The Surrogate’s Gift

by Davis, L. G.

  Sydney wiped away her tears. I ached to be able to cry instead of her. “You know what? Focus on your sister today. Think of the good times you had together.”

  I nodded and unbuckled my seatbelt. “I’ll try.”

  On our way to the front door, someone tapped me on the shoulder.

  “You’re Rachel’s twin, aren’t you?” The woman stared at me from beneath lashes covered in thick mascara.

  I nodded. I wanted to say something, but like tears, words failed me.

  “I’m sorry for your loss.” The woman pulled out a tissue and blew her nose. “Rachel designed my wedding stationery. She was such a nice person that I wanted to stay friends.”

  “I’m sorry you lost your friend,” I said to her. The woman squeezed my arm and went inside.

  More people approached me, extending their condolences. I recognized two of Peter’s family members, including his stepmother, but they looked at me like I was a stranger. Peter must have told them about me backing out of the surrogacy. I didn’t have the courage to approach them, even as I continued to scan the crowd for Peter.

  Unable to locate him, I placed myself at the entrance of the church to greet the mourners. Someone had to do it.

  Once everyone had disappeared inside, Sydney and I went in and found a place to sit. Out of respect to Peter, we chose the middle pew instead of the front, where his family was seated.

  The sweet scent of orchids and roses made me queasy.

  I scanned the seats behind me. Still no Peter.

  When I turned to face the pulpit again, I caught Pastor Paul White’s eyes. He was getting ready to start the service, but I needed to speak to him. He already knew who I was, since I had accompanied Marcia and Peter to services in his church once or twice.

  “I’ll be right back,” I said to Sydney and slid out of the pew. I made my way to the front of the church and asked to speak to him. I tried my best not to look at the two white and gold caskets, one adult-sized with a miniature version next to it.

  “I’m sorry for the loss of your sister,” he said before I could speak. “She was a wonderful person.”

  “Thank you, Pastor. Have you heard anything from Peter?” I asked him. I glanced at the front pew and watched Peter’s stepmother whispering to a woman next to her while throwing a look back at me.

  “I did talk to Peter early this morning,” the pastor said, scratching his full beard. “I’m afraid he won’t be attending the service. He asked me to go ahead as planned.”

  “I understand. Thank you.” As I made my way back to my seat, the lump in my throat threatened to choke me. I couldn’t imagine the state Peter must be in to avoid his wife and daughter’s funerals.

  When I was seated, I texted him, begging him to at least come to the burial.

  He didn’t respond, so I focused on saying goodbye to my sister.

  The service was brief. At the end of it, Rachel’s and Emma’s caskets were carried out by people I didn’t recognize, total strangers. How well did those people know her? Did they love her? Would they even remember her name three years from now?

  In the cemetery, my body and mind numbed as I stared at the hole that would be the final resting place for my sister and niece.

  Sydney took my hand and held it tight. “I’m so sorry,” she kept whispering.

  Some raindrops slipped through the leaves of the tree above us and plopped onto the fabric of the black umbrella we shared. It had been raining on and off all week, as if the sky was also grieving. I willed my eyes to shed the tears building up behind them, but nothing happened.

  My twin sister had been dead for two weeks and I remained dry-eyed. What kind of person was I? No wonder Peter wanted nothing to do with me. If only I could cry. It would help release the intense pressure in my chest.

  Maybe I deserved to suffer. I killed Rachel and her baby. My punishment was to be trapped in the jail cell of grief, with no way to escape.

  Several other mourners glanced at me from time to time, confused expressions on their faces. I wished I could explain to them that I did want to weep, but that I didn’t know how to.

  Sooner or later, the tears would come. Maybe it would happen today, or in a few weeks. I couldn’t say. Perhaps my body needed time to catch up with everything because it happened so unexpectedly.

  As I tightened my fingers around Sydney’s hand, something in the distance caught my attention. A familiar silver Ford Explorer.

  Thank God he came. Peter did not respond to my text, but he showed up.

  He sat in the car, staring at us.

  The caskets were lowered into the grave, and soil and rose petals followed them. Peter kept his distance until the funeral ended and people started to disperse.

  I was the first to leave. I had to catch him before he left. By the time I reached the gate, he drove off, but I had been close enough to see the pain in his eyes and the dark circles framing them.

  I stood at the gate clutching the cool, wet metal as his car disappeared.

  I had no idea whether we would see each other again. I wasn’t even sure if he still considered me family.

  Back at the grave site, I approached Ron, one of the pallbearers, who introduced himself to me as Peter’s colleague and friend.

  “He’s sleeping little and drinking too much,” he said, scratching the back of his bald head. “I tried to get him to come to the service, but he refused. He asked me to represent him. But he was here. I saw his car.”

  I nodded. “Do you know if he has anything planned for after this?”

  Ron shook his head. “Not that I’m aware of. I think he didn’t want to give people an opportunity to speak to him. He’s barely said a word to me since it happened.”

  “Okay,” I said. It devastated me to think that my sister’s send-off was so abrupt, as if it was simply another task to be checked off as soon as possible.

  Back at home, I went straight to the nursery and sat on the floor next to the crib with my legs crossed and eyes shut. Behind my eyelids, I saw my sister, all smiles as she held her baby. Pain flared to life inside my chest and spread to the rest of my body, so strong it chased away the numbness. Finally, my eyes filled with warm tears.

  When the crying started, I couldn’t stop it.

  As more and more images of Rachel appeared in my mind, I wept. I saw her the day we met up in person again after a year of estrangement. The slideshow moved to her in labor. She was still smiling. Then I saw her in her final moments. The last image was of Peter’s crumpled face when we were told his wife and child were dead.

  I dropped to my side and cried for all three of them, my tears landing on the carpet. When I had nothing left, I pulled myself up, picked up a lamp on the table by the window, and hurled it at the wall.

  Twenty

  Present

  “Look who just walked in.” Clayton gestures in the direction of the door.

  Cora is still dressed in black, but this time, no scarf covers her head. Her red, graying hair is tangled around her shoulders. Her lips move, like she’s muttering something to herself.

  Clayton rubs his hands together. “Give me a moment. I’ll get the lady her coffees.”

  “Okay,” I say and return to my novel—something light and funny to help me forget my complicated life for a little while.

  I show up almost daily at Latte O’Clock now that Clayton has crowned me a regular and reserves a bistro table for me at the front of the shop. It’s right next to the long glossy counter, which displays pastel-colored coffee and espresso machines on one end and bottles of toppings and flavorings on the other. It’s the perfect spot, but it’s a struggle not to be tempted by the mouthwatering treats displayed in the glass case, and their aromas of chocolate, cinnamon, and caramel.

  Thanks to Marcia constantly hammering into me that I should eat healthy, I resist the temptation. Smoothies, salads, and healthy sandwiches for me. The muffins and pastries will have to wait.

  I arrived early, as soon as the café was
open. Since the bathwater incident, I’ve been finding it harder to stay at the Thorpes’. Marcia and Travis have started watching me obsessively again. On the days when Marcia paints out in the garden and I’m relaxing by the river, she often has one eye on the easel and the other on me.

  Now I leave the house early and get back late. As a result, I’ve been spending a lot of time with Clayton. Three days ago, I even accompanied him and Heidi to the petting zoo.

  Having a friend in Wellice does make things a lot more bearable.

  I watch as Clayton places two cups of coffee in front of Cora. She nods but doesn’t smile. I can’t help wondering when she last did, and how she looks with a smile on her face.

  When Clayton steps away from the table, Cora reaches into her purse and pulls out a piece of paper and places it on the table. It’s the photo of her daughter.

  An ache throbs at the back of my throat.

  The woman reminds me of how I was in the weeks after Rachel’s death, the numbness. If my feelings are anything to go off of, Cora is probably still in shock, unable to release the pressure squeezing her lungs, suffocating her.

  “I should speak to her,” I say to Clayton when he returns to the front.

  “She doesn’t speak to anyone,” he says, just as Lillian O’Connor, the café owner—who must be in her mid-twenties—asks him to man the cash register. It’s a busy time for them. The line is growing, and there are still many tables waiting to be served.

  “I know she might ignore me, but I want to try.”

  “Go for it,” he says before walking away. “Trying never hurts.”

  My knees feel like water as I get to my feet and approach Cora’s table. I’m expecting her to chase me away.

  “Hi,” I say over the sounds of coffee beans in a grinder and the murmur of voices. “Do you mind if I join you?”

  I’m ready for anything. If she turns me away, I will respect her decision.

  Instead of speaking, she picks up her daughter’s photo and slips it back into her purse. Then she bends her head over her steaming coffee cup, like she does every day. A thin strand of her hair dips into the hot liquid, but she doesn’t even flinch. She also doesn’t acknowledge my presence.

  My T-shirt starts to creep up my bump. I can already feel the breeze on the exposed area. When I’ve tugged it securely in place, I try again to reach Cora.

  “It’s clear you’re not a fan of the Thorpes, but I’m not one of them.”

  “You’re helping them,” she mumbles. “You are one of them.”

  I back away from her table, both surprised that she responded and at the fire in her tone. “I’m sorry,” I say. What for, I’m not sure, but I have a feeling she needs to hear the words.

  “No success?” Clayton asks when I return to my table and he brings me my hummus veggie wrap.

  “No, I couldn’t get through to her.” I glance back at Cora. She’s still gazing into her drink. “I wish I could help her.”

  “You can only help someone who wants to be helped.” Clayton pauses. “I’ll be taking a thirty-minute break in a bit. Want to join me for a slow walk?” He emphasizes the word slow, and I laugh.

  I close my novel. “Sure. Do you mind wrapping up my wrap? I’ll eat it at the guesthouse.”

  Sometimes I let it slip, but I try to avoid saying the word home. The Thorpes’ guesthouse is not my home.

  “Your wish is my command.” Clayton takes the wrap from me and reappears a few minutes later with a doggy bag. “Ready to hit the square?”

  The heat outside is scorching hot and thick with humidity, but less stifling than the heavy air in the café, where I felt like I was sharing Cora’s burden.

  We are walking past Twisted Curls Hair Salon when I catch a flash of color in the corner of my eye. A red Jeep drives by. Seconds before it disappears, I recognize the driver.

  “Travis,” I say, coming to a halt.

  “Are you all right?” Clayton asks, putting his hand on my shoulder.

  “Don’t worry, I’m not in labor or anything.” I gaze at the blur of red in the distance. “I saw Travis just now.”

  “Travis Thorpe?” Clayton follows my gaze.

  “Yes.” I start to walk again. “He drove by.”

  “Do you think he’s following you?”

  I shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe not. It is a small town, and it shouldn’t be a surprise for me to see him. But I feel like they’re constantly watching me.”

  “I don’t know how you deal with them controlling your life.” Clayton stops walking and stands in front of me, his expression serious. “If it ever gets to be too much, and you need to get away from it all, you’re always welcome to stay with us. I’m sure Heidi would love that. My mother too. They both can’t stop talking about how wonderful you are.”

  I put a hand on his arm. “I appreciate the offer, Clayton.” Knowing he cares that much sends warmth through my chest. “I’m so ready for this to be over.” I continue to count down the days every night before I go to bed, crossing them out on my calendar one by one.

  “Anyway,” he says. “Just know that the offer stands. If you ever need to get out, let me know and I will come and get you. No strings attached.” He puts an arm around my waist, moving me out of the way as a skateboarder whizzes by.

  When he lets go of me, the place he touched feels like it’s vibrating, and my cheeks tingle.

  “You know what?” I say as we continue to walk, trying to distract myself from the sensations in my body. “I kind of feel sorry for the baby.”

  “In what way?”

  “Marcia and Travis might end up being really controlling parents. Imagine living with that as a teenager.”

  When I think of the baby’s future, a weight presses on my chest.

  It’s not your child, I remind myself. I have no right to determine how the little boy or girl should be raised.

  “Do you ever think about how it will feel to give up the child?” Clayton asks when we find a bench in front of the fountain that sits smack in the middle of the square.

  “It won’t be hard,” I say quickly, too quickly. “I can’t let it be.”

  “I’m only saying that because there are surrogates out there who decide in the end that they don’t want to give up the babies.”

  “I won’t be one of them,” I say, my voice sharper than I intend. I sigh. “I’m sorry. What I mean is, I made a decision and I’m sticking to it. I signed a contract.”

  I haven’t even thought about having a baby in my life. Of course, one day I want a family. I want to meet someone who loves me unconditionally. I want children, and the clock is ticking. If I wait too long, it might get harder for me to have my own baby. But I won’t dwell on the future.

  Before I can think about a family of my own, there’s a lot of work that needs to be done. I still need to heal.

  “You’re the strongest woman I’ve ever met,” Clayton says, then as we enjoy the fine spray of water cooling our faces, he smiles at me. “Grace, tell me about yourself. We spend quite a bit of time together, but you don’t open up, not really.”

  He’s right. Whenever he asks me personal questions, I brush them off, and turn the conversation to him and his life.

  “There’s not much to tell, nothing interesting.”

  “Nonsense.” He chuckles. “Everybody’s story is interesting. Are you going to tell me why you left your job? It’s quite a change you made from magazine editor to surrogate. I’m not judging, just curious.”

  My plan had always been just to tell him the basics and not go too deep into my life story. But I have now aroused his suspicions. His eyes glitter with questions I don’t want to answer.

  “Sometimes our life goals change. Mine did.”

  He goes silent, staring at kids playing ball around the fountain, drenched from the spray.

  “You’re right about that,” he says. “But I’m getting the feeling that you haven’t quite let go.” He looks back at me.

  “Let go of what?
”

  “That editor job. Something tells me you didn’t want to leave.”

  “You’re wrong.” I clutch my hands. “Leaving was the best decision I’ve ever made.”

  Possibly afraid of being sued for wrongful termination, Roman had not kept his promise of firing me for not attending the meeting with Jaden, Inc., in Seattle, but he did let me go two months after Rachel died because I was too depressed to pull my weight. I missed meetings and deadlines, cried and fell asleep at the office, went on leave too often, and made too many mistakes on the job. I was no longer a star employee. I was almost relieved when I was fired.

  “Do you think you’ll go back? You know, after this is over?”

  Before today, Clayton never asked many questions. But now it feels like a dam has burst and he can’t stop himself.

  “I don’t know, Clayton. Maybe I’ll go on to do something else. In college, I dreamed of opening up my own magazine.”

  “Then you should go for it. Do something for yourself, something selfish.”

  Selfish.

  If he only knew the truth. What I’m doing for the Thorpes is not completely selfless.

  Sitting next to him, I feel like a liar and a crook. Maybe I am, but it doesn’t matter anymore. I’ve almost reached the end of this chapter in my life.

  Everything needs to happen this way. It’s the only way to wipe the slate clean. Before that happens, I can’t allow myself to think about the future. I can’t make plans.

  We sit in silence, and eventually Clayton stands up to kick a ball around with the kids for a while. When he comes back to sit, he asks more questions.

  “So did the Thorpe matriarch come back to give you a hard time?”

  “No. She hasn’t come over, at least not when I was there. I did see her visiting one of the neighbors, but she hasn’t stopped by the house.”

  “If she does, be careful. The woman sounds dangerous.”

  “Unfortunately, Marcia doesn’t see it that way.”

  “Of course she doesn’t. It is her mother.”

  “Yeah, but I just don’t understand why she hates her son-in-law so much. She’s so bitter.”