“Can you please excuse us?” I ask, interrupting Grace.
“Of course,” she says, looking wounded. “I should check up on security anyway. We have a . . . a . . . situation brewing on another floor. . . .”
I wait until she’s in the hall before asking, “Are you okay?”
He backs himself into the wheelchair, bends forward at the waist, and presses his face into his hands. I’ve never seen him in such a state of quiet despair.
“What’s wrong?”
“The babies,” he says.
“What about the babies?”
He looks up at me miserably.
“I never thought about them,” he says, “as people.”
I ease myself out of the bed to console him. I wobble when my feet first touch the floor and have to brace myself on the bed as I inch my way to the wheelchair that Grace brought for me, not him. I’m surprised not to feel much discomfort at all, considering I was cut open just a few hours ago. My belly is more sore than painful, remarkably similar to how I feel if I’ve spent hours bending and twisting at the waist to pick wild strawberries. I suppose this makes sense. The less pain I feel, the more willing I’ll be to get pregnant again. As if that’s all there is to it.
“Jondoe,” I say. “What’s this about?”
He looks up to see that I’m out of bed and immediately springs out of the wheelchair. “You shouldn’t be on your feet right now! You need to recover!”
“I’m fine . . .”
He’s not hearing it. He insists on pulling me into the wheelchair. If he’s being overprotective, it’s only because he cares. And he cares not because I’m a potential vessel for future offspring, but because I’m me.
He hops up on the edge of the hospital bed.
“The babies,” he repeats.
I nod to encourage him to continue.
“They’re all, like, a part of me,” he says, “And I’m a part of them. Only I’m not. Because they’re all out there living their lives and I have nothing to do with them. Like, any bundle in a stroller could be mine, only the baby isn’t mine. He or she was bought by someone else. That baby could grow up to be president someday. Or that baby could grow up to be a serial killer. . . .”
“Don’t say that!”
“It’s true, Harmony! These babies can grow up to do or be anything—good, bad, or boring—but none of them would be here if it weren’t for me. That’s, like, a lot of responsibility, only without any of the responsibility!”
“You never thought about this before?”
“I was encouraged to think about everything but that,” he says.
“And you’re not allowed to have contact with any of those babies to see how they turned out?”
He shakes his head. “No. My agency tracks all deliveries with my DNA, keeping an eye on Future Up-and-Comers. But I’ve never actually seen any of them.”
“You mean after they’ve been placed with their new parents?”
“I mean ever,” he says. “And up until now, I was like”—he pantomimes wiping his brow—“Whew! What a relief. Who needs that hassle? But I don’t know . . .” He scratches his light beard, the real one, each hair a fine golden thread.
“What are you saying?” I ask. “That you want to be . . . a father?”
He pauses midscratch.
“I’ve already been a father many times over,” Jondoe says. “But until I met you, I’ve never gave a single thought about being a dad.”
melody
MY HEAD IS THROBBING, HEAVY.
“Where am I?”
“You’re at the Emergency Birthcenter.”
It’s my mother’s voice, but I can’t quite focus on the visuals just yet.
When she comes fully into view, I see her pressing her head into my father’s shoulder. Both Ash and Ty sniffling and blinking away tears. I have never seen either of them cry before. Am I hallucinating? I rub my throbbing temple. I feel like I’m wearing a concussion ice pack, but I’m not. I can’t remember what happened. Did I miscalculate my aerodynamic trajectory and whack my head on the floor? I thought for sure my belly would have cushioned my fall. . . .
My belly.
I grab my skinny midsection.
My Billion Dollar Belly is gone!
I lift up my shirt and rub my hands all over my pale, stretch-mark-free tummy. It’s a little softer than it was before the scam, but I guess that’s to be expected when I haven’t done so much as a single crunch in eight and a half months. The strange thing is, even though I see that the B$B is gone, I can still feel every ounce of those extra forty pounds. I don’t feel any lighter now than I did before its removal.
“How?” I’m overwhelmed by questions. “When?”
“We brought you back here because we thought you would misdeliver after you . . .” Ash pinches her lips together, inhales. “After you did what you did.”
“We thought you had gone crazy and had tried to t—” Not even Ty can say the word; he has to spell it out. “T-E-R-M-I-N-A-T-E.”
They tell me one of the bodyguards broke my fall and immediately injected me with a heavy-duty sedative.
“If he wasn’t there to catch you . . .” Ash begins.
“It’s a miracle you didn’t break every tooth in your mouth,” Ash says. “All those years of orthodontics. . . .”
I run my tongue along my teeth. Yeah, they’re all there. The rightness of my brain, however, will be more difficult to confirm, if only because it was in a highly questionable state well before I tried to belly flop onto the floor.
“So . . . how did this”—I point to my flat stomach—“happen?”
And then Ash and Ty go on to tell me what went down during my blackout.
I was rushed to the Emergency Birthcenter, where a team of medical professionals got all up in my lady parts and discovered the truth for themselves: I was mocked up. And also: I am a virgin.
“They don’t see too many unbroken hymens these days,” Ash jokes halfheartedly.
Heh. I really am the dying breed of a dying breed.
Faced with this indisputable physical evidence, my parents could only assume that everything else I had told them was also true. They told the doctors what I had said about the removal serum, which was retrieved from the detention center as quickly as possible.
The contents of that bottle were applied to the Billion Dollar Belly.
And then my parents and the Birthcenter staff watched—in fascination and revulsion—as my thirty-five-week-old twins simply . . . faded . . . away. . . .
“We always knew you’d rebel,” Ty says. “We even factored your inevitable rebellion into our calculations and made the appropriate deductions from your total worth. But we always figured that you’d maybe rebel by getting a tattoo or chopping off all your hair.”
“Like Harmony!” Ash chimes in.
“Right. Like Harmony,” Ty says.
“Where is Harmony?” I ask. “Is she still here?”
Both parents ignore me. “Anyway, we figured the very worst you would do is engage in nonprocreative sexual exploration with that friend of yours. Zen.”
“Zen and I never did,” I add quickly. “Where is he? And Harmony?”
“I never thought I’d say this, but maybe you should have,” Ash says, still avoiding my questions. “Maybe a little harmless everythingbutting would have taken the edge off and you wouldn’t be in the predicament you’re in right now.”
My parents are beyond unbelievable. They reminded me every single day since I was fourteen years old that I had a seven-figure wager riding on my virginity. And now I’m the one to blame for my blinky attitude about getting physical?
“Where is Zen right now?” I repeat, getting more desperate by the second. “And Harmony?”
Ash and Ty reply with shrugs. Their indifference about my best friend’s and sister’s whereabouts would be infuriating if it weren’t so totally predictable.
“We should have factored in that for someone as exceptional as you are, your youthfu
l rebellion would be equally off the charts,” Ash says, retaining control over the direction of the conversation. “And we must say, Melody, this scam of yours will go down in history as one of the scammiest ever.”
When Ash says it like that, it’s almost like she’s proud of me.
“So it’s our fault. All of this,” Ty says. “Your fragile young mind couldn’t withstand all the pressure we put on you to maximize your full potential as a Surrogette. We should have seen it coming and we should have had emergency protocols in place to stop it.”
“You can bet that we’ve already started developing a new BestEgg seminar on this very subject,” Ash says.
And that’s when I delete myself from the conversation.
This is the closest my parents will get to a sincere apology. They’ve run my life like a corporation because—for whatever peculiar combination of nature and nurture made them the way they are—that’s the only way they knew how. I have to believe that they did what they did because they loved me, and truly believed their way was the best way for me to fulfill my potential.
“Everyone loves a back-from-rock-bottom redemption story.”
“It humanizes you.”
“You can rehabilitate your damaged brand.”
I could get upset that this experience hasn’t brought us to a whole new level of compassion and understanding. But Ash and Ty are who they are. They aren’t going to change now.
Fortunately for me, I’m still evolving into the person I’m supposed to be. And though they don’t know it yet, and may not come to accept it, I’m done living by their protocols or anyone else’s.
I’m the only one who will take credit for my successes.
And I’m the only one who will take the blame for my mistakes.
From now on, I live for me.
harmony
OH MY GRACE. JONDOE DID NOT JUST SAY WHAT I HEARD HIM SAY.
“I really think I—I mean, we, can do this, Harmony,” Jondoe says.
“Do what exactly?”
“Be a family, Harmony.” He sits up straighter. “I’m ready to man up.”
“Wait! Are you doing this for me? Because you think that’s what I want?”
Jondoe looks at me quizzically. “Isn’t that what you want?”
“No!” I protest. “That’s not what I want at all!”
“Easy,” Jondoe warns, placing both hands on my shoulders. “You were just glued back together a few hours ago. You don’t want to burst open.”
That’s exactly how I feel right now. Like I’m bursting wide open! All the secrets and fears and questions I’ve swallowed, I’ve choked, I’ve stuffed down deep inside me for all these years are finally being released in one rapturous eruption of truth.
“I thought she would have come for them by now,” I confess.
“Who?” Jondoe asks, still holding on to me. “Your sister?”
“No,” I reply. “My mother.”
melody
MY PARENTS ARE STILL TOO BUSY ORCHESTRATING MY COMEBACK to tell me anything about Harmony and Zen when the door opens. Lib overeagerly shoulders his way past the security guards . . . with the Jaydens trailing closely behind.
I don’t even have time to brace myself before Lib goes full-volume hissy pissy on me.
“HOW COULD YOU DO THIS TO ME?”
My parents immediately and literally leap to my defense.
“Don’t yell at our daughter!” Ty says, squaring his shoulders. “This was your business deal gone bad!”
Ash thrusts a formidable finger in Lib’s face. You’ve never seen anyone point a finger like my mother.
“Just because you couldn’t manage your own transactions!”
Lib turns purple. “This isn’t just about business!”
And then he surprises all of us by collapsing into the nearest chair. My parents and I look at him helplessly, then at each other, then at the Jaydens.
Awkward.
I’ve never seen my parents so utterly stripped of hubris. It makes me like the Jaydens even more than I did when I first met them.
“We’d like to talk to your daughter alone,” says the Mrs. “If you don’t mind. . . .”
My parents can’t resist the plaintive sadness in her voice. They are also looking for any excuse to get the hell out of this room.
“Of course,” Ty says.
“If it’s fine with Melody,” Ash says.
I nod that it’s okay.
The Birthcenter security team has crowded into the room to medicate Lib and take him elsewhere. My parents follow behind them, looking over their shoulders to make sure I’m strong enough to face what I’ve got coming to me. Though they are not the introspective types at all, they’re probably second-guessing themselves. Did we hire the right positive energist to train Melody for such an emotionally fraught confrontation? They’ll probably spend the rest of their careers trying to pinpoint the moment my file went wrong—the single flaw that caused the whole system to break down.
They may never get it: I’m not a file. I’m flawed. I’m human. My mistakes just happen to be more epically unforgivable than others.
The Mrs. looks pale and drawn, like she’s aged about a decade overnight. As she approaches me, I can’t help but notice that her eyes are fixated on my flattened belly.
“It’s true, then?” she says in a quavering voice. “They weren’t real? There aren’t any babies?”
I nod solemnly, unable to speak. Her eyes skitter over my face, then settle on her husband, who is resting his hands on her waist, as if he’s physically propping her up.
“We should never have listened to Lib.” She says it like she means it. “We knew in our hearts this was wrong.”
“He was just doing his job, you know, to talk me up,” I say. “If he thought for one second that I would renegg, he would have encouraged you to go with another girl. He had no idea that I was capable of something like this.”
How could he? When I didn’t know it about myself?
“It’s doubtful,” the Mrs. says. “You look almost exactly like I did when I was your age. Lib had traveled all over the world and had never in all his years in the business seen anything like it. A ‘flawless replication’ he’d say.”
He was for seriously wrong about the “flawless” part, wasn’t he?
“He told us that you were a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for us. You know Lib, he knows how to sell. It’s what he does. And don’t get us wrong, we desperately wanted the babies—I’ve always dreamed of being a mother—but not like this.” She slowly closes her eyes. “Not like this,” she repeats softly, almost to herself.
“Lib was more determined to make this deal happen with you and Jondoe than we ever were,” the Mr. says, speaking up for the first time.
“Desperate,” the Mrs. says.
“Desperate how?” I ask.
Why would my deal mean any more to him than the hundreds of other Conception Contracts he’s negotiated? Lib always prided himself on his impartiality.
“He was desperate to help his sister.”
That fall must have affected my hearing.
“His what?”
“Lib is my brother.”
I feel like I’ve belly flopped onto the floor for the second time today. We both risked everything to help our sisters. Who would have thought that Lib and I had so much in common after all?
“He could have lost his RePro Rep license for negotiating a deal for a blood relative.”
“Why?” I know embarrassingly little about the Surrogetting laws.
“It’s a loophole that has allowed many gays like him to come as close to fulfilling their own parental dreams as they possibly can under the Heteronormative Parenting Protocols.”
“Did Lib want to be a dad?” I ask.
The Mr. and Mrs. both laugh. “Oh no. Uncle is about as much as he can handle. But he still had to rewrite the files to remove any familial connection between us. And that’s why he forbade us from having any facespace intera
ctions until after you delivered. . . .”
That sort of explains why he went psycho at the perfume launch party last night. He didn’t want there to be any reason for the deal to go awry. And with all the media in attendance, all it would have taken is one especially curious MiNetter to start investigating our files and start stirring up the truth.
“Lib was the one who was being so choosy about the Sperm,” the Mr. explains. “It’s in his Eurosnobby nature to do so.”
The Mrs. shoots the Mr. a look. I get the impression that this is an old argument. I’ll bet Mr. was offended that someone of his average looks and abundant ear hair was not deemed good enough for Lib’s sister.
“Lib wanted what he thought was best for us,” the Mrs. says in defense of her brother. “Though truthfully, we would have been happy with any baby from any country, as long as she—”
“Or he!” chimes in the Mr.
“Or he, was healthy.”
Her eyes flit down to my stomach once more. I nervously pull at the sheets.
“Well,” I say with false cheer, “everyone hates me right now and loves and sympathizes with you. I bet Lib is fielding offers from triple-platinum Surrogettes from all over the world. You’ll find someone even more up-market than I am.”
The Mr. and Mrs. are both shaking their heads vigorously.
“That’s out of the question,” the Mr. says.
“Call us grampy and analog, but we were never comfortable with this arrangement,” says the Mrs. “The idea of paying you to make a . . .”
“A couture conception!” the Mr. says mockingly. “That’s what Lib always called it.”
“But Lib made it seem like it was so normal . . .” the Mrs. says, losing, then regaining her focus. “He made it sound like a couple with our resources and connections would be foolish not to go for the best and the brightest baby we could afford. And we bought into it.”
“In every meaning of the word,” the Mr. adds with an unmistakably melancholic air.
“But this whole mess has only reinforced what we knew was wrong in our hearts all along.”
“Why are you being so nice to me?” I ask. “Because if I were you, I would hate me.”
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