The Surrogate’s Gift

by Davis, L. G.

  “You guys know each other?”

  “Yes. She was one of the first people to welcome me into town when I arrived six years ago. It’s hard to find your place in this community when you’re a newcomer.”

  “I totally agree.” I lift my hand and put it on my stomach, only to drop it again. Lately, each time I touched my stomach in Marcia’s presence, she threw me a strange look. I understand. She doesn’t want me to bond with the child. Now I’m training myself not to touch my belly unless I have to.

  Andrea takes a swig from her water bottle. “How many children of your own do you have?” she asks.

  “This is my first pregnancy.”

  The moment the words leave my lips, I cringe. Whatever I tell Andrea could make it back to Marcia or be shared around town. Marcia might not find it amusing that I’m discussing the surrogacy with anyone. It’s best for me to end the discussion right now.

  “I’m sorry, I should leave. I have somewhere to be.”

  She squeezes my arm. “I understand.”

  I thank her for the carrots and her time and hurry out the door.

  Inside the car, I rest my head against the steering wheel as my tears start to surface.

  I jump when someone knocks on my window.

  “Clayton?” I ask when our eyes meet. Embarrassed, I wipe away the tears and roll down the window. “What are you doing here?”

  “I wanted to surprise you,” he says. “You said you were coming here, so I thought I’d drop by.” He frowns. “Looks like you need a friend.” He points to the passenger seat. “May I come in?”

  “Sure,” I say. I pick up my purse to make space for him.

  When I tell him about how I felt like an outcast in yoga class, he listens. When I’m done, he hands me a tissue to blow my nose.

  “Come here,” he says, opening his arms.

  I lean into him.

  Eighteen

  She hasn’t blinked in a while as her eyes bore into mine. I keep peeling my gaze from hers, but it keeps returning. Sometimes, no matter how hard we try, we end up looking at what we don’t want to see.

  This was a mistake. I shouldn’t have joined them for dinner.

  Marcia thought it might be a good idea for me to be around, to see if her mother has softened to the idea of the surrogacy. From the looks of it, nothing has changed. The person who left that decapitated doll in my gift basket is the same woman sitting in front of me, her face marked with contempt.

  She hasn’t said a word to me since she arrived. Not that I was surprised.

  I glance at my food. My steak is dry.

  “Mother, how have you been at the hotel?” Marcia asks in an attempt to lighten the mood. “I hope you’re allowing them to pamper you.”

  Agnes takes a drink of wine and picks up her knife and fork. “Let’s just say, I’m much more appreciated over there than in this place.”

  “Come on, Mom,” Marcia says. “Don’t say that. That’s not fair.”

  Agnes slices through her meat with such force the knife scrapes the glamorous gold and white porcelain plate. “What do you want me to say, darling? You kicked me out of my own home, and you expect everything to be hunky-dory?”

  Marcia’s shoulders cave in as though in slow motion. She swallows her food and says, “We did not kick you out, Mother. We only wanted to do what’s right, considering the circumstances. You hated being here, anyway, and if I remember correctly, you are the one who proposed the arrangement.”

  Agnes’s upper lip curls upward and her nostrils flare. “That’s because I hate the sin that lurks in this house, my house.”

  “This is not the place, Agnes,” Travis warns. “You’re going too far.”

  He drops his cutlery onto the plate and glares at his mother-in-law.

  “You don’t have the right to shut me up. I can say whatever it is I want to say in my home,” Agnes shoots back. “You impregnated a stranger and brought her here to humiliate my family. And you expect me to be okay with it? That won’t happen.”

  “Grace is our surrogate,” Marcia shoots back. Her hands are clasped together on the table, veins showing through her translucent skin. “Whether you like it or not, the baby growing inside Grace is my child and your grandchild.”

  “Never. The bastard will never be my grandchild. And whether you like it or not, it will never be your child either.”

  “That’s enough, Agnes. This has to stop.” Travis’s fist lands on the table, hard. The plates shake in response, and juice and wine fly out of glasses and stain the tablecloth.

  Beatrice appears from the kitchen and starts to dab away the mess.

  No one speaks until she’s done. She bends to whisper something into Marcia’s ear. Marcia nods and Beatrice disappears back into the kitchen.

  Seconds later, the kitchen back door slams shut. It’s probably Beatrice going out for some fresh air, escaping the war zone. Who can blame her?

  I lean into Marcia and whisper, “I think I should call it a night.”

  “You’re not going anywhere.” Marcia doesn’t bother to lower her voice. The words are meant for me, but her eyes are on her mother’s face. “You’re doing a wonderful thing for us, and because of that, I consider you to be a part of this family, not a stranger. Everyone else has to learn to live with it.”

  “A member of the family.” Agnes’s mouth twitches in amusement. “You’re living in a dream world, my child.”

  “I stopped being a child many years ago, Mother. Maybe it’s time you accept that as well.”

  “I’ve had enough of this disrespect.” Agnes tries to get to her feet with grace, but she sways from too much wine and bitterness. “I’ll be in the library. When you’re done with your dinner, take me back to my hotel. Next time you invite me to dinner, make sure that woman is not here.”

  She grabs a napkin, presses it to her lips, and drops it on the table. It lands in her unfinished food and starts soaking up the brown sauce around her half-eaten steak.

  As we watch, she storms out of the room.

  “I’m so sorry, Grace.” Travis pats my hand. “Please don’t let her words get to you.”

  I nod and slide my hand away from under his. Whenever he touches me, I’m reminded of the night I had the terrible nightmare.

  Marcia looks at me with tears in her eyes. “I shouldn’t have invited you to join us,” she says. “I should have known this would happen. I hoped maybe she had come to her senses.”

  “Your mother will never change,” Travis says in a tone that could cut through steel. “We both know that.”

  “Thank you for dinner,” I say and push back my chair. The conversation is in danger of escalating into an argument that I don’t want to be a part of. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Neither of them says a word as I make my way out of the dining room and back to the guesthouse.

  My shoulders sink with relief as soon as I’m on the other side of the door.

  I keep my eyes closed for a while, just standing by the door, listening to my heart beating.

  Then I switch on the lights.

  Before Marcia showed up to invite me to dinner, I was about to take a bath. I need one right now.

  In the bedroom, I strip off the unflattering black maxi dress and slip into a bathrobe. I stop in the bathroom doorway, then take a step back, blood rushing in my ears.

  Before I left the guesthouse earlier, I had filled the bottom of the tub with water. The same water is still inside, but it’s tinted bright red.

  “What the hell?” I take a step forward again, closer to the tub.

  The sweet scent of strawberry rises to my nose. It takes me back to my childhood. Strawberry sherbet. That’s what was used to create the red color. But the color doesn’t matter as much as the message behind the ridiculous prank. Someone wanted the water to look like blood. A silent warning. A threat.

  I hear a scream and it takes me a few seconds to realize it’s coming from me.

  With trembling hands, I t
ighten the cords around my bathrobe and charge out of the house. I find Marcia and Travis still in the dining room, glasses of wine in front of them.

  When I enter, they both get to their feet.

  “Grace, is everything all right? Did something happen?” Marcia asks, her brow wrinkled with worry.

  “She was in the guesthouse. She did it.” My tone is hard, my temples throbbing.

  “Who?” Marcia asks. “Who did what?”

  “Your mother. She turned my bathwater red to make it look like blood.”

  “I don’t understand.” Travis approaches me, placing a hand on my shoulder. “What are you telling us?”

  I move away to let his hand drop to his side. “Someone put sherbet in my bathwater. It looked like blood.”

  “That’s ridiculous.” Marcia rubs her forehead. “I don’t think my mother would go that far.”

  “Well, she did. If you don’t believe me, come and see for yourselves.”

  They follow me to the guesthouse. This is the proof I need to show Marcia once and for all how sick her mother is. When I told her about the decapitated doll, she had made excuses for her mother as well. But she can’t explain away a bathtub full of red water. If she tries, maybe Travis will back me up.

  When we enter the bathroom, I’m surprised to find the tub empty. There’s no sign that there was even a drop of water inside it.

  I turn to face them. “I promise you it was... There was water inside. It was red.”

  Their faces are masks of confusion.

  Marcia puts both hands on my shoulders. “Grace, are you sure you’re okay? There’s nothing there.”

  “You think I’m lying, don’t you?” I move away from her, deeper into the bathroom, searching for signs that I didn’t imagine it all, something to prove I’m not lying to them. I should have taken a photo. But how could I have known that I’d come back to find the evidence gone?

  “We’re not saying that,” Travis says.

  “You don’t need to,” I retort. “But you’re thinking it.” I fold my arms across my chest. “She must be here somewhere.”

  As soon as I left the guesthouse, she must have suspected what I was going to do and gotten rid of the water. She wanted me to look crazy.

  While Marcia and Travis remain in the bathroom, talking softly, I check all the rooms, searching for Agnes.

  “Grace,” Marcia calls, coming to join me inside the walk-in closet. “My mother is not here. She’s in the library waiting for me to drive her back to the hotel.”

  I push past her. “I need to talk to her.”

  When we’re back at the main house, we find Agnes walking out of the library.

  “What’s with all the commotion?” she asks.

  “You did it.” I step close to the older woman, pointing a finger to her chest. “You messed with my bathwater. You wanted it to look like blood, didn’t you?”

  “What in the world are you talking about?” She places her hand on her chest, which is rising and falling rapidly. “How can you accuse me of something so hideous? How dare you even—”

  “She’s pretending,” I plead with Marcia and Travis. “She’s pretending she doesn’t know what I’m talking about, but I can see right through her. She’s a sick woman.”

  I hate that I sound like a schoolchild trying to convince the teachers that I’m being bullied.

  “This is all too much for me,” Agnes says, her voice weaker than before. Then, to my surprise, a tear rolls down her cheek, followed by another. “I need to get out of this house.”

  Her tears don’t fool me for one second. She’s trying to make me look bad.

  I turn to Marcia. “I’m sorry, but if she does something like this again, I’m leaving.”

  I don’t care if this is her house. There’s no way we can occupy the same space, not anymore.

  After Marcia takes her mother to the car, Travis turns his attention to me. “I understand that this is hard for you,” he says. “Agnes is a difficult person, but I don’t think she would do what you said—”

  “Travis, I know what I saw. She got rid of it to make it look like I’m lying, like I’m going crazy.”

  “You know what I think? I think you need to get some rest. Come on, I’ll take you back to the guesthouse.”

  “That’s fine. I know my way there.”

  I leave him standing there, staring after me. I don’t even wish him a good night. If I’m not having a good night, why should he?

  Back at the guesthouse, I continue my search until I find five empty packets of strawberry sherbet at the bottom of the trash bin, covered by garbage.

  I wasn’t imagining things. But if I show the packets to Travis and Marcia, they might still not believe me. Trying to convince them of the truth is exhausting. I’ll just wait it out. One day soon, Agnes will make a mistake and get caught in the act.

  I toss the packets into a shoebox I keep in the closet. If Agnes ever does anything to physically harm me, I’ll go to the cops. I’m done playing her crazy game of cat and mouse.

  Nineteen

  Past

  Pretty princesses rode on the backs of unicorns, floating among the fluffy white clouds of the wallpaper.

  The nursery was everything I imagined it would be. It was the first time I had entered it since Rachel and my niece died two weeks ago. My gaze moved to the personalized vintage crib on a round cream rug in the center of the room.

  Little Emma would never get to crawl around on it.

  I had spent a fortune on decorating the room. When I hired the interior decorator, I told her money was no object.

  I visualized the baby sleeping in her crib, crawling on the floor, sitting with me in the rocking chair. My vision would only ever be a dream.

  I’d never get to meet her, never hear her cry. She would never play with the stuffed animals I bought for her, one for each month of Rachel’s failed pregnancy. She would not spend quality time with me while her parents went out for date night.

  I didn’t know what would become of the room. Sooner or later, I’d have to move everything out. I’d donate some and sell the rest. But not yet. Now the room served a purpose. When I entered it, I remembered what I’d done to my sister.

  “It’s not your fault,” Sydney said, coming to join me in the doorway.

  She’d repeated those words to me more times than I could count. It didn’t matter what she or anybody said. I knew the truth, and it would continue to water the vine of guilt until it was big enough to strangle me.

  “Should we go?” I asked.

  “Yes. Are you okay?” Sydney placed her arm around my shoulders.

  “Does it matter if I’m okay?” My words came out a bit harsh, not my intention. Sydney did not deserve it. I pressed the heel of my hand against my forehead and said, “I’m sorry.”

  “You don’t have to apologize for anything. You’re going through a rough time.”

  I leaned into my friend and we walked out the front door.

  Sydney had offered to drive me to the Crossroads Presbyterian Church, where Rachel and Emma’s funeral services were taking place. Two days after Rachel died, I almost hit a pedestrian at a crosswalk. It freaked me out, and I didn’t want to be put in that position again, so I decided to take a break from driving.

  Sydney followed me to the living room, where I picked up my phone and checked if I had any missed calls.

  “Has he called?” Sydney asked.

  “No.” It was Rachel’s funeral and Peter still wouldn’t speak to me.

  The moment we received the news that confirmed Rachel and the baby didn’t make it, he completely shut down. He shut me out. He shut the world out.

  I had tried to call him many times over the last couple of days, but my calls and emails went unanswered. The fact that he was ignoring me hurt even more, because we were sharing a similar pain. I thought we could heal together, comfort each other. I guessed wrong.

  My shoulders sank as I continued to stare at the screen. “I really
hoped he would reach out today.”

  “I’m sorry, honey. I think you should give him more time.”

  “Do you think I should approach him today?”

  “No. I don’t think that’s a good idea. Let him come to you.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Let’s go.”

  I was both looking forward to and dreading seeing Peter. Either way, I had to attend my sister’s funeral. The only thing he told me after his wife and child died was that I should stay out of the funeral arrangements, that he would take care of it.

  The blow was hard to recover from, but I forced myself to understand. He was her husband, her next of kin. After the pain my actions had caused, respecting his wish was the least I could do.

  In a way, he did me a favor. It would have killed me inside to choose a funeral home and caskets, decide on flower arrangements, choose photos and memorabilia for display at the service, and everything else that came with funeral planning.

  I hated to admit that a part of me was relieved Peter was handling it all.

  In the car, I pulled out my phone again and opened up the single text I received from Peter the night Rachel died. The last communication we had.

  I don’t want you at the funeral.

  It was clear that he thought I was to blame. I felt the same way. But he couldn’t keep me away from saying goodbye to my sister. I would never forgive myself if I didn’t go. I found her obituary on her Facebook profile, probably posted by Peter. That’s how I got hold of the funeral service details.

  “What if he asks me to leave?” I asked Sydney as we neared the church.

  “He doesn’t have the right to do that,” she said, pulling into the parking lot.

  “He kind of does have the right.” My hands tightened around the phone. I shut my eyes tight until pain seared my eyeballs. When I opened them again, Sydney was watching me.

  “Grace, you have to stop punishing yourself.”

  “Easier said than done,” I said.