The Offering

by Angela Hunt

  As my voice grew louder and more confident, Mr. Bouchard averted his gaze and kept his eyes on his notes. I couldn’t help thinking that he didn’t care about what I had to say; he was only waiting to take another jab.

  Fine, then. Punch away.

  “Ms. Lisandra,” he said when I’d finished, “according to your medical file, you reported hemorrhaging on the weekend of April sixth and seventh. This is a common symptom of miscarriage, yet you continued to behave as though you were still pregnant with the Amblours’ fetus. Why did you do that?”

  Troubled by the question, I glanced at my attorney. What was he getting at?

  Mr. Pippen nodded, silently urging me to answer.

  “Because I thought I was still pregnant—and that kind of bleeding doesn’t always mean miscarriage. I had the same kind of spotting when I was pregnant with my daughter, and it meant nothing.”

  Bouchard shuffled a few papers. “According to your medical records, you missed two scheduled ultrasounds at the beginning of your pregnancy—one on the eighteenth of April and another on May eighth. Why did you miss those?”

  “Haven’t we already talked about this?”

  “I’d like to hear about them again.”

  I sighed. “The first cancellation wasn’t my fault—the doctor’s office didn’t have power, so they canceled all appointments.”

  “Why didn’t you set up a scan for the next day?”

  “I tried, but they couldn’t fit me in the schedule.”

  “Is it not true that an ultrasound on that date—April eighteenth—would have revealed an empty uterus? That you were not, in fact, pregnant at all?”

  “I don’t know what it would have revealed.” I felt myself flushing. “I’m not a doctor.”

  “The ultrasound you missed on May eighth—care to explain that one?”

  “I was sick, but I kept my doctor’s appointment.” I pressed my damp palm to the tabletop, repressing the urge to crawl over the table and slap the man. “I was so nauseous I could barely lift my head off the pillow that morning, but I went to the office and we heard a fetal heartbeat.”

  “Because you were pregnant?”

  “Because I was pregnant, sure. But I thought I’d been pregnant all along. We missed the ultrasound because the machine wasn’t working.”

  “Were you not concerned about skipping this ultrasound? And if you’d had it, is it not true that it would have revealed only a gestational sac?”

  “I’m not a doctor; I don’t know what it would have shown. But I wasn’t worried about missing the ultrasound because I knew it wouldn’t make anything better or worse. I knew I was pregnant, and all I wanted was to deliver a healthy baby.”

  “A healthy baby . . . which you did deliver and surrender almost exactly when the Amblour pregnancy would have been forty weeks. A child you delivered without any great concern. A baby you barely glanced at before you let the Amblours leave the country.”

  I gripped the arms of my chair to keep myself firmly in my seat. “I . . . was . . . grieving . . . for my husband.” From the corner of my eye I saw Mr. Pippen straighten. He was probably only seconds away from suggesting that I take a break.

  I sank back and covered my eyes, forcing myself to calm down. Was this man suggesting that I purposely got pregnant with Gideon’s baby so I could wait two years and then bring a case against the Amblours? Perhaps he thought I could be persuaded to drop the matter if his clients would deposit more money in my bank account.

  Or maybe he only wanted the court to hear these details and question my sincerity. Even DNA evidence might not be enough to persuade a judge who believed I had concocted a scheme to blackmail the venerable Amblours.

  I looked at Mr. Pippen, who nodded and smiled as awareness thickened between us. All Bouchard had to do was convince a judge that I had chosen the wealthiest clients offered to me, gotten myself pregnant, covered up a miscarriage, conceived my husband’s child, and intentionally avoided ultrasounds in order to commit fraud. No one who knew me would ever believe I could think up such a plan, but Bouchard had a way of laying out the scenario so fraud seemed a logical conclusion. He might instill enough doubt that a French court would dismiss my legitimate claim and leave Julien in France, ostensibly deciding in the best interests of the child.

  Because what sort of jurist would take a two-year-old from his home and place him with a scheming surrogate?

  I crossed my arms and flashed a brow at Mr. Pippen, telegraphing my newly acquired understanding. Bouchard was using this testimony as preamble, a foundation to build in front of the judge before he swept in with his ridiculous claims.

  But I would tell the complete truth. When Mr. Pippen cross-examined me, he’d ask questions that went to the heart of the matter, and I’d clearly spell out my intentions: I loved my son more than life and wanted to be his mother. And I’d be happy for the Amblours to keep all their money. I didn’t want a penny from them and I’d be happy to return every cent they paid me.

  Mr. Bouchard said something else, breaking into my thoughts.

  “I beg your pardon?” I smiled. “Could you repeat the question?”

  “I said, how much were you paid for carrying this child?”

  Resolved to give him nothing but bare and indisputable facts, I gripped the edge of the table and replied.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The weeks after my deposition passed with agonizing slowness. While I waited, spring bathed central Florida in waves of warmth, coaxing bright green buds from the live oaks and new spears from the palm trees. Caladiums bloomed in pots around Mama Isa’s front porch, and Jorge painted the metal gliders in a fresh coat of yellow to match the ribbons on the porch posts. Marilee spent hours practicing for her spring recital, and at the grocery we arranged packages of sunny marshmallow Peeps in cellophane mountains.

  I wandered through those weeks in a fog, preoccupied with thoughts of France and my absent son. I was certain I would win my case—how could any judge deny a child to his biological mother? If by some chance the case went as far as an international court, how could France deny the United States access to an American citizen?

  The full realization of what victory would mean blossomed in my imagination. I would have to find a way to ease Julien’s transition from the Amblour family to the Lisandra clan, but that would be easy because the Lisandras were eager to welcome him. I should probably find a child psychologist to help me ease the baby’s transition into a new family and a new culture. And then there was the matter of his name—should I call him Gideon Jr. or leave him as Julien? Or perhaps I should name him Gideon Julien Lisandra? Which approach would be best for him?

  I pondered these questions for hours, writing out long lists of pros and cons about each decision, and nearly every day I thought of some aspect of the transition I hadn’t yet considered. How could I comfort Julien without a working knowledge of French? If I hired a tutor for myself, could I pick up enough of the language to help us through our first few weeks together? And how should we manage the transfer? Should I go to France and pick up Julien, or would it be better if the Amblours brought him to me? Maybe it would be less traumatic for all of us if we found an impartial third party to act as an escort on the long flight across the Atlantic.

  I downloaded French language lessons from the Internet, but didn’t find them practical because I couldn’t see the words I heard. I bought a book guaranteed to teach me French in only thirty lessons, but since I couldn’t hear the words, I had no idea how to pronounce them.

  Why couldn’t I have been a surrogate for a couple from Britain or even Spain?

  I also needed a place to live. Marilee and I went to our storage unit and pulled out the dollhouse, then took it back to Mama Isa’s. We set it on the coffee table, then looked at the rooms and decided that the colors of our dream house no longer felt right. I couldn’t explain exactly why the house no longer seemed appropriate—probably because we had designed it for life with Gideon, and that life was finished.
Now we needed to plan a life with Julien, and a little boy seemed to require livelier colors.

  Twice I went out with a real estate agent and looked at homes near the grocery, but those were mostly older structures in dire need of present or future repair. Since Gideon had always been our handyman, I didn’t want to buy any property that would require work beyond basic cleaning. So I ended up looking at newer homes, but most new developments were in north Tampa and far from the heart of the city. The houses were pretty and spacious, but I’d be facing nearly an hour’s drive in dense traffic if the kids and I wanted to join the family at Mama Isa’s on Saturday evenings.

  I’m sure I frustrated the real estate agent, but I couldn’t seem to find anything that would work for us. Or maybe I simply felt uncertain because my future remained unsettled.

  I didn’t even know if or how I’d be employed once Julien came home. If the adjustment period went well and I wanted to remain at the grocery, I would need child care. I could always stop working, but our new house would devour a large percentage of the money I had stashed away. So I would soon find myself in a familiar situation—desperately in need of a college degree—unless I found some other line of work.

  Could I learn more about the grocery business? And would Tumelo consider leaving his stake in the grocery to me so I could eventually pass it to Julien? But what if my son grew up and decided he didn’t want to work in a Cuban grocery?

  How long would I have to confine myself to only dreaming about my son? I nibbled my nails to nubs, prayed until I began to sound like a broken record, and waited to hear from my lawyer.

  Joseph Pippen left for France on Wednesday, April 20. He planned to personally visit with the Amblours and their lawyer, and if he couldn’t prevail upon them to surrender my son, he was going to present a petition before a French court. Though I had begged him to give me a date when we might know something, he gently refused. “Your guess is as good as mine,” he told me the last time we talked. “I’ll know something when I know something, and then I’ll call you. Some things cannot be rushed.”

  The Saturday before Easter I sat at Mama Isa’s long kitchen table and numbly watched Amelia take charge of the children as they colored eggs for the Easter egg hunt. Five-month-old Johny was too young to understand what was going on, but he sat in his baby seat and waved his arms as Marilee dipped eggs into the brilliant dyes and held them before his wide eyes.

  I crossed my arms and felt my mouth curve in a wistful smile. Next year Julien should be sitting at this table with them, his small fingers struggling to hold the flimsy wire that came in the box of egg dye. Marilee would help him, and both of them would entertain little Johny. . . .

  I looked over at Amelia, who was glowing with happiness. Earlier she had shown me the pastel blue suit she bought Johny for Easter, and I teased her about going overboard for the holiday.

  “I don’t care.” She smiled away my comment. “I may have only one kid, so I’m going to do everything I want to do with him. He may be the most overdressed baby in church, but I’ll always have a picture of him in his first Easter suit. And that, prima, will be priceless.”

  I had never seen Amelia so content. I was happy for her, but a wasp of jealousy buzzed in my ear as I watched her give Marilee another batch of hard-boiled eggs. God had answered Amelia’s prayers, but my arms were still empty.

  I tried to hide my resentment, but my expression must have hinted at the turmoil within me. When the children had finished decorating their eggs and Elaine began to clean up, Amelia picked up her son and pulled me aside. “I know seeing me with Johny is hard for you,” she said sotto voce, “but you need to use this time to think about things.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “What things?”

  She gave me a warning look, then shifted her baby to her other hip. “You once told me that I would love Johny because love has nothing to do with genetics.”

  My blood sparked with irritation. “So?”

  “You were right. Love doesn’t have anything to do with biology, yet you are set on having that boy simply because he has Gideon’s DNA. Have you forgotten that those other people love him desperately?”

  My irritation veered sharply to anger. “Maybe I love him desperately. Why shouldn’t I? He has my DNA, too. He should grow up with his real mother.”

  “And what do you think the French woman is, artificial?”

  I took a half step back, stunned by her comment, then shook my head. “Don’t confuse the issue with word play. He’s my son, I love him, and here’s the bottom line—that little boy is all I have left of Gideon.”

  And then, in one of those rare silences in which time slows and the world stands still, my daughter’s silvery voice rang out: “What about me, Mommy?”

  And an avalanche of guilt crashed over me.

  Remorse tightened my throat when I looked into Amelia’s eyes and saw myself reflected in them: a resolute, wounded woman intent on obtaining her rights at any cost.

  My darling daughter smiled up at me, love mingling with uncertainty in her brown eyes. I squirmed under the touch of her loving gaze as my conscience reared its knobby head. I was Marilee’s only remaining parent, but in my all-consuming obsession with Julien I had relegated my daughter to Mama Isa’s care and focused my attention on a child I didn’t even know.

  “I’m sorry, honey,” I told her, my voice hoarse as I bent to look at her. “Of course I have you, and you are Daddy’s favorite girl. Soon we’ll all be together—you, me, and your brother. Everything will be fine then, you’ll see.”

  I had been neglectful, but I would make it up to Marilee. As soon as my baby boy came home.

  * * *

  After the big Easter-egg-decorating party, the women of the Lisandra clan gathered in Mama Isa’s kitchen to clean up spilled dyes and shards of eggshell. I joined them, but ducked into the hallway when my cell phone rang. I pulled it out and felt my heart shift into overdrive when I recognized Mr. Pippen’s number.

  I ran for the relative quiet of my bedroom. “Hello? Mr. Pippen?”

  “Congratulations, Amanda. We scored a home run.”

  A full minute passed before the significance of his words registered, then I blinked in numb astonishment. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

  “The judge placed great weight on the DNA report. In his ruling, he stated that since the Amblours were motivated to pursue surrogacy in order to have a biological child, they could not credibly make a case for keeping a child who was not genetically related to them. He’s ruled that the boy be returned to you.”

  Shock waves radiated from a nexus in my chest, tingling my scalp and numbing my toes. “Julien’s coming home?”

  “I’m holding a court order stating that Julien Louis Amblour be remanded to the custody of his biological mother in less than ten days. I’ll meet with Bouchard tomorrow to establish how we want to handle those arrangements. Would you like to fly over to meet him, or would you like someone to bring him to you?”

  “Could you bring him?” I spoke without thinking, and an instant after saying the words I knew I’d spoken too soon.

  “I’m afraid I need to return to the U.S. sooner rather than later, and I’m sure the Amblours will want to take every one of the ten days they were granted.”

  “Of course they will. Just a minute, I have to think. This is happening too fast.” I pressed my hand to my head and closed my eyes, struggling to put my jumbled thoughts in order. If someone brought Julien to me, he’d either have to travel with Simone, Damien, or an escort, and none of those options would be exactly comforting for a two-year-old, especially if Simone and Damien were distraught. Better, then, for me to go to him. A trip to France might benefit me in other ways, too—I could see Julien in his environment, spend a couple of days absorbing the culture, and then bring my son home and introduce him to the family.

  “I want to get him. I’ll go to France.”

  “Very well. I’ll let you know the details after I’ve talke
d to the Amblours’ attorney.”

  I gripped the edge of a bookcase to steady my swirling head. “Are you sure that’s the end of it? They won’t appeal?”

  “They might, but the boy would live with you while they went through the appeal process, so I’m reasonably sure they won’t. They’ll realize that even the possibility of the child’s going back and forth is not in the boy’s best interests.”

  “Mr. Pippen”—I struggled to find words to describe the sense of elation tingling my toes—“thank you.”

  “It’s been a pleasure. Talk to you soon.”

  I shut off the phone and exhaled in a rush, then looked up to find Amelia, Johny, and Mama Isa peering at me from the doorway.

  Amelia arched a brow. “Was that—”

  I nodded. “Sometime in the next ten days, I’m flying to France to get my son.”

  Mama Isa lifted her hands and shouted while Amelia danced through the hallway with Johny on her hip. I followed them to the kitchen, where Elaine, Marilee, and Yanela joined in the celebration.

  I sank into a chair and lowered my head into my hands. I had won an amazing victory, yet Mr. Pippen’s report left me feeling strangely numb. Perhaps the news hadn’t fully sunk in, or perhaps the victory didn’t feel completely satisfying because Gideon wasn’t around to share it.

  But my heart warmed to see the others’ happy faces. Tonight the entire family would gather around this table and rejoice because one of our own was coming home.

  * * *

  I opened my eyes and saw a black velvet sky; I curled my fists and felt dew-damp grass beneath my fingers. Night noises chirped and whispered around me, along with the steady tick of a cooling car engine. I groaned and lifted my head, silencing the shrill scritch of the crickets as completely as someone pressing the Stop button on a recorder.

  I looked down the length of my body and saw a child’s form and figure—pudgy knees, small sneakers, flat chest. And even as I obeyed an impulse and rolled onto my stomach, I knew I was having the dream again. What did they call this? Lucid dreaming. Dreams in which the dreamer is fully aware of his dream state.