by Angela Hunt
Mama Isa turned to Amelia. “What is she saying?”
Amelia shook her head. “Ella quiere ser una madre sustituta.”
“¿Qué?”
“You don’t want to know, Mama.”
Tumelo elbowed Jorge. “¿Soy un abuelo? ¿Ella va a tener un bebé?”
Amelia lifted her chin and ripped open a box of plantain chips. “Not if she has any sense, she isn’t.”
My cousin grabbed the carton of chips and headed to the front of the store, leaving me to face the others alone.
“Well.” I spread my hands. “I’m still investigating the application process, so this isn’t definite. But I have an agency in mind and everything looks promising. I wanted you to know in case it all works out. I didn’t want you to be surprised if I need to take some time off for tests and things.”
My heart sank as Tumelo walked away, shaking his head. Maybe I was expecting too much from my father-in-law and the others of his generation. They hadn’t grown up with the technology people my age took for granted.
I walked to the checkout stand, ready to begin my day, but as I left I heard Mama Isa ask Mario, “¿Es ella loca?”
I didn’t have to be fluent in Spanish to know she thought I’d gone crazy.
Though my relatives’ lack of support cast a pall over my enthusiasm, ultimately it didn’t matter. Let them think me loca; let them mutter all they wanted. As young adults in the twenty-first century, Gideon and I were going to take full advantage of the opportunities available to us. I was going to be a gestational carrier, and the sooner I got started, the better off I’d be.
At the stroke of seven, Tumelo unlocked the front door. I took care of a customer who’d been waiting for one of the cellophane-wrapped pastries on the counter, then quietly pulled my cell phone from my purse.
Through an Internet search I’d discovered a surrogacy agency in St. Petersburg, so I wouldn’t have far to drive for an interview.
Grasping the last shreds of my courage, I unlocked my phone. Though I knew the agency’s office wouldn’t be open this early, I hoped to leave a message and request a callback. I punched in the agency’s number, then lost my nerve and hung up.
Why was I so nervous about committing to a phone call? Gideon had given his permission, and his opinion mattered more than anyone else’s. My mom might never see things from my perspective, but she lived two hours away and wasn’t likely to drop in for a visit. She would never have to see this baby or even glimpse me pregnant. She could keep her disapproval to herself while she enjoyed her surreal life in The Villages.
As for Mama Isa and Jorge, Tumelo and Elaine, Amelia and Mario—they might not understand my decision, but they wouldn’t condemn me, either. They’d grown up with crazy American ideas, so in time they would shrug and resign themselves to my plan. They might whisper about Gideon marrying a gringa loca, but they would also take quiet pride in the fact that one couple in the family had proven themselves unconventional.
If all went well, by this time next year I might be planning to get pregnant with my own baby, mine and Gideon’s, giving the Lisandra family plenty to cheer about. Another baby would join Marilee, maybe the son Gideon so desperately wanted, and the family would have planted three generations of Lisandra men on American soil.
They would be so excited about the future, they would forgive the recent past. I knew they would.
I gripped my phone and punched in the agency’s number again.
Chapter Four
So, Mandy—now that we’re better acquainted, tell me why you want to be a gestational carrier.”
Natasha Bray, whose red hair hung in graceful curves over the shoulders of her dark suit, asked the question as casually as if she were asking my opinion about the weather. I chose my words carefully, though, because I knew my answer might determine whether or not she would confirm me as a participant in the Surrogacy Center’s program. In the three weeks I had been working with Ms. Bray, I had completed two phone interviews, an initial medical screening, and a home visit. Only two additional requirements stood between me and official acceptance into the program: this private interview and the results from my psychological screening.
“Gideon and I,” I told her, “have enjoyed our daughter so much that we want to give another couple the opportunity to have a child. I carried Marilee with very few problems and had no complications during her delivery. I don’t expect things to be any different with a subsequent pregnancy.”
“Your statement seems to imply that you did experience some problems—what were they?”
I shrugged. “Nothing unusual. A little spotting in the first trimester, a few days of morning sickness, and a strange craving for Cheez-Its.” Though nervous, I allowed myself to laugh. “I went through boxes of crackers like I was eating for five. But now I’d eat squid before I’d eat a cheese snack.”
Natasha smiled and scanned the open folder on her desk. I knew the file contained my application and reference letters from family and friends. I thought about asking Natasha if the references were positive, then decided I didn’t want to know what people really thought about me being a surrogate.
“You seem to have made a lot of friends at your church,” she said.
“We’ve met some really nice people there.”
“Is faith important to you?”
“Yes.” I smiled so she wouldn’t think I was part of some grim religious cult. “I became a Christian not long after I met Gideon.”
“No religious objections to being a surrogate, then?”
I blinked. “Why should anyone object if I do a good deed for someone else? Isn’t that what Christians are supposed to be about?”
Natasha lifted one shoulder in an elegant shrug. “One never knows why some people do the things they do.” She turned a page and smiled. “I understand your daughter is quite talented. Does musical ability run in your family?”
I barely managed to keep a giggle out of my voice. “My husband plays the guitar and sometimes pretends to be Ricky Ricardo. His grandfather also plays the guitar and sings.”
“So that’s where the gift originated.”
“Probably.” I tilted my head and added, “To be honest, I’m not sure where my daughter’s talent comes from, but her teachers at the Takahashi school say it’s extraordinary. The money from this program—if I’m accepted—will help us pay for her tuition in the years ahead.”
Natasha flipped another page. “You passed your initial medical screening with flying colors, and I really enjoyed our home visit. Your daughter is lovely and your husband is quite charming.” She folded her hands on the desk and smiled. “As long as the psychologist didn’t spot any problems in the screening interview, you should be on your way.”
I pressed my damp palms together, hoping Natasha wouldn’t notice my trembling fingers. I’d never been more thrilled, but what if the shrink found faults that wouldn’t be acceptable in a gestational carrier? Maybe Natasha would learn that I consistently run late for appointments. Or that I have a tendency to wallow in guilt when I make a mistake. Or that my husband spoils me far more than he should.
Maybe the psychologist had added up all my shortcomings and declared that I wasn’t suited for motherhood of any kind, even the traditional variety.
Natasha arranged her papers in a neat pile, closed the folder, and looked over at me. “Did you bring the marriage satisfaction questionnaire? And the personality tests?”
“I have them in my purse.” I pulled an oversized envelope from my bag and handed it across the desk. “Was there anything else? I’ve been so scatterbrained lately and with all the Christmas parties—”
“I have nothing else.” Natasha put the envelope in the folder, then pushed the folder aside and picked up her pen, her eyes glinting. “I’ll look those pages over later, but now I want to know what you will enjoy most about being a gestational carrier.”
I crossed and uncrossed my legs as I searched for an honest but commendable answer. “What will I
enjoy? Helping someone. I really mean that. At college I majored in psychology because I’ve wanted to be a social worker ever since middle school.”
Natasha clicked her pen. “Not the typical choice for a middle school girl. Did something specific lead you to social work?”
“I saw a movie—Radio Flyer, I think it was called—about a boy who’d been abused by his stepfather. I wanted to help that kid in the movie so much I found myself wishing I could jump through the screen. Maybe that’s crazy, but that’s when I learned that social workers help kids like that boy. People have always been important to me.”
“Did you identify with the child in the movie?”
Recognizing the motive behind the question, I shook my head. “I wasn’t ever abused. My dad died when I was six, so after that it was just me and Mom. We didn’t always get along—in fact, we’re not close even now—but I can’t say I was ever abused. I was probably a little spoiled because my daddy would have given me the moon if I’d asked for it. I loved him more than anything, and when I lost him . . . well, it wasn’t easy.”
“If spoiling a child results in the kind of altruism you’re displaying, maybe the world needs to rethink its child-rearing philosophies.” Natasha smiled and wrote something on her notepad. “What do you remember most about your dad?”
“Most? I have so many memories, it’s hard to pick just one. He sold insurance and worked out of an office in the house, so he was always around when I was little—in fact, I think he changed more of my diapers than Mom did, because she worked at a pet shop in town. He taught me how to count, he read me stories, he would sing silly songs to make me laugh—” I sighed as a flood of nostalgia swept over me. “I miss him even now.”
“Did your mother remarry?”
“No. Mom never seemed to have much interest in men . . . or maybe she just didn’t have time to date. Between her job and taking care of me, she stayed pretty busy.”
“So you grew up as an only child?”
I nodded. “That’s why I want to have more kids when Gideon and I can afford them. I’ve always wanted a big family—that’s probably why I love being around Gid’s family so much. They’re always together.”
Natasha glanced at her notes, then looked up at me. “What’s the one moment you’re dreading most in terms of being a gestational carrier? It’s perfectly natural to have concerns and anxieties about the process, so you can be completely honest.”
I considered the question. “Everyone seems to think I’ll have trouble surrendering the baby, but I don’t think that’ll be a problem. Maybe I’m being unrealistic, but I honestly feel . . . detached. It won’t be my baby, so I won’t bond with him or her. I won’t allow myself to get all caught up in feelings I have no right to feel.”
Natasha nodded, her expression thoughtful. “If you don’t expect to feel maternal, how do you expect to feel? How do you envision your relationship with the child you’ll be carrying?”
I smiled, confident of my answer. “I think I’ll see myself as a babysitter. As someone who’s been placed in charge of a helpless little one, trusted to take care of it and help it grow. And once it’s grown and ready to meet the world, I think I’ll be relieved to hand it to its true parents. And proud of myself for completing a job to the best of my ability.”
A smile lifted the corner of Natasha’s thin mouth. “That’s an extremely healthy attitude.”
“To be honest, though, one thing does concern me . . . but maybe it’s no big deal.”
Natasha lifted a brow. “I’m listening.”
“Well”—I twisted my hands—“I’m a little worried that my husband won’t find me attractive if I get all fat with a stranger’s baby. I know pregnant females are supposed to look beautiful, but my husband comes from a family of gorgeous women and I don’t know what he’ll think if I have swollen ankles, a round face, and a big belly. When I was pregnant with Marilee he kept telling me I was beautiful, but he might not feel the same way when it’s someone else’s baby—”
“That’s why it’s important you face this situation together.” Natasha’s gaze softened. “After talking to both of you the other day, I got the impression that your husband is completely on board. I also picked up on the fact that the man adores you.”
A rush of blood heated my face. “I am a lucky woman.”
“And a very normal one.”
We both turned as someone knocked on the door. When Natasha called permission to enter, the blonde who worked at the reception desk came in with a large envelope. “Dr. Dickson just messengered this over,” she said, after a quick glance at me. “I thought you might want to take a look.”
My stomach dropped at the mention of the psychologist. He’d been a blank wall during my interview with him—I had no idea whether he’d describe me as an altruistic saint or a confirmed lunatic.
Natasha smiled her thanks and opened the envelope. I pretended to study my nails as she pulled out a typed letter. From where I sat I could see dense, square paragraphs on the page, but I couldn’t read a word of what the doctor had written.
What if he hated me? What if he didn’t like the answers I gave? He probably thought I was a monster because I said I’d been a daddy’s girl, so my mom and I weren’t really close. I’d tried to follow up and explain that Mom and I loved each other even though we didn’t have a lot in common, but my rushed fumbling must have sounded like pure rationalization. Furthermore, he probably cared more about how I answered his questions than what I actually said, which meant he had probably written that I would be unsuitable for this program or any other. . . .
Natasha leaned back in her chair, then smiled and lowered the letter. “Good news, Amanda—Dr. Dickson says you’re no crazier than any other woman in the program. If you still want to help an infertile couple, we have a green light to proceed.”
I pressed my hand to my chest. “For real? That’s it?”
“This was the last report I needed. I still want to go over your personality and marriage profiles, but I only use those to help match you with a pair of prospective parents.”
“Oh, my.” I gulped a quick breath. “I can’t wait to tell Gideon.”
“I hope he’s as delighted as we are. And now, if you’ll step into the waiting room for a few moments, I want to review the profiles you brought in today. In about half an hour, I’ll ask you to join me again.”
“For . . . more questions or something?”
“For something far more interesting than mere questions.” Something twinkled in the depths of the woman’s eyes. “For something I think you’ll enjoy very much.”
* * *
In the waiting room, I read magazines, studied the wall art (softly focused photographs of smiling couples with adorable naked babies), and attempted to finish a crossword puzzle in a magazine someone had left behind. Too restless to focus on the crossword clues, I hummed along with the Muzak Christmas carols and double-checked my shopping list to be sure I had a gift for everyone I needed to remember. I thought about calling Amelia, just to see how things were going at the grocery, or Mama Isa, to make sure Marilee wasn’t being any trouble.
But true to her word, thirty minutes later Natasha opened her door and gestured to me, and I found myself staring at three file folders in a neat row on her desk.
Natasha sank into her chair, crossing her arms and pressing her lips together in the look of a woman struggling to remain impartial.
“I think you’d be a good fit for any of these three couples,” she said. “Look them over and see what you think.”
“You mean I choose?”
“Prospective parents tell me what sort of gestational carrier they would like, and I have matched you to three couples who have indicated a preference for a woman of your age and experience. But the contract will be between you and the parents. I am only the agent who brings the two parties together.” She chuckled. “Think of me as renting real estate during a seller’s market.”
“My uterus is the prop
erty?”
“And there are more couples seeking that property than there are willing renters. So yes, you hold the upper hand. You choose.”
I ran my fingertips over the nearest folder. For the first time in my life, I held real power in my hands, a godlike authority to change other people’s lives with a single word. But I couldn’t be comfortable with that kind of control. This felt like too much responsibility.
“I don’t want to do this alone.” I looked up and bit my lip. “Could you tell me which one you want me to choose?”
Natasha shook her head. “I would never presume to make that kind of decision for you. You’re the one who will have to work with these IPs.”
“IPs?”
“Intended parents. I’m sure you couldn’t go wrong with any of these couples, but ultimately, you must make this choice.”
I swallowed hard. “It’s so much pressure. Can I take these home and let Gideon help me?”
She smiled. “By all means. I’m not saying you have to decide right here and now. These are duplicates of files I have in the office, so don’t worry if you spill something on the pages. But they are confidential documents, so I must ask you not to leave them in a public place or show them to anyone but your husband. Read through all the enclosed information, consider the applications carefully, and come back whenever you’re ready to name your choice. Whoever you pick, I’m sure they’ll be ecstatic to hear that their long wait is finally coming to an end. Your decision may be the best Christmas present one of these couples has ever had.”
I picked up the three folders and put them in a large envelope Natasha slid across her desk. I wasn’t sure Gideon would care about looking through the information, but maybe this would help him feel more involved. After all, this process would affect our entire family.