The Offering

by Angela Hunt

Chapter Fifteen

  Two days before Christmas, I managed to snag an appointment with a family attorney who had several offices in the area. According to the ad in the Yellow Pages, attorney Joseph Pippen would do all he could to protect my rights in various family matters, including adoption cases, marriage and property disputes, and paternity testing.

  I had a feeling my case could involve everything on his list.

  My stomach was a quivering mess as I dressed for my appointment. I had never consulted a lawyer before, never thought about suing anyone for anything. Everything I knew about legal matters had come from watching television crime dramas, and I knew how unrealistic those shows could be. But the Amblours were wealthy, and wealth and power usually went hand in hand. They might be able to influence their local officials, they might even have friends who were judges. They probably kept a family lawyer on retainer and golfed with him on weekends.

  So even before I stepped foot into my lawyer’s office, I felt intimidated and overwhelmed.

  A cheery receptionist in a red Christmas sweater ushered me into Mr. Pippen’s office and offered me a cup of coffee. Feeling jittery enough without chemical additives, I shook my head and took a seat, grateful for an opportunity to look around and size up the man who might be instrumental in assuring my family’s future.

  The reception area had been decked with Christmas garlands and red bows, but Mr. Pippen’s office remained free of holiday decorations. His wooden desk and bookshelves gleamed in the light from a pair of brass lamps, some kind of award featuring a golden microphone sat on the corner of his desk, and a picture of a baseball player hung in a niche inside his bookcase. A baseball glove rested on the top of a short bookcase, adding to the baseball theme, and a framed poster of the 1995 Cleveland Indians hung by the window.

  I smiled, figuring the man had to be some kind of a radio host and rabid baseball fan from Ohio. A transplant, maybe even a snowbird who’d flown to Florida one winter and decided to stay.

  Joseph Pippen entered with long strides and immediately shook my hand. “Mrs. Lisandra, so nice to meet you,” he said, smiling beneath a thicket of tousled brown hair. “How can I help you?”

  He sat in the opposite guest chair while I attempted to explain my case without using anything but factual terms. “I don’t know that Julien Amblour is my son,” I said, struggling to repress the tremor threatening to creep into my voice, “but the resemblance in the photos certainly suggests he could be. I also have a statement from my doctor saying it’s medically possible the boy is mine. What I need, Mr. Pippen, is a DNA test, but I have no idea how to go about getting one.”

  The lawyer gave me a bright-eyed glance, filled with shrewdness. “You say Julien is supposed to be Damien Amblour’s biological son. So if a test proves otherwise, he’s your son by default.”

  “And my late husband’s,” I added, restating the obvious. “And therefore not related to the Amblours at all.”

  Mr. Pippen studied my face for a long moment, then he nodded and tapped a pencil against the legal pad in his lap. “Getting DNA from a French citizen might be tricky. Anytime you venture into international courts, you’re playing an entirely different ball game, with quite a few different rules. The fact that surrogacy is illegal in France only complicates the matter further.”

  I closed my eyes, sensing the stealthy approach of discouragement. What did I know about international law? “So this is going to be impossible?”

  “Not at all. As my Little League coach used to say, ‘If you want something badly enough, there’s always a way to win.’ ”

  I lifted my head, wondering how far the lawyer would go to help me get my son. If he exhausted every available legal avenue, did he know international lawyers who could be hired to persuade judges with a sizable financial gift? Or maybe he had connections who knew shadowy agents who might be willing to snatch the boy. . . .

  I looked away, afraid that Mr. Pippen would see my wild imaginings in my eyes. Ordinarily I’d obey every law and submit to every authority, but this case wasn’t about property or intellectual rights, it was about my son. And surely a mother’s right to raise her own child was God given and inalienable. Because I had done nothing wrong, no nation, agency, or man ought to be allowed to take that right from me.

  And time was of the essence. I couldn’t ignore the fact that Julien was undoubtedly becoming more attached to the Amblours with every passing day. The longer we waited for an affirmative response from France, the harder it would be for Julien to adjust to his true family.

  I turned and met the attorney’s gaze head-on. “Do you really think we can win this fight through the courts?”

  “I do. But we might have to play hardball, and the process of convincing the other party to agree to genetic testing could take months. On the other hand, if you’re right about how much that couple wanted a biological heir, they may not fight your request for custody if a DNA test establishes that the boy isn’t genetically related. But I wouldn’t bet on that outcome—the child has been with them two full years, and that’s plenty of time to establish a tight bond between parents and child. Mr. Amblour may not feel as strongly about the importance of rearing his biological offspring after living so long with this boy.”

  My heart rode a roller coaster, rising in hope and plunging in despair with every point the lawyer made. By the time he finished his summation, I felt as though I’d been hanging on for dear life.

  But at least I was still on the ride.

  Mr. Pippen pressed his finger to his lips, then nodded as if he’d made a decision. “International law can be complicated, but the passive personality principle states that a court may assert jurisdiction over persons outside a nation’s territory on the basis that one of its citizens has been harmed.”

  I stared at the man, my head spinning. “Would you care to explain that in layman’s terms?”

  The lawyer smiled. “No matter who his parents are, this child is an American citizen by virtue of being born in Florida—and our nation doesn’t take kindly to people of other nations who deprive our citizens of their rights. If the boy is your son, we would try to convince a judge that the child is suffering harm by being kept from his biological mother, a woman willing and eager to raise him. If that approach fails and he is your child, then what transpired at the Surrogacy Center is tantamount to baby selling. You were hired to carry their son; if he’s yours, you mistakenly handed over your son for compensation.”

  I blinked through a fog of confusion. “But Natasha Bray didn’t intend to hand over my child. And she took great pains to be sure I was compensated every month for my time and effort, not for delivering the baby. She insisted that no money change hands when the baby was born.

  “Doesn’t matter. Inadvertent baby selling is still baby selling. Putting a woman’s own baby on a payment plan—it’s highly unethical.”

  He stared into the distance a moment more, then sighed in what looked like contentment. “I think we could put together a convincing case and persuade the court to order genetic testing. If the child turns out to be biologically related to his French father, the matter is settled. But if he is not related to Mr. Amblour, I am sure we could apply enough pressure to convince the court to order the boy’s return to Florida.”

  Thrilled by his last words, I fisted my hands, but Mr. Pippen shot me a warning look. “This won’t be a quick fix. International disputes can take months and involve a lot of lawyers. It won’t be easy and it won’t be inexpensive. Are you quite sure you want to pursue this?”

  I stared at him, amazed that he could even ask the question. “I’m willing to do whatever it takes.”

  He nodded slowly, then stood and extended his hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Lisandra, and a Merry Christmas to you and yours. I look forward to working on your case.”

  * * *

  Mr. Pippen’s warning rang in my ears as I drove back to Mama Isa’s: International disputes can take months and involve a lot of lawyers.

>   Months? I had already been separated from the child who could be my son for two years. I’d missed his infancy, his immunizations, his first steps, and his first words. If he belonged to me, he should be learning to speak English and Spanish, not French. If he was mine, he should grow up learning how to play baseball and hearing how wonderful his father was, not playing in some circular stone tower.

  If he was my son, he had no business living in a vineyard. He should be playing with his sister and building sand castles on Clearwater Beach. He should be watching his new baby cousin sleep in his daddy’s oak cradle.

  I parked in my usual spot at Mama Isa’s, then walked toward the house. The tinny sounds of her old piano seeped through the windows as Marilee practiced her lessons. Not wanting to interrupt, I slipped into the living room and pressed a kiss to the top of my daughter’s head, then went to my bedroom and closed the door.

  I needed time to think. To breathe. To adjust to the idea that I might have to wait a long time before my questions would be answered.

  I kicked off my shoes and fell back on the bed, then stared at the ceiling, my mind vibrating with a thousand thoughts. If the Amblours lived in the United States, this process wouldn’t be so complicated. If I only had some sort of genetic sample from Damien Amblour, maybe I could somehow expedite the process. . . .

  A solitary fact, unanchored and overlooked, slipped into my awareness. I did have a genetic specimen, but from Julien, not Damien. I had two birthday cards and two different samples of the boy’s hair. And I’d watched enough episodes of CSI to realize that DNA could be taken from a single strand.

  I opened the nightstand drawer and searched for the vellum envelopes. They lay beneath my Bible, safely put away, and as I opened each of them another tidbit from CSI surfaced in my consciousness. A hair that had been snipped from someone’s head wouldn’t work because DNA wasn’t found in the hair itself, but in the follicle. I needed a hair that had been once rooted to the head, which meant my options would be limited to the first card, for which Simone had gathered a few strands of fine hair from a sheet or towel, not a barber’s drape.

  I picked up several hairs and examined them, then turned on the lamp and held them up to the light. After a moment of searching, I felt a smile spread over my lips. Unless my eyes were deceiving me, a tiny lump remained on the end of at least two hairs, and those lumps were genetic gold mines.

  I opened another drawer, found a piece of tissue paper, carefully wrapped the hair in the paper, then folded the package small enough to fit in an envelope. I sealed the envelope, then wrote the date and JULIEN LOUIS on the outside. Satisfied that the sample was safe, I tucked it back inside my drawer.

  Now that I had DNA from Julien, I wouldn’t need anything from Damien. All I needed was my DNA, and I’d be willing to pluck myself bald if I couldn’t find a lab that would swab my cheek.

  I was about to reach for the Yellow Pages when I remembered that I wouldn’t have to find a lab. Shortly after Desert Storm, the military began keeping blood samples from every member of the U.S. Armed Forces, ostensibly to help with the identification of remains. In Gaithersburg, Maryland, a freezing chamber contained vacuum-sealed envelopes with two drops of blood from thousands of people, including my husband—and the facility would maintain that genetic sample for fifty years.

  I sat back on the bed, startled by how simple the answer could be. I could ask Mr. Pippen to pursue a court order if I had to, but I knew Snake Billings, the special operator who could get anything from anyone. If Snake would work his magic and do me this favor, I wouldn’t have to visit a lab at all.

  I reached for my purse, pulled out my phone, and scrolled through my contact list. I hadn’t spoken to Snake since we moved to Mama Isa’s, but I knew he’d do anything for Gideon, even now.

  If anyone could help me get access to Gideon’s DNA and a genetic test, Snake could.

  * * *

  At the Christmas Eve service, I held Marilee’s hand during the candle lighting and joined in the liturgical readings. My forearms pebbled with gooseflesh as the choir sang carols that sounded like echoes from a circle of angels. I caught Yanela’s eye and smiled as we slipped out of our pew and lowered ourselves to the narrow wooden kneelers for prayer.

  Then I settled back for the traditionally short homily. Though I wanted to feel the Christmas spirit, I had other things on my mind—the DNA evidence I’d given to Snake, the test he had promised to obtain, the boy who could be my son over in France. What did Simone and Damien do to celebrate Christmas? How much about the holiday did little Julien understand?

  Unable to find answers to my questions, I pasted on a mildly interested expression and let my mind wander. I was pondering how I should cook the potatoes for tomorrow’s dinner when a phrase from the priest’s sermon jerked me back to reality: Mary was a surrogate mother.

  I blinked and lifted my head, then glanced down the pew to see if the phrase had caught anyone else’s attention. Mama Isa had her gaze on the flickering candles by the altar and Jorge had already nodded off. I thought Amelia might feel the pressure of my gaze and turn toward me, but she was focused on her baby, rubbing his back as he slept on her shoulder. Mario wore the dazed look of a sleep-deprived father, so he probably hadn’t heard a word the priest said.

  “You heard me correctly,” the priest repeated, squinting out over the packed church. “The other day I was reading a newspaper article about technology and it struck me that Mary was, in a sense, a surrogate mother. She bore a child for someone else; she carried a baby for the world. For you. For me.”

  I stared at the small priest behind the pulpit. Candles from a nearby candelabrum glimmered on his shiny head, and his spectacles flashed every time he looked up from his notes. The man wasn’t much to look at, but his comment had hooked me.

  “Mary wasn’t the first surrogate depicted in the Bible,” the priest continued, shooting a wry smile across the congregation. “In a misguided effort to produce the child of promise, Sarah gave her handmaid to Abraham, thus producing Ishmael, whose descendants have been contending with the children of Isaac ever since. Rachel and Leah, two sisters who were also rivals, each gave her handmaid to Jacob so the servant could bear children for her mistress.”

  “But Mary had no rival, nor did she seek the privilege of bearing God’s only son. Instead God chose her, knowing she had a generous and faithful heart, and then God warned her about the pain her heart would suffer. When she presented the baby Jesus at the Temple, Simeon the prophet told her that a sword would pierce her soul.”

  Marilee stirred beside me. When I glanced down, she was looking up at me, a question in her brown eyes.

  I lifted a brow, silently giving her permission to whisper.

  She leaned over to reach my ear. “Did Joseph die, too?”

  My heart twisted when I realized that Marilee had linked the Holy Family and surrogacy to Gideon’s sacrifice. “No, honey.” I slipped my arm around her shoulder and smoothed her hair. “Joseph didn’t die; he lived with Jesus many years. For a long time, they were a happy family . . . just like we were.”

  I waited, searching for signs of confusion in her eyes, but apparently my explanation satisfied her. She settled back in the pew and folded her hands in her lap.

  I looked at the priest, inwardly groaning under a load of guilt. Marilee rarely spoke about my time as a surrogate, so I had no idea she had linked it to Gideon’s death.

  “Time proved Simeon right,” the priest continued. “Though Scripture does not record everything Mary endured as she raised the child Jesus, we know she experienced the pain of Christ’s birth and his death. She tasted the bitterest agony a mother can know, but for every pain she experienced a corresponding joy. She rejoiced with the angels at Jesus’s birth, she rejoiced in her son when he performed his first miracle at the wedding in Cana. And after that bitter, excruciating death on the cross, Mary rejoiced to know that Jesus had risen from the dead and promised to send his Spirit, whose arrival she witnes
sed at Pentecost.

  “Yes, a sword pierced Mary’s soul, and yes, she suffered. But she still offered up her son, and no one has greater love than one who willingly sacrifices for another. So this Christmas, as you consider the immeasurable love God has for us, take a moment to consider the love Mary had for God—an unselfish love that resulted in salvation for the world. For whom are you showing that kind of love? For whom are you suffering, and for whom are you willing to undergo the agonizing pain love sometimes requires?”

  I sat very still, thinking, as the choir began to sing.

  * * *

  To my surprise and delight, Marilee slept late on Christmas morning, allowing me to snatch an extra hour of rest. By the time we sleepyheads made our way to the kitchen, Mama Isa had pastries on the table, a sausage casserole in the oven, and hot cider simmering on the stove. A CD player on top of the refrigerator played “Jingle Bell Rock” in Spanish as Jorge danced through the house draping silver icicles on anyone who got in his way.

  Marilee and I sat at the table to wait for breakfast, but Mama Isa would have none of that. “Get that child to the Christmas tree,” she scolded, a happy light in her eye. “Let her open a few presents before all the others get here. If you want to have any time alone with tu hija, you had better grab it now.”

  So we went into the den, where Marilee pulled out the presents I’d wrapped and stashed under the tall Christmas tree. I sat cross-legged on the carpet, a mug of cider in hand, and felt a little guilty for waiting until the last minute to do my shopping. I had every intention of getting an early start this year, but I’d been plagued by inertia until I received the Amblours’ cards. Since seeing those photos, my quest to discover the truth about Julien had pushed almost every other concern from my mind.

  Fortunately, a week ago Mama Isa reminded me of my duty to my daughter, and shopping for Marilee helped me remember that I also needed to get a gift for the newest addition to the family. Twice I’d driven over to see Johny, Amelia’s and Mario’s baby boy, and each time an awestruck Amelia had offered him to me as if he were the rarest of treasures.