Nick is distracted as he kisses me goodbye. I pull him into a hug, burying my head in his chest, and he squeezes me tightly. ‘Everything is fine,’ he says, even though I haven’t asked. It’s as though he is trying to reassure himself.
The air is nippy as I stand in the doorway, watching him throw his things into the boot and, although the spring bulbs are breaking through the soil – the borders speckled with yellow, white, blue – my breath clouds in front of me. Nick climbs into his car and drives away. I wave until he disappears around the corner and close the door, walk towards the kitchen. Behind me, the phone starts to ring.
‘Hello.’ I speak as soon as I answer this time but there’s silence again. I wait a second to see if it is a call centre trying to connect, and I hear it. A breath. I cover the mouthpiece with my hand. Was that my breathing I heard? And there it is again. A breath. Barely audible but someone is there. I slam down the receiver and rub my arms. Still chilled from the morning air, but my goosebumps linger.
I am walking into the kitchen to put the kettle on when the ringing starts again, and I snatch up the handset and shout: ‘who’s there?’ I wait. The silence is thick. Heavy. There’s a faint rustling sound and I think about all the people it could be. All the people I don’t want it to be, and I slowly put the receiver down. It’s nothing, I tell myself, but it does feel like something.
Tamara clicks her tongue as I mess up the dance routine again. My chest heaves and I know my face is as red as the T-shirt that is damp with exertion.
‘You’re not concentrating, Kat. Is something on your mind?’ she asks.
‘Sorry,’ I say. Hunched over. Hands on knees. I almost wish I hadn’t come, but if I miss another rehearsal, I know I’ll be replaced, and I’m not quite ready to give up on my dream.
‘It’s okay. It takes time.’ Alex stops the track.
‘And a certain level of fitness,’ Tamara mutters loud enough for me to hear.
I had been meaning to exercise each morning. Brisk walks around the block. Getting into a routine so that when the baby is here we can get out in the fresh air every day, but leaving the house is getting harder and harder. Every day I find a new excuse. The blackening sky. The threat of rain. Now a stitch burns a hole in my side, my heart is racing, and I wish I had made more effort. There are only the three of us here. We’re trying to perfect the Tony and Maria parts before tomorrow’s rehearsal when the rest of the cast will be present.
‘I need some water.’ I shuffle into the kitchen. My legs wobbly, muscles fatigued. I twist the tap and cup my hands under the cool water and splash my face before filling a tea-stained mug and gulping greedily.
‘You’re doing well.’
I start. I hadn’t heard Alex come in and water dribbles down my chin. I wipe it with the back of my hand.
‘I don’t know if it’s too much.’ I say this at every rehearsal. ‘It’s not as easy as I remember.’ In my head I’m still a teenager, but my body knows differently.
‘I think you’re capable. Very capable.’ Alex always says this too. He steps forward and reaches out a hand, and his thumb brushes my cheek. ‘An eyelash.’ He blows the pad of his thumb. ‘Make a wish.’
‘I wish we could get on with the rehearsal,’ mutters Tamara behind us.
‘Sorry.’ It’s all I seem to have said today.
Alex heads out of the door. As I follow him Tamara calls me back.
‘I’ve something for you anyway.’ She pushes a leaflet into my hand. It’s for Weight Watchers. ‘A few of the group go,’ she says. ‘You don’t have to but…’ She shrugs. ‘It isn’t as straightforward getting the costumes changed as I had thought. Might be easier to lose a few pounds?’
Back on stage Alex and I gaze into each other’s eyes as we sing ‘Tonight’. My voice wobbles and falls off-key, and Tamara stops the backing CD.
‘Can we call it a day?’
I grab my bag and my sense of failure and, as I hurry towards the exit, Tamara starts to sing ‘Tonight’, and it’s so beautiful. So effortless. The tense feeling in my chest tightens.
The welcoming smell of tomato and basil soup greets me as I push open the front door. I’m glad I took the time to dig out the slow cooker and throw lunch together before I left for rehearsal. Despite the disaster it had been, I feel a sense of achievement just for getting out.
By the time I have showered and changed there is barely time to plump up the cushions before Lisa is knocking on the door, and I envelop her in a huge hug. Despite her loose-fitting T-shirt I can see her bump has grown considerably, and I am glad she must have her appetite back. I press my palm against it, feeling the solidity.
‘It’s hard, isn’t it?’ I think of my soft rolls of fat.
‘It has to be to protect the little one. Like its own room, I guess.’ She pulls back.
‘Sorry. Didn’t mean to manhandle you.’ I take her huge overnight bag and usher her inside.
‘It’s okay. It’s amazing how many people think they can touch my bump. In the queue at Tesco yesterday the cashier leant over and rubbed my belly, and I felt like saying “I’m not bloody Buddha. It won’t bring you any luck.” One woman wanted to see my bump – as though I’d want anyone looking at my stretch marked skin! Weirdo.’
‘It must be intrusive,’ I say but if it were me, I’d want everyone to share.
‘The woman in the post office asked me how many weeks I was, and when I told her, she said my bump was huge and asked if I was having twins.’
We are both silent for a moment.
‘People can be so fucking rude. My bump is too big. Too small. I’m carrying high so it’s a girl, or I’m carrying low and it’s a boy. Everyone has an opinion. Even my midwife says as the heartbeat is slow she thinks it’s a boy.’
‘Slow?’
‘Yes, but normal. Nothing to worry about.’
I reach for her bag. ‘Go and put your feet up. I’ll nip upstairs with your things and unpack for you.’
‘No!’ Lisa almost shouts, and I let go of the handles of her bag as though they have scalded me.
‘Sorry.’ She offers a weak smile. ‘I can do my own unpacking. But I’ve something to share with you first.’ Lisa looks exhausted as she sinks into the sofa and pats the space next to her.
Intrigued I sit and watch as she pulls out her iPhone.
‘Listen.’ She presses play.
At first it sounds like the noise you hear when you hold a shell against your ear on the beach, whooshing and white noise, but then I hear it, a rapid thud-thud-thud.
‘Is that?’
‘This little one’s heartbeat.’ Lisa’s hand rests on top of her bump.
‘Can I?’
Lisa presses play again, and it’s the sweetest thing I ever heard. The sound of life. Of hope. It doesn’t sound in the slightest bit slow to me. Every protective instinct lying dormant in my cells springs into being.
‘I’ll send it to you as an MP3,’ Lisa says, and I nod, not realising I am crying until Lisa brushes tears from my cheeks with her fingertips.
We sit, for the longest time, Lisa’s head on my shoulder, our fingers laced together, as I play the recording again and again, and it is in this moment, perhaps for the first time, I am aware it is not just love I feel towards this baby. I am love.
I’m a mum.
* * *
I ladle soup into bowls and carry them carefully over to the table before I slip into the seat opposite Lisa.
‘Bread?’ I offer the basket of French stick.
Lisa stretches forward and her sleeve rides up. There are tiny bruises dotted over her forearm.
‘Are you eating enough iron?’
‘Do you mean meat? I think so. Why?’
‘The bruises.’ I gesture towards her arm. ‘It’s a sign of anaemia. Perhaps you should have a blood test. You do look pale.’
Lisa doesn’t carry that glow some pregnant women seem to have. She looks washed out. Black half-moons fill the hollows under her eyes.
‘I’l
l mention it when I next see the midwife.’
‘Lisa, you are looking after yourself, aren’t you?’ She knows what I mean.
‘Kat, we talked about this in depth before we started this surrogacy thing. I made one mistake as a teenager in a desperate bid to be thin. Please don’t bring it up again. It was ten years ago. We’ve talked it through. I told you I’ve never taken anything since.’
‘I know. I do believe you. Honest. It’s just you don’t look well.’
‘Everything is fine. Anyway, I’ve another appointment for a scan. Next Friday. You’ll come? You’ll see for yourself baby is healthy.’
‘It’s not good enough, Lisa. I’ve been looking at the National Institute for Health and Care Excellence online. You really should have had the scan by now.’
‘Ideally, yes. My midwife is cross but she’s been keeping an extra eye on me. If there isn’t a sonographer available what can they do? You know how overstretched the NHS is. I get people shouting at me almost daily for things that aren’t my fault.’
‘I guess. I read some women choose not to have a scan. I wonder why?’
‘God knows. I definitely can’t wait for mine. A chance to see your baby.’ Lisa smiles as she looks at me. ‘Do you want to know the sex?’
‘I’m not sure.’ I rest my spoon on the side of my bowl. ‘With Mai and Dewei we knew, of course, and it helped with the nursery, the clothes.’ I try not to think of the folded sleep suits they would never wear. ‘But this time it might be nice to have a surprise. What do you think?’
Lisa studies me for a second before answering. ‘I think you should have a surprise, Kat.’
I am puzzled by her tone for a moment until she slides a gift-wrapped box towards me.
‘What’s this?’ I turn it over in my hands as though it might reveal itself to me.
‘Open it.’
I tear off the candy-striped paper and laugh. It’s a bottle of Eva perfume.
‘Eva Longoria finally got her arse into gear.’ Lisa smiles as I spray my wrists.
‘You remembered,’ I say as I inhale jasmine and lily of the valley.
Lisa looks me straight in the eye. ‘I remember everything.’
* * *
Later, I have cleared away the lunch things and am on the sofa, my feet tucked under me, flicking through a copy of Mother and Baby I bought. I have sent Lisa for a lie-down. She looked tired and pinched.
The phone trills, and I hurry to the hallway and lift the receiver before it can wake Lisa. I lift it to my ear and hear the static coming down the line. ‘Hello?’ It’s a question, not a greeting, and the air feels charged with tension and, all of a sudden, I feel angry, not afraid. Whoever is wasting my time, let’s see how they like it. I stay on the line, silent, waiting for them to get bored. To hang up. But minutes tick by and I shift my weight from one foot to the other. Lisa will be down soon and now this seems childish. Fruitless. I slam the handset down but before I can return to the lounge, a shadow falls. There’s a figure outside the frosted glass of the front door. I wait for the knock; instead, light illuminates the hall once more and there’s scuffling, as though someone is crawling around the porch. I tiptoe into the lounge. Part the slats of the blind with my thumb and forefinger. The afternoon is bright. Quiet. There’s no one there. No sound of a vehicle.
I go back to the front door and press my ear against it. There’s nothing to be heard but birdsong. I fling open the door and a breeze washes over me. There’s no one on the street. No mysterious figure, and I chide myself for my overactive imagination.
But that’s before I look down.
Before I see it.
On the doorstep, is a wreath, a green ribbon stretched across the centre. ‘RIP’ written in blood red letters.
30
Now
Sunday sunshine streams through the window but it doesn’t lighten my mood. I barely slept last night. The wreath and the phone calls had set me on edge, and even with Lisa here, without Nick the house seemed too cold. Too empty. Yesterday evening I went over to Clare’s to see if she had noticed anyone hanging around the house, but she wasn’t at home. I rang Nick to talk things through, but it had gone straight to voicemail, and in bed I had felt myself growing more and more agitated as I’d tossed and turned. The ‘RIP’ in blood red letters was etched onto my mind. I lay staring at the ceiling as the house creaked and settled around me, imagining each groan of the floorboard was someone creeping up the stairs. RIP. It was only when I slipped in my earbuds and played the recording of the baby’s heart I began to relax.
My legs feel heavy as I climb out of bed this morning. I trudge over to the door and lift my fleecy dressing gown from its hook. It may be spring but the mornings are still chilly.
Lisa is already in the kitchen, nibbling on toast.
‘Did you find everything you need?’ The breakfast bar is bare save Lisa’s plate, and I pull open the cupboard and lift out jars of local honey, apricot jam and marmite.
‘Trying to make me throw up?’
‘You still have morning sickness? Have you mentioned it to your midwife?’ According to my book the nausea should have passed and she should be full of energy. She looks as exhausted as I feel.
‘She said some women have it throughout. I’m just unlucky, I think.’
‘But if you’re not getting enough nutrients—’
‘I’m hardly wasting away.’ Lisa rubs her stomach. ‘Anyway, you don’t look the picture of health yourself this morning.’
I perch onto a stool next to Lisa and pluck a piece of toast from the rack. ‘I didn’t sleep well. That wreath—’
‘You’re not still thinking about that? It probably got delivered to the wrong address.’
‘But why didn’t the person who delivered it knock on the door? It seems odd to just leave it on the step, don’t you think?’
‘Not really. It’s not like delivering a bouquet of red roses, is it? Something happy? Where there’s a wreath, there’s a loss and that makes people uncomfortable.’
‘What if it was meant for me?’
‘Why would it be?’ Lisa asks.
‘Punishment?’
‘For what?’ I can feel Lisa’s eyes on me but I can’t look at her. ‘For Jake?’
I touch the cross around my neck. ‘Someone is out to get me, I know.’ Paranoia is as thick as the strawberry jam I spread on my toast. It looks like blood. I push it away.
‘Lis.’ I hate myself for asking. ‘What was in your bag yesterday you didn’t want me to see?’ I can’t help analysing her panic as I’d offered to unpack.
‘The perfume. For fuck’s sake, Kat. What are you implying?’
‘Nothing. Sorry. It’s just that it’s almost the anniversary.’ I always struggle at this time of year but somehow this year is worse.
Ten years.
‘Don’t you think I don’t know when the fucking anniversary is?’ Lisa’s eyes are blazing.
‘Sorry, I—’
‘So you bloody should be.’
‘Jake wouldn’t want us to—’
‘Don’t you think I know what Jake would and wouldn’t have wanted? He was my brother, Kat.’
‘I know. Sorry. Please can we forget this? Move on?’
Lisa is silent. Anger still radiating from her like heat.
‘Lisa. Forgive me?’
‘’Course.’ We lean forward and have an awkward one-armed hug. With forgiveness should come peace but the wreath by the back door seems to taunt us. RIP. There isn’t always peace for the ones left behind, is there?
‘Are you sure you won’t be bored?’ I say to Lisa, putting the car in reverse and backing off the drive, past Lisa’s Fiat 500. I’m glad to see it’s back on the road after the money I gave her for repairs. The thought of anyone watching me rehearse makes me feel faint. Goodness knows how I’ll feel when I’m on stage in front of an audience.
‘I’m looking forward to it,’ she says, and I believe her. At school she’d always sit cross-legged
on the hall floor as I practised, eyes following my every move, clapping, even when I forgot my lines.
I drive slowly past Clare’s house looking for a sign she is awake. I want to ask her if she saw who delivered the wreath yesterday. Her bedroom curtains are still drawn and the post is still sticking out of her letterbox. Ada must be letting her have a lie-in.
In the community centre I introduce Lisa to everyone, and she is bombarded with questions from the women. She glances at me uncomfortably, unsure what to say. I watch the fuss everyone makes of her, the seat that is produced, the drink, the biscuits. I want to share that, at nearly twenty-six weeks, Beanie is the size of a spring onion and is inhaling and exhaling small amounts of amniotic fluid, developing their lungs, but no one ever thinks to ask me.
Tamara is friendlier today, smiling as she presses play on the backing track. Keeping my eyes trained on Lisa it is easy to imagine I am back in that school hall, shimmying and shaking away my adult insecurities, until I am once again the young girl full of hope, full of possibilities. I sidestep, twirl, and my voice has never soared so high, carrying my emotion up to the fluorescent strip lights buzzing and flickering on the ceiling. In front of me Lisa morphs into Jake, and all that I am, all that I want to be, goes into my performance until the last bars fade and I am crouching on the stage, chest heaving. Once again I am aware of Alex telling me I am magnificent. Lisa stands, clapping, and the harried expression she has been wearing is replaced by one of utter joy, and I know she feels it too. She feels Jake too.
My legs are trembling as I step off the stage. Alex proffers his hand, and I take it and when I am back on level ground he doesn’t let it go but I am glad as I lean into him limply.
‘You were marvellous.’ Lisa hugs me. ‘Maria! Finally!’
‘Not quite as glamorous.’ I pull at my T-shirt sticking to my skin. ‘I’m just going to freshen up.’
The toilet is small and dingy. I tug blue paper towels from the dispenser and dab my skin dry before running a brush through my hair. Once dressed, I pull at the door but it is locked. It can’t be. The caretaker opens it when he knows we are coming and locks it after we leave. I pull at the handle again. It’s definitely locked. The room is hot and airless. There aren’t any windows, and rationally I know that I won’t be here forever. Someone will come and find me. But panic rises all the same, and I am sucking in air, feeling the chemicals of the toilet cleaner catch the back of my throat. I am trapped. I feel light-headed. My heart beating rapidly in my chest. And I bang on the doors with my fists, fighting the urge to scream. Fear bubbles and I don’t know what is then and what is now.
The Surrogate Page 17