The Photographer

by Mary Dixie Carter

  Ever since our agreement, Amelia had assumed an intense intimacy with me, along with a kind of proprietary manner. She had chosen me and my womb, and I belonged to her. Amelia now felt justified in keeping tabs on me. I can’t say that I minded. It had been so long since anyone cared what I did or where I went. Her attention, almost oppressive in its concentration, was a wild departure from what I was used to.

  The Straubs gave me a key to the main house and told me to come and go as I liked. It was a feeling of welcome and inclusion unlike any that I’d had before. I was no longer hovering on the edge of something. I had reached the center. I had arrived.

  On my second day in my new apartment, I spent several hours unpacking. I decided to borrow some garbage bags from the Straubs and was jittery with excitement at the thought of using my personal key to their house for the first time. I felt a surge of energy as I unlocked their front door.

  Standing in the entry, I overheard Amelia’s voice. “Delta can fend for herself.”

  I was surprised to hear Ian’s voice: “She’s derailing her life. You don’t see that?”

  I resented Ian’s interference and was about to tell him so, when I turned and saw Itzhak several feet away from me. The dog’s body was tense and low to the ground, and his tail was stiff. Itzhak lunged toward me, jaw open, and his teeth closed on my ankle. I screamed.

  Amelia and Ian appeared in the stair hall, both of them stunned. “Noooo!” Amelia yelled at the dog, and yanked his collar. “Get away from her!”

  Itzhak crouched, growling.

  “Delta, are you OK?” Ian looked shaken. He put his hand on my arm.

  My heart was pounding in my chest. I was trembling. I sat on the hall bench, and Ian sat next to me. I pulled my sock down to reveal bite marks. The dog’s teeth had broken the skin, but barely.

  “This is crazy.” Amelia’s voice was strident. She was extremely agitated. “He never bites anyone.” Pulling him by the collar, Amelia led Itzhak away to the home office. I heard her close the door.

  I was ashamed that the dog had bitten me. I feared the incident would undermine Amelia’s belief that I was part of the family.

  She reappeared a few moments later with antiseptic and a bandage.

  “It’s not a big deal.” I was trying to speak in a calm voice. “I had a tetanus shot last year.” I didn’t want to reveal how much the dog had frightened me.

  “I’m so sorry, Delta.” She looked stricken.

  I must have caught Itzhak by surprise. That’s what I told myself repeatedly. His eyesight was poor and he was confused about who I was. Even so, it took several days for me to shake off the episode and return to my former feeling of optimism.

  * * *

  A week later Amelia and Fritz accompanied me to the Manhattan fertility clinic they’d chosen. The reception area, with its marble floors, high-vaulted ceilings, and enormous windows resembled a ballroom. I wondered how much the fertility doctors charged, in order to pay for all the marble. We each filled out our respective questionnaire and waited before Dr. Krasnov called us into his office. I saw him assess Amelia when she entered the office. She was wearing a peach-colored dress, a peach scarf, and matching lipstick. On someone else, the outfit might have appeared cloying, but her acute sense of style overrode any such possibility. Her silky hair fell toward her face.

  The doctor probably smelled Amelia’s money and her desperation. That was his job—to monetize her desperation. He fed off people’s deficits. He wasn’t invested in her happiness. But I was. Truly, I was.

  I admired Krasnov’s skill and emotional intelligence in navigating the charged situation. He knew not to offend anyone, even with his subtle nods or tone of voice, or turn of the head, or gesture of the hand. He understood the power dynamics. Amelia and Fritz had one kind of power. I had another kind. I had the power to bear a child. I had something Amelia yearned for. She and Fritz had money and a superior socioeconomic status.

  He most likely dealt with many people who had some explicit or implicit financial gain at stake. I felt certain he had never seen a surrogate with my level of apparent breeding. I say apparent because I’ve had to play catch-up. It was only after graduating from college that I had opportunities to improve my lot in life. And frankly, most surrogates are similar to my own parents in their socioeconomic status. He had seen women who were struggling, but savvy enough to make it appear that they were not struggling too much. Those women wanted to avoid the impression that they had ever taken drugs or entered into high-risk situations with abusive boyfriends or spouses. That they had ever drank alcohol to excess or smoked cigarettes at all. They wanted to give the impression that they lived moderate, wholesome, and health-conscious lives. Because any really trashy genes, they might soak into the baby in undefined and inarticulable ways.

  The doctor had already reviewed our questionnaires, looking for discrepancies in terms of our expectations. The only question I’d hesitated to answer was the question about my access to the child after it was born. My desire was to be a presence in the child’s life forever. But at the same time, I didn’t want to give the Straubs cause to question my agenda. Not at this stage.

  On a scale of 1 to 5, on the question of how much time I’d like to spend with the child once he or she was born, I circled 3.

  Amelia suggested that I circle 4. “It takes a village.” She laughed.

  I changed my answer, then studied her face afterward, trying to determine if I detected any discomfort.

  I had agreed to consult with the Straubs on all medical decisions along the way and to allow them to take the lead on where the baby would be delivered. They would have input on my diet and lifestyle during the pregnancy. If the child had birth defects, it would be terminated. If I had more than two embryos, one would be terminated. We weren’t working with a surrogacy agency because Amelia said she feared an agency would slow the process down. But I thought she really feared that someone’s mind would change—maybe Fritz’s, maybe mine. I hypothesized that she wanted to rush the surrogacy through. She needn’t have worried that my mind was going to change. I wanted the baby as much as she did.

  Across from the doctor, I was seated between Amelia and Fritz, as if I were their child. Periodically, Amelia patted my shoulder or my hand.

  “Why does surrogacy interest you, Delta?” the doctor asked. “Why do you want to be a surrogate?” He leaned back in his chair and crossed his ankles.

  I’d been hoping that he’d direct most of his questions to Amelia and Fritz. “I love Amelia. I love Fritz.”

  “But why do you want to be their surrogate?” He crossed his arms over his chest. His sleeve hiked up slightly, revealing his Patek Philippe watch.

  “We were discussing that yesterday.” I looked to Amelia for assistance.

  “We’re like family,” Amelia said. “Delta, Fritz, Natalie, and I … we feel like we’re family.”

  She beamed at me throughout the entire interview, as if she were so proud of me. And I recognized that, because I was going to bear her child, she saw me as her child too. And it was one of the most wonderful experiences I’d ever had. Feeling like I mattered to that degree. Amelia couldn’t lavish her attention on the baby yet. But she could lavish her attention on me. The moment I met Amelia, I had longed to be her child. This was the closest I would ever come.

  “But you’re not family.” The doctor tilted his head down and peered at us over the top of his glasses in an accusatory fashion.

  “How do you define family?” Amelia’s tone had some defiance.

  The doctor turned his body away from us and toward his monitor. I sensed he was irritated by Amelia’s question and her attitude, though he did well disguising it.

  Fritz looked up at the plaques on the doctor’s walls—announcing the awards he’d won and the degrees conferred upon him.

  The doctor appeared to be searching for something on his computer. “You’ve known each other less than a year?”

  “I will feel fulfilled if I�
��m able to help Amelia and Fritz.” I made an effort to speak at a normal volume and at a normal pace.

  “How does it benefit you?” The doctor peered over his glasses again.

  “Bringing a child into the world.” I pressed the heel of one of my shoes deep into my other foot, hoping the pain would distract me from my self-consciousness.

  “You have a son?” The doctor pursed his lips.

  “Yes.” My heart rate quickened. I felt perspiration under my clothing.

  “How old is he?” He smiled benignly.

  “Five.”

  The doctor sighed and placed his fingertips together, making the shape of a roof in front of his chin. “Your personal situation, it’s not the typical profile I see.”

  I looked down and noticed the hem of my pants was loose.

  “So I have to be cautious.” He sighed. “And I expect Amelia and Fritz to be especially cautious. Why don’t you want to have another child of your own?”

  “I might one day.”

  “Yes?” He collapsed the roof of his fingers down, then brought them back up.

  “I loved how my body felt when I was pregnant.” I placed my hand on my abdomen.

  “Where did you deliver?”

  “Hmmm?” I feared that sweat stains were showing under my arms.

  “Where did you deliver your son?”

  Breathing in my core, low in my center. I’d practiced my answers. “California.”

  “The hospital and doctor?”

  “A natural birth center. It was … a midwife.”

  The doctor smiled and squinted. “Vaginal?”

  “Mm-hmm.” Could he prove that I had or had not given birth before?

  “Epidural?” He tapped his fingertips together lightly.

  I shook my head. Low breathing in my core. I thought that Amelia might prefer that I have a C-section and be put under so that I’d have no opportunity to bond with the baby.

  “Any issues or complications with the prior pregnancy?”

  “No.”

  He looked down at the paperwork in front of him on the desk. “Did you breastfeed?”

  Why was that any of his business?

  “I hardly think it’s relevant.” Amelia sniffed. “The baby will have formula just like Natalie did.”

  “OK.” The doctor raised his eyes to meet mine. “OK.” He didn’t trust me, but so far he wasn’t standing in my way.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The wheels were set in motion. I was on my way to carrying the Straubs’ baby. The embryo transfer was to take place in the middle of May. The hormones and steroids that I took leading up to it were debilitating. I felt sick most of the time, nauseous and bloated, but the physical side effects weren’t as taxing as the anxiety—the buzzing undercurrent of fear that it might not work. Amelia would lose faith in me quickly if I wasn’t successful. She would move on to another surrogate or birth mother. Her adoration would vanish if I failed her.

  I’d had several unexpected visits from Ian since I moved. If he was dropping off plans for Amelia and Fritz, he’d ring my doorbell. At first I found it intrusive. But after a while I kind of got used to it. We’d have coffee or a drink, depending on what time of day it was. He never stayed for very long. Fortunately, he’d stopped asking about Jasper, but I could still see the question behind his eyes.

  In early May he came by late in the day and suggested we go to dinner at a pub in Brooklyn Heights. We sat in a booth and ordered hamburgers, fries, and a bottle of red wine. He told me about the estate he was designing in New Jersey. Then he told me about a pied-à-terre he was designing in Rome. We talked about symmetry, asymmetry, light, shadow, focus points.

  The waiter delivered our burgers. CNN was playing on a television behind the bar.

  “I have to go to Rome next week,” he said. “Will you come with me?”

  His invitation was the last thing I was expecting. “No.”

  “Just for a weekend.”

  I didn’t want to go to Rome. Not with Ian. “I have an obligation.”

  “Are there rules about Rome?” He tried to laugh.

  I looked down at my plate to put ketchup and mustard on my hamburger, then arranged the lettuce and tomato. “I can’t.”

  My “relationship” with Ian, if you could call it that, was supposed to be on a slow track. His request felt like a trick.

  “You’re trying to live someone else’s life,” he said, “when your own life could be terrific.”

  Ian wanted to believe that he understood me better than I understood myself.

  In reality, he didn’t have a clue. Not a clue.

  * * *

  The following day, Eliza greeted Natalie at the front door. My cat was growing used to Natalie’s visits. Natalie knelt on the ground next to her. She stroked her behind her ears.

  “My mom says she’s allergic to cats. She used to say she was allergic to dogs. One day my dad brought Itzhak home. He said he’d return him if she sneezed. And she didn’t.”

  I hadn’t told Natalie about Itzhak biting me, and I gathered Amelia hadn’t either. I felt it was unnecessary information, especially since the dog’s behavior toward me had returned to normal, and I was doing my best to put the incident behind me.

  Eliza purred contentedly and licked her paws.

  Natalie walked down the hall toward the back of the apartment. “Your apartment has personality already.” She picked up a framed photo of Jasper at the beach that I’d placed on one of my end tables. The prior evening, I’d chosen to place three pictures of Jasper in inconspicuous places: my bedside table, an end table, and my desk, as if I didn’t want anyone to see them. “That picture was taken at the beach in Venice.”

  “How often do you talk to him?” she asked.

  “Isn’t he beautiful?”

  “He has black hair.” She traced his form in the photo with her finger. “He doesn’t look like you.”

  “We have the same nose.” I’d noticed that and been pleased about that trait that I shared with my Jasper.

  “Do you miss him?” She traced my form with her finger. She was studying the photo so carefully. Even though I believed in the photo, the same way I believed in my son, I had a few moments of anxiety, wondering if she would detect anything unusual about the picture that would lead her to question its verisimilitude.

  I sat on the sofa and leaned back against the cushions. “This morning, I went to the grocery store. Everything I saw reminded me of Jasper.” I crossed my legs and adjusted a pillow behind my back.

  “When’s he coming back to live with you?” She looked around the apartment. I had carefully arranged Jasper’s belongings. Not a lot of them—a teddy bear and several children’s books had yet to be unpacked. The objects didn’t look staged. They looked natural. I had a drawer full of his clothing and a futon for his bed.

  “Do you know?” she asked.

  I could see Jasper in Venice by the boardwalk. I could see him playing baseball with his father. He had a head of dark curls, roses in his cheeks, and glowing olive skin. I was tempted to tell her that it was a matter of weeks.

  The reason he was still in California … his father and I had decided that he needed a male role model, a strong man in his life. I felt the loss of Jasper.

  “His father has enrolled him in a school there.”

  Natalie eyed me. “You said he was coming back soon.” I heard derision in her voice.

  “It’s a special school and we’ve decided it will be best for him.”

  “What’s wrong with you?” She scowled at me.

  “I’m looking out for him.”

  “Does your kid even exist?”

  My throat tightened. “Yes. Of course.”

  “Why aren’t you more upset?” Natalie said. “You should be really upset.”

  In Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?, there’s an imaginary child who dies. It was one of the few plays I’d seen, and I only saw it because years ago I’d dated a second-rate actor who’d perfo
rmed in an inferior production of it.

  “Maybe you feel neglected and you assume that Jasper feels neglected too. But I assure you he doesn’t.” An image of Jasper locked in a closet played over in my mind. An image of Jasper’s nose bleeding and his wrist broken. My little boy. It was my job to protect him. I wouldn’t allow any harm to come to Jasper.

  “You’ve abandoned him,” she said. Natalie’s opinion of me was slipping. I would have to work hard to regain her trust.

  I adjusted the pillow behind my back again. “I’m doing what’s best for him.”

  She returned the picture to the end table and stepped away from it, like it was poison. “You’re a liar.”

  “My ex-husband remarried. Jasper has a stepmother and a father in California.” I stood and reached out to take her hand, but she pulled away. “I’m putting his interests first.” Tears filled my eyes. I’d always been skilled at crying on cue, when the situation called for it.

  “But you’re his mom!”

  “I send him a letter every day. I FaceTime with him once a week.”

  “You told me you FaceTime every day.”

  “It’s as often as possible.”

  In my heart, I knew I was telling Natalie the emotional truth of the situation. I wasn’t certain who was responsible for Jasper’s injuries. Who was responsible for his scars. Was it me? Was it his stepmother? I forced myself to conjure the image of his stepmother. I used one of my clients, a well-dressed dermatologist, because it was the first one that came to me.

  Natalie slumped onto my living room sofa in a despondent fashion. I noticed the chartreuse nail polish on her fingernails, a purposefully ugly color. She picked up my Canon DSLR that was resting on the coffee table and studied it in a distracted manner. Several minutes passed. I remained silent.

  Finally she spoke. “It sucks to be young.” She removed the lens cap of the camera in her hand. “What are all the buttons and dials?”