4
Suzette was on call, but there wasn’t any reason she couldn’t get a pedicure at Perfection Nails from Lenny, the most attractive pedicurist in Houston. Meg texted that she was absolutely in, and the two met at the minimart attached to Perfection Nails, where Suzette grabbed a Twix bar and Meg, a bottle of sauvignon blanc. “Don’t judge,” said Meg, pulling a coffee mug and wine opener from her purse.
“I would never,” said Suzette. Though she was mercilessly critical of herself, Suzette had a live-and-let-live philosophy, shared with Hyland, that helped them maintain their wide circle of friends. The previous weekend, for example, they’d watched lawn tennis at the River Oaks Country Club with Suzette’s chief resident and his charming socialite wife, followed by the opening party for a friend of Hyland’s who had spent two years lurking around the Bronx, photographing young addicts underneath bridges and in dimly lit shooting galleries. On the way home from the exhibition, where cheap wine and pretzels had been served, they stopped in to have a late dinner with Hyland’s sake supplier, Hiro, and Ralph, the musicology graduate student for whom Hiro had recently left his Japanese wife.
Perfection Nails was packed, as always. Everyone from sorority girls to trophy wives flocked to the strip mall salon off Westheimer to have their feet massaged by Lenny and his colleagues. Sure, Perfection Nails charged twice as much as every other salon, but each pedicure included a twenty-minute foot rub. As Meg said once, after Lenny had run his thumbs along her insoles, “Oh my sweet Lord. It’s better than sex.”
Meg had three children, whose car seats lined the jump seat of her pickup truck. She silk-screened T-shirts with Audubonish images of her own design, selling them every weekend at the farmers’ market. She and Suzette had known each other since meeting at a matinee of Antonioni’s The Passenger a decade before. They were the only two in the theater: Meg was very pregnant and bored, and Suzette was taking a rare afternoon to herself in the midst of her general surgery residency.
“I love Jack Nicholson,” Meg had whispered, and Suzette had nodded her agreement.
“I love Junior Mints,” Suzette had said, passing the open box.
“I love you for sharing your Junior Mints,” Meg had said.
Now, Meg settled her feet into a hot, bubbling whirlpool and said, “OK, give me the update. Is anyone pregnant with your husband’s sperm?”
“Nope, not yet,” said Suzette. She opened her candy bar, then fiddled with the massage chair settings, leaning back into the robotic kneading. “Can I be honest?” she said.
“Suzette, pick a color,” said Lenny.
“Oh, you choose,” said Suzette. “Something happy.” Her chair began to buzz and shake. “Um, Lenny?” she said. He stood up, wrested the control pad from her fingers, and switched the massage to a gentler setting.
“Don’t mess with it,” said Lenny. He ran his fingers through his expertly styled hair, looking over the row of polishes. “I think cinnamon,” he decided.
“Perfect,” said Suzette.
“You can be honest,” said Meg. “It’s me.”
Suzette smiled. She felt lucky, after a childhood of secrets, to have a friend who was with her no matter what. Meg had held her the first time Suzette had lost a patient. Meg had made her truffled popcorn and a martini when Suzette had arrived at her house after she and Hyland had fought viciously about his emails with an old flame. On Suzette’s birthday every year, a day marked not just by time passing but by memories of her mother, Meg always took her out to a simple, comforting lunch and gave her flowers. She told Suzette how much she treasured their friendship—how much it meant to Meg to have a friend who saw her as herself, and not the harried mom she acted like 95 percent of the time. Suzette took a deep breath. “I’m not sure I want this. I’m just not sure about the baby. There, I’ve said it.”
“You do want cinnamon or you don’t want cinnamon?” said Lenny.
“Yes, Lenny, cinnamon,” said Suzette. “Thank you.”
“That’s perfectly normal,” said Meg, sipping wine from her coffee mug. She wore one of her own silk-screened T-shirts, jeans, and pink eyeglasses. “I didn’t want any of my kids. I still don’t.”
“Meg!”
“Seriously. They make my entire life worthwhile—they are literally my whole reason for being, and I love each one so much my heart could burst—and yet I wish I didn’t have them almost every day. Usually around six. When I’d really, really like to watch TV or make love…or take a nap…but instead, I have to give bubble baths and help with math homework and read books aloud that I have utterly no interest in.”
Lenny caught Suzette’s gaze and widened his eyes, smirking.
“What, Lenny?” said Meg. “Do you have kids?”
Lenny chuckled, saying, “No, no, no. No kids.”
“Smart man,” said Meg. Her toes were being handled by Bryce, also ridiculously attractive.
Suzette looked around the room, which was unremarkable but for the radiance on the faces of a dozen women. “So what are you saying—just go on and do it, even if you’re scared to death?” she said. “Even if you already have a good life?”
“Yup, that’s what I’m saying,” said Meg. “Be brave. You’re going to be fine.” She reached for a People magazine.
“You’re crazy,” said Lenny, shaking his head. “Who needs children?”
“You don’t want kids, Lenny?” said Meg. “Never ever?”
“No, never ever,” said Lenny, who told Suzette every time she visited about his latest vacation: Aspen, Las Vegas, Orlando. “I’m all set already,” said Lenny. “Why mess around?”
“Why mess around?” said Meg, nodding. She refilled her mug from the bottle on her tray table. “The man has a point,” she said.
“Nina Cortez backed out,” said Suzette. “But we’ve been matched with someone new. She’s really young. A beautiful brunette. She works at Sea-O-Rama.”
“The water park on Galveston?”
“The very one.”
Meg took this in. “What does she do there?” she asked.
“She’s an Animal Trainer in Training,” said Suzette. “I believe she works specifically with penguins. And Hyland has his heart set on her. He says she’s the one, he can tell. We’re going to meet her this weekend.”
Meg contemplated these facts in silence. She took a sip of her wine. “I don’t like it,” she said.
“Why not?”
“I just…” said Meg. “She sounds worrisome. Gorgeous, really? Can’t you hire just a normal girl, just a mediocre one?”
“The whole thing…” said Suzette, shaking her head.
“Yeah, I hear you,” said Meg.
“On the other hand, it could be wonderful.”
“It could,” said Meg. “It probably will be. I’m sorry this is so confusing.”
“You need to know your own worth,” said Lenny, who tended to make broad, inspiring proclamations. “Don’t be the change. Be the dollar.”
“I don’t understand,” said Suzette.
“Yes, Suzette, you do understand,” said Lenny. “Be the dollar.” And then he began to run his fingers around Suzette’s ankles, and she stopped talking, stopped thinking, and closed her eyes.
“I am the dollar,” she told herself.
5
And yet, and yet.
On the day of baby Bella’s discharge, Suzette stood at the doorway, watching Bella’s parents wrap her in a pink blanket, settling her into a brand-new baby car seat. “Hello,” she said, “I’m Dr. Kendall. I just wanted to introduce myself and give Bella my best wishes.”
“Oh,” said Bella’s mother, a slight woman in a long sundress. “I’m so glad we got to meet you. I’m so— Thank you. Thank you so much.”
Bella’s father strode forward. He was very young, clad in a KENT SCHOOL T-shirt, pleated shorts, and water sandals. He clasped Suzette’s hand and pumped it forcefully. “You saved our baby,” he said. “You fixed her, you gave her a good heart.”
“It wasn’t me,” said Suzette, thinking of the baby in Amarillo, who had only had a few weeks in the world.
“Would you like to hold her?” asked Bella’s mother.
Suzette shook her head, but Bella’s mother moved toward her, holding out the baby. Suzette put her hand on Bella’s chest, feeling the donor heart beating. Bella’s blue eyes were open. Suzette accepted the baby, held her to her own rib cage. She smelled the baby’s skin, and felt her wriggling, hot body.
I want this, thought Suzette. OK, yes. I want this.
Could Suzette be a mother, and a dollar?
6
The first and only time the Kendalls had been to Galveston Island, located an hour and a half from Houston, had been to visit the condominium of their friends the Schroeders at a development called Dancing Dunes, which had since gone belly-up. It had been a nice enough resort, intentionally reminiscent of Cape Cod, with white clapboard houses and rickety boardwalks leading to the beach. The developers had even gone so far as to name the streets after Massachusetts locales: P-Town Way, Woods Hole Avenue, Cataumet Lane, Falmouth Road, and (jarringly) Southie Circle.
But the only place to have dinner was Martha’s Rockin’ Vineyard, a combination snack bar/disco that was so loud and rowdy—filled with tattooed, sunburned Texans—that even Suzette, who hadn’t cooked since she was eighteen, had agreed to help make dinner at the condo, chopping peppers into dissimilar shapes with great consternation.
“Remember that night you had too much beer and got lost on the way back to the Schroeders’?” said Suzette now, as Hyland piloted the Volvo onto I-10 out of Houston.
“I do,” said Hyland. “And you guys had so many margaritas you forgot I wasn’t there and locked the condo, and when I finally found you, I couldn’t get in, and I had to sleep in the bed of Carl’s truck? And then it rained? On Buzzards Bay Way?”
“Yeesh,” said Suzette. “We were kind of a mess.” Hyland shook his head. Carl Schroeder was now the city controller.
Hyland turned on the radio, flipping until he found classical music. “Calming,” he noted.
“Remember when we smoked cigarettes?” said Suzette.
“American Spirits. That was a fun summer,” said Hyland.
“And the cans of rum-and-Coke in Costa Rica?”
“You can still have rum,” said Hyland. “That’s one of the perks of surrogacy.”
Suzette’s laugh was dry, a bit bewildered. Suddenly the whole endeavor—meeting a strange girl on Galveston Island, offering to pay her to be a surrogate mother due to Suzette’s inability to move on from her childhood, despite all assurances that her life with Hyland was secure, loving, and peaceful—the whole endeavor seemed sordid. What if she just put her fears aside and tried to get pregnant on her own? No sooner had the thought entered her mind than she saw her mother’s face, illuminated by firelight, on one of those nights when she wouldn’t use electricity, because the government could come through the wires. “No way,” said Suzette.
“What?”
She sighed. “This is hard,” she said. “It’s just hard.”
Hyland turned up the radio: Liszt. They listened to the rainstorm of notes. Suzette tried to summon the British man and his guided meditation. Just check in. How does your stomach feel? Don’t try to change it, just take note.
My stomach feels crappy, thought Suzette.
They drove. The land flattened and the gulf came into view. Suzette gazed at Texas City to her left, the bizarre pyramids of Moody Gardens to her right. It had been easier to ignore what humans did to the planet during her childhood in upstate New York, where it was clear that Mother Nature was in charge. Here, human folly was on proud display: the refineries sending up plumes of toxic smoke, the water that left a tarry residue on your skin, the pier covered with amusement park rides for those who weren’t duly amused by the sea.
The Yo Ho Ho restaurant was flanked by an enormous facsimile of a shark’s head—people could stand inside the mouth and pretend they were being eaten. “I’ve got my camera,” said Hyland playfully.
“Oh my God, no,” said Suzette. She smoothed her pants.
“Do not use the Lord’s name in vain,” said Hyland. Suzette snorted. The clinic had told them that Dorothy was religious. Both she and her mother worked at Sea-O-Rama. Dorothy was a high school graduate and planned to use the Kendalls’ money to go to college. The clinic generally advised against single women, and also against women who had not had previous children.
“So if you advise against this person, why did you send us her file?” said Suzette, exasperated.
“Your choice of surrogate is ultimately your choice,” said the clinic secretary, Margaret.
Suzette sighed. “Are there legal problems or what?” she said.
Margaret spoke slowly, obviously arranging her words with care. “Dr. Kendall, the laws regarding surrogacy are various and vary from state to state. In Texas, you are completely protected no matter what the marital status of your surrogate ends up to be, as long as she signs the Fertility Clinic of Houston documents. In my experience, all different walks of life can provide a wonderful surrogate experience.”
“Thank you, Margaret,” said Suzette, snapping shut her phone.
So there were risks. This was nothing they didn’t already know. But when Suzette looked back on it later, when she tried to remember who she and Hyland had been—two kids, really—overgrown kids, but innocent, holding hands and entering the Yo Ho Ho, smiling at each other, so full of excitement—she had to admit that they were desperate. Did they ignore the signs?
Look at them: Hyland in his seersucker pants and button-down shirt, his too-long hair, his eyes bright with hope. Suzette, wary but willing to be convinced. They are still clasping hands as the hostess, a girl in a pirate costume, leads them to a leather banquette. They sit next to each other nervously. And in she walks: a radiant young girl with curly black hair and an open face. They rise. She walks toward them. It is all there from the very start—she is fertile, unstable, beautiful.
“Hello,” the girl says. “My name is Dorrie.”
7
Suzette was already scrubbed in when Leslie appeared at the door of the operating room, her palms spread wide in distress. “Sorry, I’m sorry!” she cried. While Leslie kept a level head during even the most dire medical emergencies, she tended to lose her cool over innocuous concerns: unidentified coffee mugs, who was supposed to be whose Secret Santa, vanilla versus chocolate sheet cakes.
Suzette had slept badly the night before, finally leaving Hyland and his grinding teeth to curl up on the couch in front of the TV and watch a few episodes of Help Us, Nanny! Other people’s out-of-control lives—the shrieking children and untidy kitchens—soothed Suzette, making her feel both superior and sleepy. She admired Nanny Carolina and her smart chapeau.
Suzette scratched her forehead with her knuckle, the latex glove cool on her skin. She’d ordered an extra shot in her Starbucks Espresso Macchiato, but still felt foggy. “What is it, Leslie?” she said, her voice sharper than she’d intended.
“Hyland’s on the phone,” said Leslie, hands still waving like a showgirl’s. “He says it’s very important!”
Hyland was meeting Dorrie at the clinic for her pregnancy test; surely, he was calling with big or crushing news. Suzette hesitated, trying to ignore an excitement that felt more like terror than elation. From the OR, the pulse oximeter continued its steady song.
Suzette was scheduled to repair a ventricular septal defect in a nine-month-old boy named Camillo. Camillo had brown curls and a gummy smile. He was already sedated, the oxygen mask strapped over his face, an IV tube snaking across his wrist.
“Suzette?” said Brendan, the anesthesiologist. “We’re ready for you now.” Suzette didn’t appreciate his tone.
“I’ll be right there,” she snapped. Over his mask, Brendan’s eyes narrowed. Suzette had the highest surgery success rate at the hospital: she didn’t always have to be pleasant. She didn’t ever
have to be pleasant. Though she usually was, or tried to be—Suzette cared deeply for her patients. She connected better with babies than with adults, especially now, now that each baby was a reminder, a flesh-and-blood manifestation of the mysterious promise that was possibly growing inside a girl from Galveston Island.
“What do you want me to tell him?” said Leslie. When Suzette didn’t answer, Leslie blurted, “He’s waiting for you on the phone!”
“Give me a minute,” murmured Suzette. She sort of wanted another espresso, and sort of wanted a nap. She looked at Camillo, whose exposed chest was pale ocher, the color of Suzette and Hyland’s dining room walls.
Camillo’s mother had been a wreck. The day before, after Suzette had explained the early-morning procedure, Camillo’s mother had thanked Suzette for taking special care of her baby, clutching Suzette’s lab coat.
“Get some sleep,” Suzette had counseled.
“Can I ask one thing?” Camillo’s mother had implored, not letting go of the fabric.
“Of course,” Suzette had said, smiling in what she hoped was a patient manner, though she was actually in a huge hurry, due for one more operation and then a party for Meg’s birthday.
“If he dies…I’m just asking you,” said Camillo’s mother.
“Ruth…” said her husband, his voice carrying a weary warning.
“I’m allowed,” said Camillo’s mother. Camillo, finished with his bottle of milk and ready to play, squirmed in his mother’s grasp, grinning maniacally at Suzette. How could she help but smile back? She sat down in the empty chair, silently apologizing to Meg, because she was going to be late (or entirely miss) her best friend’s fortieth-birthday dinner.
“I’m listening,” said Suzette. Camillo opened a pudgy palm, and Suzette extended her finger. He grasped it tightly.
“If something happens, and Camillo—”
“Nothing’s going to happen, Ruth!” said Camillo’s father.
“Let me finish. I’m not going to be there, in the operating room. But you will, Dr. Kendall—you will be there.”
The Nearness of You Page 3