The Offering

by Angela Hunt

  “I’m ready to be done,” I answered, giving her the perfect truth. “More than ready, actually.”

  Amazing that I could feel so ambivalent about a baby in my own belly. Sometimes, like when I sat on the sofa stroking a protruding foot or arm, I wanted to fight to keep him; at other times I couldn’t wait to hand him over to the Amblours. I chuckled at his movements and smiled at his hiccups, but during the night he lay heavily on my midsection, his weight a stone that threatened to squeeze the life right out of me. I told myself that my ambivalence was rooted in my feelings toward Simone—they, too, had waxed and waned over the months.

  I couldn’t explain exactly why, but ever since the day Simone and I had gone shopping together, a rift appeared between us. A tiny tear opened up in that baby boutique and grew wider as the weeks passed. When the piano arrived, the rift became a major fault line. Marilee was delighted to have a grand instrument, of course, but I wanted to be the one who bought a piano for my daughter, and I wanted to wait until she was sixteen or seventeen. If I had worked and sacrificed to provide her with a nice instrument, maybe she would appreciate it more.

  But with one thoughtless stroke, Simone and Damien ripped that possibility away.

  “You’re looking good.” The doctor’s words snapped me back to reality. She finished her exam and told me to hang in there, the baby was intent on taking his time. Apparently he wasn’t the least bit eager to leave.

  “And he’s still undersized,” she added. “He might surprise us, but he’ll probably weigh under six pounds and we want to give the little ones all the time they need to develop. Don’t worry, Mandy, he’ll come out when he’s good and ready.”

  Darn that petite egg donor. If she’d been a bigger woman, maybe this kid would have already run out of room.

  “I won’t worry,” I promised Dr. Hawthorn. “I’ll take my vitamins, I’ll try to get some rest, and I’ll prop my feet up whenever I can. But that won’t be easy with my husband away.” I slid carefully off the exam table, then waddled toward the cubicle where my clothes waited. “I’ll do anything I can for the little pineapple.”

  “Before you leave today,” Dr. Hawthorn called, “have you filed your birth plan?”

  Safe inside the dressing area, I stared at my reflection and blinked. I had taken care of Marilee’s birth plan early on, but this time I hadn’t even thought about filling out the doctor’s questionnaire. Was I really so unattached to this child?

  “Um, no,” I called, reaching for my jeans. “I haven’t.”

  “No worries; we can handle that today. When you come out, you’ll see that we’ve made it easy for you.”

  I had no idea what she meant, but finished dressing as she wished me a good day and left the room.

  When I came out, I found an iPad waiting on the exam table. A sticky note on the surface provided the code to wake the tablet out of hibernation. I followed the directions and watched, thunderstruck, as an electronic form opened, complete with check boxes for various answers to dozens of different questions—all of them pertaining to my impending labor and delivery.

  Make sure you type your name at the top, the screen informed me. When you click Submit, your responses will be sent to our computer and relayed to the hospital of your choice.

  I sat on a small stool, typed in my name and address, then drew a deep breath. Basic information: done. Name of birth coach? I bit my lip and finally typed Simone Amblour. Since I didn’t think anything short of an armed guard could keep her out of the delivery room, I might as well have her do something useful. She could remind me to breathe as well as anyone.

  Labor: Did I want to have an enema upon admission to the hospital? Did I want to wear my own clothes instead of a hospital gown? Did I want to play my own music during labor? Did I want to labor in a birthing tub or shower?

  On and on the questions went, ranging from the general (Did I want people to knock before they entered the room?) to the intimate (Would I rather tear than have an episiotomy or would I rather have an episiotomy than tear?).

  I checked the simplest procedure in each category, particularly in the anesthesia section: I would like to have an epidural as soon as permissible.

  And anything else they wanted to give me.

  I paused, however, when it came to the section on delivery: Who did I want to catch the baby? Did I want the baby placed on my stomach immediately after delivery? Who did I want to cut the cord?

  Did I even have the right to answer those questions? Or should the baby’s parents decide those things? And if I dared to check the box for wanting to see and hold the baby against my skin, would Simone overrule me?

  Would such a decision even be wise?

  The last few sections dealt with newborn care and breastfeeding, so I ignored them. But those topics in between—who decided?

  I finally left the questions blank and decided to let the situation unfold naturally. This child wasn’t mine, and if Simone and Damien wanted to arm-wrestle for the privilege of cutting the cord, I’d let them. I’d simply lean back and drift away on a sleepy narcotic tide.

  I wasn’t being paid to referee.

  * * *

  Though the baby was due December first, on November fourteenth Dr. Hawthorn mentioned that my cervix hadn’t even begun to thin out. “I don’t want to worry you,” she insisted, “because babies keep their own timetables. I just thought I’d mention it so you won’t worry about this little guy coming in the middle of your Thanksgiving dinner. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if he chooses to make an entrance a week or so after his due date.”

  I drove home, irritated by the thought of being pregnant longer than I wanted to be, then a new email from Simone annoyed me further. She and Damien had decided to come to Florida early, she wrote, so they were going to rent a house on the beach before the baby’s birth and stay until they felt comfortable with the essentials of infant care.

  “We need some time to relax,” she said, “so we thought we might take a vacation and soak in the sun before the busy day arrives. We do not want you to feel like a watched pot, of course, but if we rent a place we will be only minutes away from the hospital when you go into labor. We thought the news would put your mind at ease—we will arrive on time, so you should not worry about us flying over the Atlantic. We will remain in Florida a few weeks, since the grape harvest is finished and there is no urgent reason to return to Domaine de Amblour. In any case, our doctor says a newborn should not fly until he is at least a week old. Too much exposure to germs in that closed environment.”

  Though I would never ask the question outright, I wondered if their decision to linger in Florida had anything to do with alleviating the public impression that the couple had taken an overnight trip and returned with an instant baby. If they remained away from home several weeks, some of their neighbors might even wonder if Simone had been pregnant and given birth while abroad—or maybe I was being paranoid. Surrogacy was no longer the deep secret it had once been, and why should I care about what they told their friends and neighbors?

  I wanted to hand over their baby, receive my final payment, and wave good-bye as they flew back to France. I wanted to welcome my husband home and start preparing for a son of my own.

  After delivering the baby, I wanted to get busy living the rest of my life.

  * * *

  By the time I sank onto a bench outside Macy’s, I knew I had to be out of my mind.

  It was all my mother’s idea, of course. She’d driven over for Thanksgiving, endured the big holiday dinner at Mama Isa’s, and then insisted we do something the next day with “just our side of the family.” That meant that she, Marilee, and I got up at 5:00 a.m. and went out to commemorate Black Friday . . . while I was a week shy of full term.

  After three hours of standing in long lines, fighting the crowd, carrying heavy shopping bags and a bowling ball out in front, I felt as exhausted as a runaway dog.

  Mom dropped beside me on the bench, a bag in each hand, and gazed at me
with wide, innocent eyes. “Are you tired?”

  I glanced at Marilee, who was dancing with curiosity because both of Mom’s shopping bags contained gifts for her.

  “I’m wiped out,” I answered, resisting the urge to employ a little sarcasm. “The honeydew melon I’m carrying keeps kicking my kidneys. It really doesn’t like all this walking.”

  “Nonsense. Exercise is good for everyone, especially expectant mothers. Besides, you should be walking to bring on labor. After all, aren’t the French people already in town?”

  “They’re here. They’ve rented a place on Sandpiper Drive, but I’m not driving by the house because I’m done for the day. But if you want to take me home and keep shopping, Marilee might want to join you.”

  “Ice cream!” Marilee clapped and grinned at her grandma. “Can we get ice cream?”

  “Of course we can, precious.” Mom tweaked Marilee’s cheek. “But we can get it on the way home.”

  I lifted a brow. “At nine thirty in the morning?”

  “If she wants it, why not?”

  I sighed, knowing it was useless to protest. Ordinarily we’d be hard-pressed to find an ice cream shop open at this hour, but no one kept normal business hours on Black Friday.

  “Well, look who’s here.”

  I looked up when the familiar voice startled me. Amelia and Mario were coming toward us, both of them looking a lot fresher than I felt.

  I pressed my hand to my belly. The little guy inside was judo-chopping my ribs—I had probably disturbed his midmorning nap.

  “Finding many bargains?” I asked.

  Amelia shrugged. “Found a few things in the men’s department. And there’s a great housewares sale at Dillard’s. I came out here, though, because I wanted to get a book that’s supposed to be good.”

  “What’s it about?” I asked, hoping she’d found a novel that would take my mind off this pregnancy.

  “International adoption. These days I’m reading everything I can find on the subject.”

  Mom tugged on my sleeve, her eyes shining. “Mandy, honey, would you mind waiting here while I check out the housewares sale? I’ve been looking for new dishes.”

  I blew out a breath, grateful for the opportunity to rest a bit longer. Even the walk back to the car seemed daunting. “Go ahead.”

  “Are you sure? You’re not having contractions or anything?”

  “Not a twinge. Go, and take Marilee with you. But she’s slippery, so keep an eye on her.”

  Mom’s mouth tightened. “You talk like I don’t have any experience with children. I won’t let her get away.” She held out her hand to Marilee, who took it and skipped in time to my mom’s slower pace.

  Mario pointed toward a sports store down the mall, then said something in Spanish. Amelia nodded. “Hasta luego.”

  I waited until he walked off, then patted the bench next to me. “Have a seat. I’ve a feeling empty benches will be hard to find in an hour or so.”

  Amelia sat and took a long swig from the soft drink in her hand. “I like your mom, but you must take after your father. She’s nothing like you.”

  I snorted. “Have you looked at us? Mom and I have the same pointed nose and the same sharp chin. Even Marilee inherited the chin, but thank heaven she got Gideon’s nose.”

  “I meant your personalities are nothing alike. She seems so regimented, and you’re so”—she shrugged—“not.”

  “I think”—I hesitated, wishing she’d drop the subject—“maybe I’m more like my dad.”

  Oblivious to the quaver in my voice, Amelia sipped her drink again, then tilted her head. “By the way, how’s your mother handling your pregnancy? Is she still against the idea?”

  I pressed my hands to my lower back and tried to stretch. “Mom is conveniently ignoring my belly. She never mentions the pregnancy unless I bring it up.”

  “Really?”

  I shrugged. “In a way, I don’t blame her. If this were my baby, she’d be all excited about having a grandson, but what’s she supposed to feel when it’s someone else’s child? It’s weird, that’s all. And Mom’s always been old-fashioned. When I was a kid, she never wanted to talk about human reproduction.”

  “So you grew up thinking that storks brought babies?”

  “Until Sally Hinson told all the girls in fifth grade phys ed that babies grew in bellies and daddies planted the seeds.”

  Amelia fizzed with laughter while I stood to encourage blood flow to my lower legs. When Amelia finally stopped chuckling, she took another sip from her straw, then grinned up at me. “Did your mom enjoy Thanksgiving yesterday?”

  “I guess. I don’t think she understood much of what was happening, though. She doesn’t speak Spanish.”

  “But neither do you.”

  “I don’t speak much. But being around you guys has done a lot to improve my skills of interpretation. For instance, I had no idea what Mario said a minute ago, but I knew he told you he was going to the sports store and he’d be back soon.”

  Amelia snorted. “You know us too well.”

  I shrugged. “But Mom doesn’t know you at all. So she couldn’t help feeling a little left out.”

  “Sorry. We tried to be friendly.”

  “I know, but my mom isn’t the type to put herself out there. You either meet her on her turf or”—I shrugged again—“you don’t meet her.”

  “That’s too bad.” Amelia shook her cup, rattling the ice inside, then looked at me, her eyes shining with affection. “It’s a good thing you’re not like that, or you’d never have met Gideon. And you wouldn’t have me for a cousin-in-law.”

  I sat and leaned back, bracing my weight on my arms as I smiled. “And you’d never have a cousin who’s a gringa. Speaking of la familia, what’s the latest on the adoption front? Have you talked to your social worker lately?”

  Amelia stood to toss her cup into a trash can. When she sat again her smile held a touch of sadness. “I talked to her a couple of days ago. I called to check in and Helen was nice, like always. But she hasn’t placed any children this month, and there aren’t any suitable kids available for us. That’s why I wanted to pick up that new book—to see if there were any new avenues for finding kids.”

  “With all the children needing homes, you’d think—”

  “It’s not that easy. And I can guess what our file says: ‘Mario and Amelia are a young Hispanic couple with no parenting experience but a good support system. They prefer an infant, but would accept a child up to age three with correctible medical conditions.’ ” She crinkled her nose. “Sounds awfully clinical and not terribly appealing. But no, we haven’t heard anything.”

  I nodded. After a long moment, I added a postscript: “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay.” She crossed her legs and straightened as she stared into the crowd around us. “All we can do is wait.”

  I wanted to suggest that we were in the same boat, but I knew we weren’t. My time of waiting had a definite end in sight, but hers stretched into the unknown.

  So we sat on the bench together, both of us waiting on a child.

  * * *

  Feeling like an overstuffed sack of skin, I had just settled in front of the TV to watch something mindless and entertaining when Gideon came into the room, his duffel bag slung over his shoulder.

  “Gid—no.” The sight of his gear never failed to send a tremor up the back of my neck, but this time dread lodged in my throat, making it difficult to speak.

  “Mandy, baby—”

  “You can’t go now. I could go into labor at any time.”

  “I’m sorry, baby girl.” Gideon knelt on the carpet and caught my hands. “I know this is a lousy time to leave, but I should only be away a couple of days, three or four at the longest. I’ve spoken to my mom, and she’ll stay with you if you want. Or you could call your mother—”

  “But the timing! Surely your commander—”

  “The doctor said you had a couple of weeks, right?”

&nbs
p; “She said babies keep their own timetable. I don’t know when it’s going to come.” I stared at his face, at his eyes, which asked me to trust him.

  So I would.

  I lowered my voice. “Your mission isn’t dangerous, is it?”

  “Nothing’s dangerous for Captain America.”

  “I’m not kidding, Gid. If you got hurt, I don’t know what I’d do—”

  “Have I been hurt before? Now stop worrying; it’s not good for you. I want you to be strong so you can deliver this kid and we can get on with making our own babies and finding a nice house to raise them in. I still want a son, you know.”

  I drew a breath, then kept silent. Gideon was right, of course. He knew his job, and I knew he was completely competent. His unit was one of the best; that’s why they were called out to handle tough situations.

  I even knew why he didn’t ask for permission to stay home—over the past several years other family men, scores of them, had gone to war and missed their anniversaries, their children’s birthdays, and their babies’ births. . . .

  “I’ll miss you,” I said, my voice gentle. “And if something goes wrong at the hospital, I’ll be waiting at the river.”

  “Nothing’s going to happen to you, honey. And if you need any help, ask la familia. They’ll be here before you can say Ayúdeme, por favor.”

  “I’ll be waiting at the river, Gideon.”

  His eyes softened and melted into mine. “Okay, have it your way. Though I don’t think anything’s going to happen to either of us, I’ll meet you under the tree.”

  And then, as moonlight streamed through the open window and painted a rectangle of light onto that blasted grand piano, Snake Billings rolled up in the driveway and honked the horn. Gideon kissed the top of my head, then picked up his duffel bag. “Give Marilee a kiss for me,” he said, his smile deepening the dimple in his left cheek.