, I have more coffee addicts to feed. I’ll be right back.”

  When he slides back into his role of barista, I’m tempted to speak to Cora again. She looks so sad, so lonely.

  Before I change my mind, I pull myself to my feet. The baby gives me a kick, as if to say it’s a bad idea.

  I don’t listen. My knees are weak as I near the table. She doesn’t see me coming because now she’s staring at something on the table. The moment she senses my presence, she jumps, and a photo falls to the floor.

  She doesn’t need to tell me it’s her daughter. I already know. She’s a younger version of her. By the time I pick up the photo and hand it back to her, I’ve already memorized the moss-green dress, the bright blue eyes, the thick, russet curls.

  “What do you want?” She places it face down next to the other cup of coffee and looks up at me.

  “Hello again.” I smile. “I was wondering if I can treat you to something... a doughnut maybe?”

  “No.” Her lips stretch into a thin line. “I won’t let you spend their money on me.”

  “The Thorpes’ money?” I ask.

  I’m not invited, but I still take a seat. She grabs the photo from the table and shoves it into her battered leather purse.

  “You don’t like the Thorpes much, do you? May I ask why?”

  “I don’t know you, and I don’t owe you any answers. You’re one of them.”

  With that, she gets up and leaves the café.

  Still holding on to unanswered questions, I return to my own table.

  Cora has made me even more curious about the Thorpes. But why do I care so much? I’m only here for a while. All I need to know is that they will be good parents to the child growing inside me, a child they want more than anything in the world. Nothing else should matter. And yet it seems to.

  “Don’t take it personally,” Clayton says to me a few minutes later when I tell him what happened. “Cora hardly speaks to anyone. The Thorpes aren’t the only people she doesn’t like. She’s still grieving, and I guess she’s taking it out on everyone else. Sometimes it’s hard to let go.”

  I narrow my eyes at him. The way his voice dropped to almost a hush when he said the last words piques my interest. Did he experience the same thing? Has he lost someone he loves?

  “You say it like you know from experience,” I say, inviting him to share.

  Each time I came to the café, our conversation revolved around the town, its people, and sometimes the weather. He has never said anything about himself, and I didn’t want to be curious. But now I am.

  He forces a smile that immediately crumbles. “My wife. She died two years ago… cancer.”

  “I’m so sorry, Clayton.” Without thinking, I reach for his hand and give it a brief squeeze.

  “Life goes on. At least I still have my daughter.” A genuine smile warms up his face again. “Miss Heidi Price. She’s five.”

  My mother died when I was much older than Heidi, and the pain of loss still stabs my gut. I guess it never disappears, it just tucks itself away until a memory awakens it.

  I give him time with his thoughts and wait for him to speak.

  He tells me that it was a week after his wife’s death that he moved back to Wellice from DC, where he worked as an intellectual property lawyer.

  “You’re a lawyer? I had no idea.”

  “Hard to imagine, huh?” He glances down at his rock & roll T-shirt. “Gone are the days of stifling suits and ties. I do miss the job, though, but not a life on the treadmill.”

  “Do you see yourself doing it again?”

  He shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe not. Right now, this is where we belong. This is where we heal.” He rubs his eyes. “As I was saying, I think I know why Cora made that weird comment to you, about you doing something for people who don’t deserve it.”

  “Oh. Okay. Why do you think she said it?”

  I would have wanted him to go on telling me about himself, but he clearly doesn’t want to speak about it anymore. It’s fine. Maybe one day we’ll become good friends and he’ll feel free to open up more.

  “Her daughter, Daisy Lane, worked for the Thorpes. Most people do in this town. They own many of the businesses here. She was a salesperson in the boutique here in town.”

  “That’s interesting. Isn’t them giving her daughter a job reason enough for her to like the Thorpes?”

  “At the time of her death, a little over a year ago, she was no longer employed there. She was fired.”

  “Oh,” I say. “So, her mother is holding a grudge?”

  “I guess so.”

  I bite down on my lower lip. “Do you know why her daughter was fired?”

  “Apparently, Marcia Thorpe didn’t like her much.” Clayton pauses. “You know what, let’s not gossip. There’s enough of that in this town. I should give you a tour sometime. I’m getting the feeling this is the only place you come to.”

  A blush creeps into my cheeks. “That’s because this is the only place where I have a friend.”

  “Well, you’re welcome here anytime.”

  “Thanks, Clayton. And I’ll take you up on your offer for a tour one of these days.”

  “Do that. For what it’s worth,” he continues, “I think what you’re doing for the Thorpes is incredible. It doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks.”

  I remain at the café for another half an hour before heading out. In my hand is a note with Clayton’s number.

  Back at the Thorpes, I hurry down the path between the main house and the guesthouse before anyone tries to speak to me.

  I’m about to unlock the door when I notice a piece of paper at my feet, lying flat on the doorstep. A handwritten note.

  My first thought is that Marcia left a message for me, but when I read the words, my body goes rigid.

  You’re making a big mistake. This won’t end well.

  My throat tightens as I glance at the main house in time to see Agnes watching me from one of the upstairs windows. Then she steps back and disappears.

  I pick up the note with trembling hands.

  The moment I step inside the guesthouse, I catch a whiff of cigarette smoke. It’s all the confirmation I need to know that Agnes left the note.

  My temples are pounding with rage as I march into my bedroom.


  The mattress is stripped of the sheets, which lay in a crumpled mess at the foot of the bed. One thing is for sure. I made the bed before I left the house. I always do.

  Ten

  I’m inside the dark closet, surrounded by the smells of the new clothes and shoes I haven’t worn yet and the stench of my sweat. My legs are outstretched, my belly nestled between my thighs, sweat gluing my skin to the wooden floor.

  This is what I was terrified of: the panic attacks, never knowing when they will hit, doing everything to keep them away.

  Since the knock on the door thirty minutes ago, all my senses are on full alert. I was sleeping when it happened, and when I finally got up to check, there was nobody there. At first, I thought I imagined it, but then I remembered the note I found on the doorstep two days ago.

  You’re making a mistake. This won’t end well.

  The words repeat themselves over and over inside my head as I wrap my arms around my upper body.

  A trickle of dread touches my spine, sending a chill spreading through my entire body. What if someone wants to drive me to the edge of madness, forcing my body to sabotage the birth of the child I promised to bring into this world?

  I didn’t confront Agnes about the note and the unmade bed. I knew she wouldn’t speak to me. So I decided the best revenge would be to do nothing, ignoring her, pretending her games don’t faze me. But here I am—inside a closet in the middle of the night, terrified of an old woman.

  I did bring it up to Marcia yesterday, but she kept changing the subject, eventually telling me she had a photo shoot to get to. When she got back, a couple of hours later, she still found other things to talk about, so I let it go.

  Maybe it’s best we don’t discuss it. She would never believe that her mother is dangerous. That’s exactly what she is, though. But I can handle her. I’m strong enough.

  And yet you’re hiding inside the closet?

  I force myself to step out of my hiding place, resisting the urge to switch on the lights. I’m not in the mood for Marcia to come over and bring me another mug of milk that ends up disappearing. Sometimes, I wonder whether I made it all up.

  Agnes wasn’t there then. She couldn’t have taken the mug.

  Something stops me from digging deeper into this line of thought. What if I don’t like what I find? What do I expect to find?

  I sit on the bed and wedge my shaking hands between my knees. The darkness is softened by silver moonlight filtering in through the slits in the curtains.

  I need to pull myself together. The longer I sit here, the more I obsess over whether that knock on the door really happened or if it’s something my imagination cooked up. I need to speak to someone who might be able to talk me off the ledge.

  Sydney.

  I pick up the phone from the nightstand and switch on the screen, watching the green light chase away some of the darkness.

  She doesn’t pick up, but as soon as I hang up, she calls back.

  “Hey, stranger,” she says.

  “Sorry I didn’t keep in touch,” I say, resting a hand on my damp forehead.

  She goes quiet for a while, then asks, “How’s the baby?”

  I dip my head to one side. It’s not like her to ask about anything relating to my pregnancy.

  “Fine, I think.” I put a hand on my belly for a few seconds before moving it away again.

  “I’m happy to hear that,” she lies. I can hear it in the depth of her voice, the shakiness between the words. But it’s okay. She’s trying.

  “We don’t have to talk about the baby,” I say.

  “Grace, are you okay?” she asks. “You sound strange.”

  “Not really.” I press my lips together to keep the tears at bay.

  “Did something happen?”

  “I had a panic attack.”

  Sydney knows all about them. For a while, I called her every time I had one. They had been happening less and less over the years, but when they do happen, they are rough.

  “Did something trigger it?”

  “I thought I heard knocking. When I went to check, there was no one there.”

  “Are you sure…”

  “No.” I close my eyes and focus on the thick darkness behind my eyelids. “I’m not sure. Maybe it was a dream.”

  “Did you try your breathing exercises?”

  “I did, and it helped a bit.” I scrunch up my face in embarrassment. “I was inside the closet.”

  “That bad, huh?” Concern drips from Sydney’s voice. “Thunderstorm or hurricane?”

  “Thunderstorm.” I smile in spite of myself. “I called you before it got worse.”

  “That’s good. But you need to see a doctor. Your blood pressure must be sky high and that’s not good… for you or the baby.” The baby again. Knowing that she’s making an effort to support me means a lot. My desire to open up more grows.

  “I will, but I think it’s also important for me to deal with the root cause.”

  “Are the Thorpes still treating you like an egg?”

  “Kind of. I didn’t tell you this, but Marcia’s mother is here now. When I moved here, she was on a trip to Turkey.”

  “Is she excited about the baby?”

  “Quite the opposite. She’s totally against it.”

  Sydney is quiet for too long. Will she side with Agnes or change the subject?

  “I can only imagine how that might give you even more anxiety,” she says, surprising me again.

  “I think she’s doing everything she can to sabotage the birth.” I lie down on my back, but the weight of my stomach makes me breathless. I turn onto my side instead.

  “What is she doing?”

  “You know what, I don’t want to get into it.” Telling her about everything that has been happening will work me up even more. “It’s hard dealing with her look of disapproval every day, that’s all.”

  “Maybe you should come back home,” Sydney says, the same thing she proposed last time we talked.

  “You know I can’t do that.”

  I don’t even have a home. Back in Miami, I would be a pregnant, homeless, jobless woman.

  “Grace, you’re unhappy over there, and it sounds like they’re treating you like crap. You need to take care of yourself right now, not just the baby. Your mental health is important too.”

  “I’ll be back home in a few weeks. I’m fine, really. It’s just one of those nights.”

  “It doesn’t sound like you’re fine.” I can almost see her worried expression. “Grace, I understand that you agreed to this arrangement, and you don’t want to break a promise, but you being unhappy doesn’t help anyone.”

  “Don’t worry about me. I’ll handle it.”

  “Fine. Then you need to talk to that old lady. Whatever she’s doing, she needs to stop.”

  I let out a bitter laugh. “She doesn’t speak to me. She pretty much pretends I don’t exist.”

  Sydney doesn’t say anything more. There’s only one thing she wants to say to me, and she knows I won’t listen.

  We talk about something else and eventually end the call.

  Unable to sleep, I go to the living room and switch on the TV. I don’t care if Marcia sees the light. If she wants to come to the guesthouse, let her. I can’t guarantee I’ll be able to sugarcoat anything this time. I’m too exhausted for that.

  I thought coming to Wellice would help me be more at peace as I grow their baby, but this kind of stress is at a level of its own, and it’s wreaking havoc with my body and mind. My eyes are heavy and sore from lack of sleep and my head feels like a brick.

  There’s nothing worth watching, so I stop at the news channel and mute the TV.

  The words on the screen tell me the news segment is about Julia Williams, a woman in Corlake, a nearby town, who was found dead in a lake close to where she lived. That was about seven months ago. I already heard the story making the rounds at Latte. Bad news is not something I can handle right now.

  I flick off the TV and
push myself to my swollen feet.

  That’s when I notice the open window. The opening is only a few inches wide, but I’m certain I had checked every window before I went to bed.

  I push back the curtains and peer through the glass. She’s out there, watching me. I don’t see her, but I feel her stare on my prickling skin.

  I remain standing at the window. I won’t let her or anyone else intimidate me, not after I’ve come this far. I’m not going anywhere, and neither is the baby inside me.

  Eleven

  I leave the house at six before Marcia or Travis come to check up on me. I’m carrying their child, but today I’m not in the mood to see either of them. And Agnes needs to stay the hell away from me.

  I get into the car, toss my purse onto the passenger’s seat, and start the engine.

  When the car slides out of the driveway, I clench the steering wheel tight.

  Don’t look up at the windows. Don’t look.

  There’s a strong possibility one of them is watching. I can’t find it inside myself to care.

  My hope is to catch Clayton before the guests arrive at Latte O’Clock.

  Although the café officially opens at seven, he mentioned he’s often there around six to get things ready for the day.

  Not today. I arrive at twenty minutes past six and the door is locked, and the “closed” sign is up.

  I place my hands on both sides of my face and peer through the glass door. There’s no movement inside.

  I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. Wellice is a laidback town. Most posted business hours are only a formality. They can change at the drop of a hat. I guess in a small town, anything goes.

  Maybe the café is opening its doors later today, and Clayton doesn’t feel the need to come in early. Random working hours must have been quite an adjustment for him after his career as a lawyer. Or maybe that’s what he had been looking for, a more relaxed environment, a place to start over after the death of his wife.

  To kill time, I take a stroll to the Fairy Botanical Garden, a five-minute walk from Latte.

  I’m drained and feel heavy from lack of sleep, but instead of resting on one of the benches, I follow the meandering walkways toward the fishpond in the center of the garden. It’s surrounded by blue and white hydrangeas and lavender, and a white female fairy statue is standing proudly in its center, carrying an overflowing pail of water.