by Davis, L. G.
Sydney finally left, and I was free to torment myself in peace without anyone looking over my shoulder. I didn’t even eat the breakfast I made for everyone—omelets, toast, breakfast sausages, and freshly pressed grapefruit juice. I made breakfast every morning. It was the least I could do.
I picked up the untouched meal and pushed it to the back of the fridge to have for lunch. The appetite would not have returned, but I’d force myself. Food was not a priority these days, just a necessity.
I went to the living room, where I settled on the couch with a multi-colored quilt covering my legs and my laptop on my lap, its warmth heating my thighs.
On Google, I clicked on one of the twenty articles I saved last night for reading in the morning.
Atlanta woman dies hours after giving birth
I bit my lip as I dove into the tragic story.
Lisa Dane and her husband, Tim, from Atlanta, Georgia, sacrificed everything, including selling their home to afford the expensive IVF procedures that would make their dream of becoming parents come true.
Instead of a happy ending, the story has a tragic end. While Lisa finally became pregnant and gave birth to a healthy son, she died two hours later from postpartum hemorrhage.
I read another article, followed by another. Each story triggered more tears and left me bruised.
Before I knew it, it was midday. I’d been on the computer for three hours. I needed to get off the couch, eat something, and take a shower. One more thing I forced myself to do on a daily basis. Everything that had to do with taking care of myself was a struggle.
I managed to make it to the shower. The moment I stood under the water, the tears flowed faster. It was strange, but running water sometimes triggered my tears and led to me weeping.
Standing in front of the mirror twenty minutes later, I couldn’t even recognize myself. I had lost so much weight. My large eyes were sunken, and my hip bones jutted out. I had never been a thin person, and the look did not suit me.
My once thick hair had started to thin and the bags under my red, swollen eyes no longer went away. Not even makeup could cover them up anymore.
I threw on an oversized T-shirt and leggings. My looks didn’t matter. Since I didn’t work on Wednesdays, I had nowhere to go except to the grocery store for dinner ingredients.
I hated being out of the house. Seeing happy people on the street reminded me of what I’d never be able to experience again. Watching mothers on the street pushing strollers and holding their kids’ hands reminded me of what my sister had desperately wanted and was denied.
After getting dressed, I returned to the couch. Sydney had called several times. She always checked in on me in between her showings.
I texted to let her know I was okay, and she didn’t have to worry.
At least I had taken a shower. That was something. I’d eat something before she came home.
After reading three more stories, a scroll-triggered ad popped up on the screen. I leaned forward and squinted my eyes to take in the small words under a photo of a smiling couple with a baby wedged between them.
The ad was for an agency looking for couples who wanted a surrogate, and searching for women to carry a child for couples without the ability. Without thinking, I clicked on the ad and it took me to another website with more pictures of couples and babies—surrogacynext.com.
When I read the first paragraph on the website, something inside me shifted.
Just like that, everything changed.
That single pop-up ad led me to discovering my purpose, something I wanted to live for. A new obsession.
In the days that followed, I scoured the web for more information. I stumbled upon more agencies and read everything I could find on surrogacy.
I even went as far as joining forums where childless mothers hung out. I pretended I was one of them, commenting on endless threads and creating some of my own.
A month later, I made the decision that would change my life forever. I would become a surrogate. Therapy could not help me heal the pain, but maybe giving life to a human being would.
The wounds would not completely heal. How could they? They were too deep, but maybe they would stop hurting so much.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t as easy as I thought it would be.
Signing up with agencies was out of the question. One of the requirements was that the applicant should have had at least one healthy pregnancy. I had never been pregnant. I didn’t qualify.
But my obsession would not release me. There had to be another way.
I came up with another strategy, which involved stalking desperate, childless mothers online after getting their social media handles from the forums. I studied them and their lives, learning everything I could about them, offering words of support when they openly shared their pain.
I soon became friends with one of them—Marcia Thorpe. We wrote back and forth and even ended up speaking on the phone.
Marcia and her husband, Travis, had the perfect life. The only thing missing was a baby. During our frequent conversations, I listened as she cried about the babies she’d lost in the past. She revealed that she had asked for the help from several surrogacy agencies, but they had not been able to find someone they connected with. I understood. Asking someone to have a baby for you is a personal thing. That was why Rachel asked me to do it for her, instead of a stranger.
I decided Marcia would be the one to receive my gift.
I had done my research online and had a file on her and her husband, who, unlike her, didn’t come from a rich family. In fact, he grew up in a trailer park in Fort Lauderdale and made a name for himself as a self-taught photographer.
Three months after we connected, I drove to Wellice, pretending to be passing through town. I ended up staying a few days in a cheap local hotel. The lie I fed Marcia was that my car was broken. I just needed more time with her to connect on a personal level.
Our meeting went better than I could have hoped for. We were like old friends seeing each other again. In a matter of hours, we went from being online friends to real friends. Two days before I left town, Marcia invited me to their home, and I got to meet Travis.
When I returned to Miami, we stayed in touch, talking almost every day.
A month after we met in person, I made Marcia an offer. I would carry their baby, and I would do it for free.
I never thought being a surrogate would be one of the hardest things I’d ever do.
Twenty-Six
Present
I’m fully awake, staring into the darkness. I’ve only slept three hours in total, but my body and mind are well rested, like I’ve had a full night’s sleep or a really effective power nap. Aside from the usual aches and pains of pregnancy, my body is buzzing with energy.
My watch says it’s five minutes after midnight, too early to get up and start the day. I push aside the starched sheets. The moonlight flooding in through the corners of the curtain is luring me outside. The idea of taking a walk in the garden when everyone is sleeping is tempting.
Without switching on the night light, I make my way around the bed, guided by the gentle natural light. At the foot of the bed, next to the ottoman, my bare foot comes into contact with something fluffy. I jump back before realizing it’s Marigold.
She lets out a hiss of disapproval and flees to hide under the vintage desk by the window. I switch on the lights to find her eyeing me suspiciously.
“I’m sorry, Marigold,” I say. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I didn’t see you there.”
Marigold has been visiting me more and more, and she now spends most of the nights with me in the guesthouse. Marcia doesn’t mind and keeps saying having a pet around instead of being all alone is good for my mental health.
She’s right. Having Marigold around does me good. Since she moved in, I’ve had fewer panic attacks. When I find myself going to that dark place, I focus on giving her attention.
“I’m going out for some air,” I tell her. “I don
’t think it’s a good idea for you to come with me.” The last thing I need is for her to run off into the bushes to hide. Searching for a cat in the dark is not something that would appeal to me.
As I grab a knit cardigan from a chair, something falls to the floor. A newspaper Marcia brought me yesterday, thinking I might want to know what’s going on in the country. Since leaving the magazine world, I rarely buy newspapers or magazines anymore, preferring to stay in my own little bubble.
The front-page story springs out at me from the front cover. A woman with mesmerizing violet eyes draws me in with her ethereal beauty.
Her name was Lorie Dawn, a thirty-two-year-old bank clerk who was found stabbed with her own kitchen knife in her Tallahassee apartment.
Marcia already read the article to me out loud, along with another article about another woman who was found floating face down in a lake. Both cases have yet to be solved.
Marcia is obsessed with true crime stories and crime thriller novels, and she continues to lecture me about how dangerous it is out there, especially for women. It makes me worry about bringing a child into a world where so many terrible things happen, but there’s nothing to be done about it now.
Picking up the newspaper and tossing it into the trash, I suddenly wish Marigold could come outside with me. Now the idea of walking around in the dark is giving me shivers, but I can’t stand the stifling heat indoors.
It’s stupid for me to worry. Wellice is a relatively safe place, I tell myself. I throw the cardigan over my nightdress and step outside, closing the door behind me so Marigold doesn’t escape.
A short walk down the path, my ears catch a sound. It seems to be coming from Marcia’s studio. But that’s not possible. The lights are off in there.
Voices. Not inside the studio, but behind it. They grow louder as I draw nearer, but I can’t hear the words, just murmurs.
Switching off the flashlight on my phone, I stop by one of the rose bushes to listen. This isn’t right. Eavesdropping is not my style. I should get back to the guesthouse.
It could be Marcia and Travis talking. I wouldn’t want to be caught listening to their private conversation. Unlike them, I do my best to respect other people’s privacy.
Just as I turn my back, the voices grow louder. I stop in my tracks, then step closer to the studio.
I recognize Travis’s voice, but not Marcia’s.
Common sense tells me to return to the guesthouse, but curiosity gets the better of me. I hurry to the studio, my back pressed to the wall as I move along it.
My heart is beating fast now and sweat is cooling my back.
One short peek. Just to see if the woman Travis is talking to is really Marcia.
The conversation grows more intense. Conversation is not quite the right word. It sounds more like an argument.
When I get close enough to the end of one wall, I stop.
I’m about to take a look when the woman’s voice drifts toward me, and I recognize it.
I’ve never heard Beatrice angry before, but there’s no doubt in my mind the voice belongs to her.
“I know what you’re planning,” she threatens. “It’s time she knows who you really are.” The day I met her at the lake, when she told me Travis was not right for Marcia, springs to mind.
It’s no surprise that she’s not a fan of Travis. She’s probably loyal to Agnes. The only time I’ve seen Agnes smile was when she was speaking to her.
This is none of my business. I should stay out of it.
“I’m warning you, Beatrice,” Travis snaps. “You have no idea who you’re dealing with.”
I shiver at the sharpness in Travis’s tone.
“Are you threatening me, young man? You don’t want to do that, trust me.” She pauses. “One word and you’re out of this house and her life. You won’t even be allowed to use her good name. I’m tired of standing back and watching you break that girl’s heart. Marcia deserves to know the truth.”
I start to tiptoe away, but something cracks under my feet. I cringe, thinking I stepped on a twig. But no, the sharp sound came from them.
A slap.
I stumble back a few steps.
Who slapped who? There’s no time to figure it out. I’ve stayed long enough and heard too much. I hurry back to the guesthouse.
In the bedroom, I sit in the dark as Marigold rubs her body around my legs.
The conversation I listened to replays in my mind. Something is wrong, and I wish I knew what it is. Or maybe I don’t want to know.
Beatrice has always been in the background, quietly doing her job, saying little. Now she’s threatening Travis. What exactly does she have against him? What did Travis do to hurt Marcia that she can’t stand back and watch any longer?
If I’m completely honest, Travis has made me uncomfortable from the first time we met. Something about him felt off.
But the posts Marcia continues to share on social media make the world believe she and Travis have the perfect, happy marriage. That’s what drew me to them. I wanted to bring a baby into a marriage that was already intact, like Rachel and Peter’s was. Not even the lack of a child in their marriage stopped them from loving each other.
I close my eyes and moan with frustration. This is not how I wanted things to go. It’s all wrong.
I’m so stupid, or am I just naïve? While staying with Marcia and Travis, I ignored the signs, the arguments, the silences between them, the cracks in the marriage. I thought it was a phase, that it would pass and they would go back to being the perfect couple I’d envisioned them to be.
Now this.
I clench my fists in my lap. I can’t help feeling betrayed.
Social media is a platform for people to spread lies about themselves. Most of the photos featured on the perfect, color-coordinated grids and profiles are altered and meant to fool the world into believing their lies. I should have studied Marcia better, dug deeper into her picture-perfect life, asked more questions. Instead, I’d wanted so badly for this to work that I fell for the lies.
What now? Where do I go from here?
I need to know the truth. What secret is Beatrice hiding? Maybe if I pretend to really dislike Travis, she’ll let down her guard and confide in me.
But then what? How will I use the information she gives me? What can I do with only days left before the baby comes? It’s not as if I can change my mind this late in the game.
I lie on the bed, still clad in the cardigan.
Sleep is no longer on the agenda tonight. But the lights will stay off. The last person I want to see right now is Marcia.
I get out of bed again, careful not to step on Marigold, and walk to the window. From this side of the guesthouse, I’d be able to see the studio. Right now, there is no movement. No one is there, but I stare anyway and allow the moon and the bright garden lights to reveal what’s really going on around me.
About two minutes later, they emerge from behind the studio. Beatrice stomps off toward her car, and Travis walks in the direction of the main house. I watch until they both disappear from view.
I’m tempted to remain at the window, to watch Beatrice drive off, but what’s the point? There’s not much more I can find out tonight.
Gritting my teeth, I climb under the covers and pull them up to my chin.
Why did I have to go out there? If I had stayed inside, I wouldn’t have heard the conversation. I wouldn’t be desperate for answers.
Twenty-Seven
Marigold is curled up next to me instead of at the end of the bed, where she fell asleep last night. She’s in such a tight ball that I can’t even see her face.
When I shift in bed, she stirs and hops off to stand in the bedroom doorway. I left the door open last night, so she didn’t feel trapped and could roam around the house if she liked.
“Meow!”
I yawn and stretch. “Good morning to you too,” I say. “Give me a moment to brush my teeth, and I’ll get you your breakfast, okay?”
&nbs
p; Another meow, and she disappears into the hallway. I bet she wishes she had the skill to make her own breakfast, since I’m not moving fast enough for her.
In the bathroom, I’m reaching for my toothbrush when I remember the conversation last night between Travis and Beatrice. Before I finally fell asleep, it had played in my mind for hours. Too many questions and no answers.
Why were they arguing?
Travis threatened Beatrice. I’m nervous about seeing him again today. He sounded dangerous, and I’m not even sure who had slapped who. Maybe it didn’t even happen, and I imagined it. After last night, I’ll never look at him the same way. If he really did hit Beatrice, any respect I had for him will be wiped away.
I brush my teeth and force myself not to think about the conversation, at least for now.
Once I’ve fed Marigold, I get ready to head out. I need to speak to Clayton. He might help me make sense of what happened or decide what to do with this new information.
I had gone to bed thinking I’d approach Beatrice when she came to clean out the cat litter box, but then I would have to admit that I was eavesdropping on a conversation that didn’t concern me. She will probably refuse to speak to me, anyway. It’s not as if we’ve spoken much since I arrived.
One of the main questions nagging at me is why now? Why would Beatrice bring out accusations against Travis now? The bitterness in her voice signified it was something she had struggled with for a while.
I take a shower and sneak out of the guesthouse.
For the first time since I moved in with the Thorpes, the curtains and shutters of the main house are closed.
It’s my lucky day. No one is watching.
After the kind of night Travis had, I won’t be surprised if he’s still asleep. But when I reach the driveway, I only find my car standing there. Marcia and Travis are not home.
Strange for them to leave without a word to me, and without their daily check-up on the baby.