by Angela Hunt
Marilee laughed the first time she saw me trying to position a pair of headphones around my gentle baby bump, so she helped by resting her head in my lap and holding the headphones to my stomach. Unfortunately, Marilee had a four-year-old’s attention span, so ten minutes later she wanted to go play. In a token effort to comply with the Amblours’ request, I propped my arm on Gid’s pillow and read a few chapters of What to Expect When You’re Expecting while Simone sang a French lullaby to my belly button.
She phoned two days later to make certain I’d received the package. I assured her it had arrived safely and that I had begun to play the recordings.
“You may think we are being silly”—I could almost see her blushing—“but this is one of the things I would do if I were carrying the child.”
“Really, it’s no bother,” I told her. “But I’m glad you waited to send it. I didn’t have much of a belly before this month.”
She laughed. “We waited because the baby can’t hear before nineteen weeks. But he’s listening now, and I want him to recognize his parents’ voices.”
My heart did a funny little flip-flop at her comment. I completely understood the longing she felt for someone who was miles away, the anxiety that kept her awake at night, and the helplessness that made her feel small when she realized she had absolutely no control over events that might injure someone she loved dearly. I felt all those things whenever I thought of Gideon, so my heart was also twisted in a knot of frustration and yearning.
But for some reason it felt wrong for her to say “his parents’ voices.” Which meant my feelings were wrong, because this was definitely not my child.
This was a job, I reminded myself. A contract. I was babysitting, nothing more.
I tried to maintain a respectful distance from the Amblours, but sometimes I couldn’t help thinking of Simone as a close friend. We were in nearly constant contact, and I couldn’t blame her for wanting to reach out to me. If the situation were reversed and she were carrying Marilee, I’d have camped out on her doorstep.
“I understand how you feel,” I assured her. “And I’m so sorry we weren’t able to learn the baby’s gender at the last ultrasound. The little monkey didn’t want to cooperate.”
“Children rarely do,” Simone said, a smile in her voice. “And now, sweet friend, get some rest. Bonsoir et au revoir.”
Chapter Ten
Did you see the big fireworks display last night?” Dr. Hawthorn looked up from my chart and smiled. “Or were you busy cleaning up after your Fourth of July picnic?”
I slipped off the exam table and made my way toward the small dressing alcove in the obstetrician’s exam room. “I took Marilee to my aunt’s house, and she stayed up to watch the fireworks. I fell asleep on the sofa in the living room.”
Dr. Hawthorn chuckled and jotted something on my chart. “You should be able to feel the baby moving now. Experienced any kicks?”
I thought about it, then shook my head and closed the small curtain. “Not really. Unless what I’ve been calling indigestion is actually the kid practicing his judo.”
“Maybe he’s one of those sleepy babies. Have you been bothered by anything in particular?”
I drew a deep breath and took my blouse from the hook I’d hung it on. “Everything’s fine—except my sleep. I keep waking up in the middle of the night after having the wildest dreams.”
“Strange and unusually vivid dreams are perfectly natural,” the doctor called. “First, you’re getting up during the night more than usual because you have to urinate frequently. You’re waking right after a dream, so you remember it. You probably dream just as often when you’re not pregnant, but in the morning you don’t remember anything about them.”
I fumbled with the buttons on my blouse. “The dreams feel so . . . unusual. And weird.”
“You’re not the first to tell me about bizarre dreams, Amanda. Most of them are easily understood.”
I laughed and reached for my maternity jeans. “I didn’t know you interpreted visions, too.”
“It’s not as complicated as you might expect. Think of dreams as a convenient way for your subconscious to send you a message. You go through huge changes when you’re pregnant, and you have a lot to think about. Your subconscious works overtime to make sure you’re handling everything that comes your way. You can chalk it all up to raging hormones.”
When I opened the curtain again, she gave me a knowing smile. “Let me guess—you’re in the second trimester, so you’ve probably been dreaming about cuddly puppies, carrying suitcases, or giving birth to your husband.”
My jaw dropped. “Are you psychic? I haven’t dreamed about giving birth to my husband, but last night I gave birth to the intended father. And he’s huge, so that’s no small task.”
She chuckled. “I’d love to say I’ve been reading your mind, but these images are common. You probably dreamed of giving birth to the intended father because dealing with him seems easier than dealing with a helpless baby. You dream about cuddly puppies or some other animal when you’re feeling maternal. Women who worry about their mothering skills might dream of being threatened by clinging, infantlike creatures—monkeys, for instance.” She tilted her head. “Are you dreaming of animals?”
“I dreamed about puppies a couple of nights ago,” I confessed. “I came home and found a litter of poodles behind the refrigerator. I went out on a crazed search to find families for them before Gideon got home.”
The doctor raised a brow. “Given your circumstances, you don’t have to be a psychologist to figure out that one. You found poodles? French poodles, by chance?”
I gasped as the connection became clear. “Wow.”
“You wanted to find homes for the poodles because you’re concerned about placing the baby you’re carrying in its proper family. As to your hurry to get rid of them before your husband came home, does he still support your decision to be a surrogate?”
I shrugged. “He hasn’t said anything negative. But he’s been away, so we don’t get to talk much.”
“Perhaps you’re worried that he’s hiding some degree of resentment. Or maybe you’re just worried—about him, about the baby, about life in general. I wouldn’t blame you if you were anxious.” She smiled. “But don’t let yourself worry too much, Amanda. Why don’t you start keeping a pregnancy journal and write out your dreams? Once you get them down on paper, you may be able to see what your subconscious was trying to tell you. Dream interpretation can be remarkably easy with a little help from hindsight.”
“I’ve been keeping a diary, so it’d be easy to add my dreams to my notes.”
“Write the dreams down right away, or you’re likely to forget them. You might try keeping your journal on the nightstand.”
“I can do that. And let me see if I’m any good at this—if I dream of carrying suitcases, is that because I’m carrying extra weight?”
“You are good at this.” She closed my chart and moved toward the door. “Anything else you need from me? If not, shall we meet again in a couple of weeks? It’s about time for your midterm ultrasound.”
I picked up my purse and checked my reflection in the mirror. “I don’t see why not.”
* * *
In mid-July, Simone and Damien flew in for my twenty-week ultrasound. I expected to enjoy the usual easy conversation with Dr. Hawthorn, but this time she directed nearly all her comments to Simone and Damien. Like a third wheel I lay on the table and heard my doctor announce that I was carrying a baby boy. “He’s still small”—she peered at the screen—“but I can see everything I’m supposed to see. Arms, legs, eyes, ears, and, of course, the little boy bits. Congratulations, Mom and Dad.”
Simone turned to Damien and gripped his hand. Damien kept his gaze fixed on the glowing monitor. “Un fils,” he whispered, his voice filled with awe. “Dieu merci! Merveilleux!”
Simone pressed her free hand over her heart, then smiled at me with affection and gratitude.
In th
at moment, I stopped feeling like a mindless vessel and became someone who was deeply appreciated. I had to bite my lower lip to keep from bawling right there on the table.
After the ultrasound, the Amblours invited my family to lunch, but Marilee was spending the day with Amelia and Gideon was still away, probably in Afghanistan.
“I’m sorry,” I told Simone and Damien. “Seems like my family is scattered everywhere.”
“Then we will take you.” Simone slipped her arm through mine and playfully led me toward their rented car. “Tell me your favorite place to eat, and we will go there. It is not enough to repay you for what you’re doing, but perhaps it is a start.”
I went along, bemused by her attitude. Had she forgotten that they were paying me by the month? They didn’t need to do anything else, but I didn’t want to appear ungrateful for their kindness.
I led them to The Frog Pond, a small café near the beach, and I wasn’t surprised that Simone and Damien had never discovered it on any of their trips to Florida. The café lay in a strip mall well away from the usual tourist haunts, but the establishment served a wonderful breakfast and lunch, then closed for the day. I suspected the owner was a working mom who wanted to spend evenings with her family. If that was the case, I couldn’t blame her.
After we enjoyed a delicious salad and quiche, Damien went off to buy a newspaper while Simone and I strolled through some of the stores in the little shopping center. One shop featured children’s clothing, and I was delighted when Simone asked if I wanted to look inside. We went in together, then split up as I veered toward the girls’ clothing and Simone beelined for the boys’ section.
I couldn’t believe the adorable outfits and gadgets offered in the baby boutique. Infant items had become much more useful and creative in the years since Marilee’s birth.
I paused by a beautiful crib set. The bumper pads and quilted coverlet featured sea creatures—a smiling octopus, a happy whale, several colorful fish, and an embroidered big-eyed crab. The set was far too expensive for someone like me, but the exorbitant price wouldn’t be a problem for Simone.
I ran my hand over the soft cotton fabric. Since we lived near the beach and I’d heard that the Amblours did, too, I thought Simone might appreciate the blending of both our locales as a nursery motif. I turned and waved to get her attention, then lifted the comforter as she approached. “Isn’t this darling? They’re making such beautiful items for children’s rooms these days.”
Simone gave me a perfunctory nod, but the set clearly didn’t charm her as it had me. I lowered the blanket, my smile fading as a sharp sense of disappointment replaced my enthusiasm.
What was wrong with this crib set? Did she not like my taste? Or was it not good enough for her? She didn’t even take a good look at the design—
I brought my hand to my forehead and told myself to calm down.
What was wrong with me? Simone and I weren’t best friends, not really, and this wasn’t my baby. I was carrying her son and of course she wanted to decorate her own nursery. Once I delivered, I might never see the baby, Simone, or Damien again. We would not be permanently connected, so I’d be foolish to think she would seriously consider my suggestions about her nursery.
On the other hand, would it have killed her to say something nice about the stupid comforter? She could have said any one of a dozen things or even placated me with an “Isn’t that lovely,” but instead she simply nodded and walked away.
I drew a deep breath and tried to shake off my growing resentment. I had to be hormonal; that’s why my mood kept swinging from ecstatic to indignant and back again.
“Not my baby,” I murmured as I walked toward a display of high chairs. “This is not my baby, so I don’t care what kind of crib he sleeps in. Simone will buy his bed, his high chair, his clothes, his shoes. She wants to buy for him, she wants to care for him, and she may even resent my suggestions because I’m doing something she desperately wants to do—”
Obviously oblivious to my muttered monologue, Simone stopped at the front door and turned to look for me. “Amanda, are you ready to go?”
I nodded and hurried after her, eager to leave my irritations behind.
* * *
On a hot Sunday night in August, well after I’d put Marilee to bed, a story from Massachusetts dominated the news: in the wealthy enclave of Martha’s Vineyard, two ten-year-old girls had gone out for ice cream and disappeared. Local citizens and police were scouring the area to determine what had happened to them.
The news showed a picture of the two girls, both smiling, both wearing bright red windbreakers and dark shorts. In a few years, Marilee might look just like them.
I turned off the TV and sat in an unnatural silence, broken only by the sound of the refrigerator dumping ice into the freezer bin. Inexplicably, my uneasiness swelled into alarm. Was this near panic the result of restless hormones, or was it some kind of premonition that something was happening to Gideon?
I swallowed to bring my heart down from my throat. I was spending too much time alone in this house. I had too much free time and too active an imagination. At times like this, the house was far too quiet.
With Gideon away, Marilee and I had no one to protect us—maybe we needed a dog now. Maybe we should go to the animal shelter and see if they had a big dog that would love us and fight off an intruder.
Or maybe I should buy a gun.
I turned off the lamp and moved to the window, lifting the louvers on the shutters so I could look out and see the dimly lit street. Nothing moved in the darkness, and my neighbors’ vehicles had been neatly tucked into garages and parking spaces. This was a safe neighborhood, or at least as safe as a neighborhood could be.
Still, a chill climbed the ladder of my spine.
What was wrong with me? I would drive myself crazy if I kept looking for trouble. I should go to bed, let myself drift away on a soft tide and awaken in reassuring daylight.
I moved toward the hallway and my bedroom, but paused to pick up my cell phone from the kitchen counter. I could try to reach Gideon, but I’d feel foolish if I asked someone to track him down just so I could hear his voice.
None of the other military wives were this skittish. I saw them at the PX; I heard them talking about how they argued with auto mechanics, climbed on rooftops to repair leaks, and delivered puppies without help from anyone. They had all their fears bottled up and put away on shelves, and nothing seemed to faze them.
But everything bothered me. Especially the evening news.
The darkness around me felt heavy and threatening as I hurried into my bedroom, slid beneath the covers, and pulled the comforter up to my nose. I peered out, searching for signs of trouble, but nothing moved, not even the curtains. The air conditioner clicked on, then a current of cool air stirred the dust trails hanging from the ceiling fan.
My mouth twisted in a wry smile. Would the Amblours allow me to clean my fans, or would they rather I leave that chore to the Happy Housekeepers?
After several minutes, my pulse rate slowed and I was able to sleep.
* * *
My fingers grasped handfuls of dew dampened grass, my sneakers slipped as I struggled to find my footing. I was lying on my back, blinking at a star-spangled sky, but I wasn’t alone. From somewhere off to my left I heard a vague mechanical tick, accompanied by low moans.
“Daddy?”
I rolled onto my belly and looked around. A long stretch of asphalt sliced through the woods and our Pontiac lay upside down on a patch of gravel. I saw vacant windows, crumpled metal, and red plastic shards glinting in the moonlight. Then someone groaned again.
“Daddy!” I crawled forward, tiny rocks cutting into my knees as I inched toward the sound. Sparkling glass pebbles mingled with the scree. My father’s hand was visible inside the car, the fingers twitching. He was alive.
“Daddy!” I hurried forward on hands and knees, then lowered my head to peer into the gloomy space. I saw my precious father’s dark jacket,
the ghostly whiteness of his shirt, and his face, painted red like a devil mask.
“Mandy.” A weak smile flitted over his mouth as our eyes met. “Honey, you need to get away from the car. Go sit on the grass. And stay there.”
“I don’t want to leave you, Daddy.”
“You have to, honey. You have to obey me, right now.”
“I can’t leave you!”
“I want you to go, now.” His voice firmed. “And don’t worry. I’ll meet you at the river.”
I knew what he wanted me to say next; I could feel the words on my tongue, but I couldn’t say them. “Don’t leave me, Daddy!”
“Get away, honey.”
“Daddy!” I grabbed his hand and pulled until I heard him cry out, but I couldn’t move him more than a few inches. “Daddy, help me. Please.”
“Mandy.” A note of fear entered his voice, chilling my bones, and an instant later I saw the flickering light. “Mandy, get away from here, right now!” He screamed at me, his voice rougher and louder than it had ever been, and the shock of his panic forced me back.
I scooted away, scarcely aware of the glass and gravel slashing my palms. My tears had given birth to sobs, but something in me knew I had to obey. “I’ll meet you at the river!” he yelled, his voice ragged with panic. “I’ll look for you!”
I pressed my hands to my face, unable to say the words he wanted to hear.
While I sat motionless, paralyzed with panic, the car erupted into flames. A hair-raising scream swallowed up my father’s voice, and blazing heat sent sweat streaming over my face.
“I’ll be under the tree.” I hiccupped the words, hoping my belated obedience would somehow set things right. “I’ll be waiting at the tree, I’ll be waiting, Daddy, I’ll be waiting—”