by Emerson Rose
“So nice to meet you, Lourdes. Such a beautiful name.” Brittney stands to shake my hand and returns to her seat, closing her laptop and giving me all of her attention.
“Thank you. It’s nice to meet you too.”
“So you’re interested in some information. May I ask what made you consider being a surrogate?”
This is where I hesitate. I read online that it’s not a good idea to go into this for the money, but that’s what I’m ultimately doing it for, so should I make myself look good and lie, or tell the truth and risk being turned away? I’m not a liar.
“I’m going to be very honest here. I’m a single mother of a two-year-old son, and I need money to pay for my second year at Berkeley. I know that’s not what you want to hear, but I need to be straightforward with you.”
“I admire your honesty, Lourdes. Really, I do. Generally, we do shy away from women who are just out to get paid, but in your case, I’d like to know more about your goals and your education. What is it that you’re going to school for?”
Thank God she’s willing to hear me out.
“I’m going to be a lawyer. It’s always been my dream, but it was reinforced when a drunk driver killed my son’s father in a hit and run before he was born, and he wasn’t convicted.”
Her eyes widen and she gasps.
“I’m so sorry. Wow, that’s quite a motivating factor in pursuing your education, isn’t it?”
Before I can answer, her eyes narrow and she points a finger at her laptop.
“Wait. I remember hearing about that case a few years ago. It happened on graduation day, right?”
“Yes, that was him.” There aren’t many who haven’t heard Terrell’s story. It was international news.
“Unbelievable,” she mutters, looking down at her desk. When she’s recovered from the shock of my past, she returns her attention to me.
“You’ve been thorough a lot. Do you think surrogacy is the best option for your situation? It’s an emotional process. It’s not as easy as some people might think.”
“Losing Terrell made me stronger, not weaker, and being a surrogate is my only option right now other than taking a year or two off to earn the money to pay for school. I want to be a lawyer so I can change people’s lives and make sure no one ever goes through what I went through. I see surrogacy the same way. I want to change someone’s life for the better. If I can give someone the same joy and fulfillment that I get from being a parent and make a better future for my son at the same time, I don’t see a problem.” I’m surprised by my own words. I came into this meeting with reservations, but when confronted with the reality of it all, I know in my heart it’s the right thing to do.
Brittney is quiet while she absorbs my explanation, and then she slides a folder across the desk toward me.
“I think you’re a good fit. This is everything you will need to know to get started. You’ll find an application and forms for both a psychiatric evaluation and a complete physical with bloodwork. If you don’t have a lawyer, you’ll need one. There is a list in the folder, as well as the escrow service we recommend. You will have a million questions, but just try to take it one step at a time, beginning with the application. The agency will be looking at any drug history, family medical conditions, psychiatric history, criminal records, and even your BMI. It’s very thorough.”
I lay my hand on the folder and hesitate for a moment. This is it. No more walking the fence. I’m either all in or all out. I slide the folder across the desk. All in.
Chapter 9
Liam
The track my buddy in Amsterdam sent me today is so smooth and addictive. I can’t believe he’s letting me use it in a mix. Standing behind the decks in my nightclub, I bob my head up and down as I slowly introduce a sporadic heavy beat to the soft melody. I wish I could stay up here forever, high above the dance floor between the powerful speakers, where I have the power to control people’s mood and energy. But most importantly, I have the power to blast the music so fucking loud that I can’t hear a damn thing, including Amira’s voice telling me we have an appointment with a surrogacy agency this afternoon.
This shit is insane. It’s the worst idea I’ve ever heard of, but I don’t have much of a choice when her billionaire father is standing in the sidelines threatening to ruin everything I’ve worked for since I left home when I was fifteen years old. I actually called him two days ago. I’ve never spoken to the man directly, but this situation warranted more than a simple email or speaking to him through his security people and secretaries.
He didn’t even try to hide his motives. He told me straight up he wants to cut Amira from his will as punishment for being insolent and insubordinate. He said that he likes watching her squirm, and if she would just submit to his demands, he would give her everything. He wants her to grovel and beg for her inheritance. He wants her to stop drinking and partying and go to college. He also wants her to move home and marry a proper upper-class Nigerian man, which means a divorce from me.
This was information I did not know about, and it made me perk up and listen closely. He also made it a point to remind me that if he cuts her off, she’s going to go after me to secure her future financially, and with no prenuptial agreement, she could wipe me out.
Mr. Oni knows his daughter is stubborn and loves her party life. This is why he came up with the baby idea. If she believes she is strapped with a child, she will be more apt to settle down and behave. This is what he thinks, but I’m not so sure. Mr. Oni says if I can get her pregnant, he will allow the divorce and he will do everything in his power to keep Amira from taking me to the bank. He just wants her home where he can control her and shove a boring, dull life down her throat. He wants people to think he cured her of her crazy ways and made a perfect, subordinate woman out of her. The only part of this that I don’t like is allowing Amira to take my child to Nigeria. I don’t want any kid of mine near any of those people. When I told him I want to keep my baby, he was thrilled. He said he doesn’t want a half-breed baby running around his palace anyway. His exact words were, “Just get her pregnant and scared, and I’ll take care of the rest.”
My own dad was a loathsome military fucker who thought it was fine to take out his aggressions on my mom when he came home from a deployment with PTSD. I want so much more for my own children. That’s why I gave up on having them. I don’t have an abusive bone in my body, but my lifestyle isn’t conducive to having kids . . . but it looks like I’m going to have at least one.
Mom left him when I was ten and worked minimum wage jobs trying to support me. She did her best, but when I was old enough, I freed her of the burden. I floated from one friend’s house to another for years while making a name for myself. I wasn’t old enough to get into clubs, but I was fucking adorable with my dimples and All-American quarterback looks, and the club owners knew the crowds loved my turntablism. The floors were always packed with people when I was in the booth, and I worked for free. All I asked for was time in the club to work on my mixes when they were closed. One club owner hooked me up with a well-known professional who took me under his wing and let me tour with him for a year, and that was when DJ Freedom was born. After a few years on the road, I opened a club named FICTION so that I would have a place to work and stay in contact with my fans when I wasn’t touring. FICTION is more of a home to me than my house now that I share it with Amira. She likes to remind me lately of my famous closing time quote, “You can’t live in FICTION. Nothing there is real.”
Yeah, well, I like it here where nothing’s real. It’s a hell of a lot better than the real world with her.
Now my life is about to change some more. When I jack off into a cup, I’ll be agreeing to Oni’s plan to ruin Amira’s life just like she ruined mine. Karma’s a bitch. Bringing an innocent kid into the world under these pretenses feels so fucking wrong, but I don’t see any other way out.
I’m having a baby, unless . . . what if it doesn’t work? What if they mix our shit toget
her and it won’t make a baby? What if they make babies and they don’t live? What if we end up with two or three?
Fuck! I rip the headphones off my head and throw them over the railing onto the empty dance floor below, where they explode into hundreds of pieces.
I bet Amira hasn’t even considered that. She can’t see past her trust fund and her inheritance to begin to understand the magnitude of this situation.
I glance down at my watch. Shit, I’m going to be late if I don’t leave now. I hate being interrupted when I work, especially when something is coming together so well. I swear, Amira made the appointment at the most inconvenient time for me on purpose. I’d bet every penny I earned on my last tour that she scheduled this appointment right after her workout and before her manicure.
Outside, under the perfect California sun, I sling my leg over the seat of my Harley and take a deep breath. I hate being fucking manipulated, and I hate what my life has become. If I can just get past all this shit with Amira and end up with a kid of my own, I might be able to find some peace.
I’m taking my bike today to piss Amira off. I can’t wait to see her spaz when I pull up on my death trap, as she calls it. Not real appropriate for a baby, is it, bitch? I need to develop a better attitude.
Inside the waiting room of Joyful Connections, I smile to myself. Mission accomplished. Amira saw me pull up, and she’s fuming about the bike. I couldn’t be happier. I hope it throws her off her game. Maybe they’ll see thorough her fake mommy act and refuse to work with us? Nah, she’s a pro. She can turn that shit on and off like a light switch. I’m doomed. I don’t know why she doesn’t just save us the money and the trouble and let me fuck her. I’m sure I could put a baby in her in no time, but no … she can’t ruin her perfect body.
The agency is decorated to promote a calm, soothing atmosphere with classic furniture, a sandstone color palate and grey-blue accents. I’ve always been into meditation and energy, so I notice shit like that. Hell, I had the whole house repainted when I came home and saw the way Amira had redecorated. She had the place lit up with reds and yellows that gave me a headache. I swear, the calm colors brought Amira’s energy down from a tightly wound coil to a more relaxed curl.
“It’s so good to see you, Mr. and Mrs. Wild. Please come right this way.”
Amira’s angry, contorted expression changes like a chameleon into a bright, friendly smile as she turns to face the cute red-head greeting us.
“Oh yes, it’s lovely to finally meet you in person, Britney!” Amira says.
Goddamn, she’s so fake.
When we sit down with the redhead, I’m surprised to hear that Amira has submitted a lot of our requests and requirements for the surrogate mother, as well as much of the legal paperwork.
I’m also surprised to realize that Britney is a big DJ Freedom fan, and that’s killing Amira.
It’s been forty-five glorious minutes of discussion and light flirting, and I swear Amira is about to crack when Britney’s phone rings, saving her the embarrassment.
Britney is all smiles when she hangs up the phone. I look at Amira to check on the bulging artery in her neck. It’s better now, but five minutes ago, I was sure it was going to explode with the next beat of her cold, black heart
“I’m so glad you two are still here. I’ve been waiting on a specific surrogate’s paperwork to be finalized. I think she might be a perfect match for you two. That was her lawyer on the phone. Everything is a go on her end, so I’ll give her your profile and see what she thinks. If she’s open to it, you may be able to meet her as soon as this week!”
“Wow, so you already have somebody?” I say.
I was hoping this would take a little longer—I don’t know why. That would only be prolonging the inevitable. Now, we might be meeting with a potential mother before the week is out.
“Yes, she’s everything you’ve asked for: African American, healthy, educated, she’s already been through a pregnancy with no complications, and she lives right here in LA so you wouldn’t have to travel at all.”
“Cool. Ok, so call us when she says yes,” Amira says, getting up to leave.
She’s so full of herself, assuming the surrogate will choose us without a second thought. Britney looks surprised. This is the first time that Amira has come close to showing her true colors. She’d better watch it.
“If she chooses you, I’ll be sure to call.” Poor Britney looks confused and a little irritated. She ain’t seen nothing yet.
Amira slides her purse into the crook of her arm and calls over her shoulder as she turns to leave.
“I’m sure you’ll make it happen. We’re paying you enough.”
Now Britney’s mouth is hanging open, and I’m left to apologize for my smart-ass wife.
“Sorry. She’s a little abrupt sometimes. Just call me if the surrogate is interested. You have my number, right?”
She shakes herself from the moment of surprise and nods her head.
“Oh yes. Yes, I have it right here. So you’d like me to call you instead of Mrs. Wild?”
Her voice is hopeful. Ten minutes ago, I would have taken that hope as a compliment or flirting, but after Amira’s exit just now, it’s probably fear.
“Sure, yeah. That’s probably best.”
I shake her delicate hand and follow my lovely wife out to the parking lot.
Chapter 10
Lourdes
“Come on, baby. We don’t want to make Auntie Rachel wait for us.”
Toby has one shoe on and one shoe . . . somewhere. I don’t even know where. He’s standing in front of the coffee table playing with his Hot Wheel cars, lining them up in one hell of a traffic jam.
Shit. I hate running behind, and having a dawdling toddler doesn’t help. If I hadn’t overslept, we would have been in the car twenty minutes ago. Rachel is taking the kids to Disney on Ice this afternoon while I have conference calls with two prospective couples from Joyful Connections. I hardly slept last night worrying about what kind of questions to ask. Picking people to give a baby to isn’t something you learn in a class or online. It’s work for the heart, and I can’t imagine doing it over the phone. The agency has a method, I guess, and these phone calls are the first step.
I went through dozens of profiles until my head hurt. I couldn’t remember which couple had a barn full of horses and which couple owned a restaurant. Before I fell asleep, one couple stood out though. I never got the chance to read their stats before I drifted off, but the photograph on the first page had me thinking things I shouldn’t be thinking about Mr. Wild, things Mrs. Wild surely wouldn’t appreciate.
I didn’t choose Mr. and Mrs. Wild.
I have two conference calls today, one with a couple in Malibu—the husband is an anesthesiologist and his wife was an executive who wants to have a baby and be a stay at home mommy. The other couple owns software design companies here in LA. They’ve been trying to have a baby for ten years with no luck. They both seemed perfect on paper, but anyone can write pretty words and a heartbreaking story. I need to get to know these people well before there’s any baby making involved.
“Where’s your other shoe, Toby?” He looks up at me and shrugs his little shoulders, and I drop to my knees to look under the couch.
I grab a back scratcher from the coffee table and pull his red sneaker out from behind a dinosaur action figure.
“Got it!”
I straighten up and watch him zoom his cars around while I shove it on his foot and tie the laces.
“We go?” He asks.
I pat him on his legs with both of my hands.
“Yep, we go.”
“You nervous?” Rachel asks.
I run my fingers along my necklace with one hand and wrap my other arm around my waist.
“Never mind,” she says, waving her finger at my throat.
“What?”
“You always do that when you’re nervous.”
I drop the chain and wrap that arm around my waist too.
“I guess I do, huh?”
“Yep. It’s going to be fine. Do you have a list of questions?”
I tap the side of my head.
“All up here.”
She stops packing the bag of snacks and places her hands on her hips.
“Lourdes! You didn’t write anything down? I don’t know how you do that.”
“I work better under pressure, Sis.” I step behind a dining room chair and place my hands on the back of it to keep them occupied. She’s really rattling my nerves.
“Yeah, well I sure hope so. This isn’t a math test. It’s some kid’s future. Sorry. I’m making this worse, aren’t I?” she says, eyeing my fingers that are white-knuckling her dining room chair.
A thin layer of perspiration is forming on my forehead as I grip the chair harder.
“Yeah, a little.”
“Ok, shutting up.” She returns to packing her bag.
“Good luck. We will be home in a couple of hours. Make yourself at home, as always. Love you.”
“Love you too.” I give her a quick peck on the cheek and ruffle Toby’s wild hair as he runs for the door with Ivy.
I pull out the chair and sit down at the table, placing my hands palms-down for a second to pull my shit together and organize the questions in my mind. My bag full of profiles from Joyful Connections is on the table next to me. I spread them out to look them over one more time. I have twenty minutes before I have to make the first call.
My eyes are automatically drawn to Mr. Wild—the Wilds, whatever. God, there is something about that man’s eyes that suck me in and leave me breathless. I have purposely avoided looking at anything other than the cover photograph. I don’t want to know about his wonderful life with his beautiful wife in their lovely California home. I don’t want to know about the love and generosity they want to give a child or their hopes and dreams for their future together, all snug as bugs in a rug.