The Surrogate Mother

by Freida McFadden

  “It’s fine.” I force a smile. “I just… don’t want to look at them.”

  “Of course. I’ll get them out of here right away.”

  I reach for the mug, figuring some coffee will do me good. But then I notice it’s the mug Shelley bought me last week as an early baby shower gift. The one that says “Mommy Fuel.” And the ache intensifies back to a stab.

  Monica notices me staring at the mug and her eyes widen. She clasps her hand over her mouth. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry!”

  “It’s okay,” I choke out.

  “No, it’s not.” She yanks the mug off my desk, her cheeks turning pink. “I can’t believe I did that. I didn’t even notice. I’m such an idiot.”

  She’s biting her lip so hard, I’m afraid she’s going to draw blood. This isn’t her fault—she grabbed one of my dozen mugs without checking. I should have smashed the thing yesterday.

  “It’s okay,” I say again, although my mood has darkened considerably over the last sixty seconds. “I’m fine. But… please get rid of the mug.”

  “Of course.” Monica’s brows knit together. “If you need to go home, I’m sure everyone would understand.”

  “No, I’d rather be here.”

  “Well, I emailed you your itinerary for the day if you’re up for it.” A smile touches her lips. “There’s a lot to do.”

  She’s not exaggerating. Now that Cuddles has given us the go-ahead on the new campaign, I’ve got a ton of work to do. There’s no chance of a lunch break—I’ll probably ask Monica to get us both salads from Chopt for the third time this week, and we’ll eat together in my office.

  Usually, I love busy days. I love being productive and feeling like I’m impressing my clients. But today, it’s hard to muster up any enthusiasm. “It’s not like I’ve got anything else in my life,” I mumble.

  “Abby…” Monica drops her eyes. “I’m so sorry about… well, what happened.”

  I nod. “That’s life.”

  My assistant shifts nervously between her black heels, her dark eyes darting around the room. God, she reminds me so much of myself at her age. I was so young and eager to please back then—tripping over myself to try to make Denise happy, and then beating myself up if I brought her coffee in an insensitive mug. (Not that anything on a mug could have upset Denise Holt.) Part of me is really relieved to be past that part of my life.

  And part of me is so jealous of young, carefree Monica that I want to spit.

  “It’s so wonderful that you’re trying to adopt though,” she says. “There are so many children out there who need homes. I know you’ll find the right one for you. Why put more children in the world when you can take in one who needs you, right?”

  “Right,” I say. I hesitate, wondering if anyone has shared this piece of gossip with Monica or if I should clue her in. Oh, what the hell. “The truth is, though, Sam and I did try to have a child of our own, but… we couldn’t.”

  “Oh.” She sucks in a breath. “I didn’t realize. Did you try IVF? That’s what my cousin did.”

  I nod, not wanting to go through the whole painful story. “It… didn’t work.”

  “That’s awful…”

  I shrug, as if I couldn’t care less. As if I didn’t cry over every negative pregnancy test.

  “Aren’t there women who could carry the pregnancy to term for you?” she asks. “I’ve heard of, like, one sister carrying a pregnancy for another? Couldn’t you do that?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t have any sisters up for the task.”

  “Yes, but… what about someone else?”

  A surrogate pregnancy was something I had been considering for a brief time. Sam was the one who vetoed that idea.

  “It’s a lot to ask of someone… I mean, we’d be using their egg and their uterus, so we’d be asking them to get pregnant with their own child just to give it up.” I clear my throat. “We’re really excited about adopting now. We’ve moved past that.”

  No, I will never have a newborn. But Sam’s right—that’s not important. We want to become parents. I know I’ll love whatever child we’ll take into our home.

  “Anyway.” I turn back to my computer. “Let me prep for the meeting at ten. I don’t want to be unprepared. Do you have photocopies of the mockup I sent you?”

  “Yes, fifteen copies.”

  “The projector is set up?”

  “Yes, and your presentation is loaded.”

  I allow myself my first genuine smile of the day. Monica is incredible. Honestly, I think she might even be a little better than I was when I was her age. She’s the Queen of Efficiency. I swear, nothing gets past this girl. I’m really lucky to have her.

  And I’m lucky to have Sam. And this job.

  There’s a lot in my life that’s good. And soon, we’ll have a child too.

  “You’re the best, Monica,” I say.

  “Oh, and let me get you a fresh cup of coffee!”

  I almost tell her to forget it—that I’ll drink the coffee out of the damn “Mommy Fuel” mug. But no. I want a new mug. I don’t want to look at any reminders of everything I lost yesterday. All the cuddles and burps and sleepless nights and teething and first words and first steps and preschool and…

  I can’t think about this anymore.

  When Monica returns with a fresh white mug with steam coming out of it, she’s got a funny expression on her face. She places the mug down on my desk and straightens up, but doesn’t leave. She just… stands there.

  I raise my eyebrows at her as I take a cautious sip of the hot coffee. She made it just the way I always take it—bitter and black. “Yes?”

  She chews on her lip. “I would do it.”

  “Do what?”

  “Be your surrogate.”

  I start choking on the coffee. It’s very dramatic. Flecks of coffee fly out of my mouth, dotting the white papers in front of me. I’m glad I wasn’t eating steak, because Monica would probably have to Heimlich me. Which I’m sure she’d do expertly.

  “Wha… what?” I finally manage.

  Her pale cheeks redden. “Sorry, I just… I was thinking and… I think we could help each other out.”

  “Monica.” I self-consciously wipe my coffee-spit off the surface of my desk. “It’s, um… nice of you to offer, but it would be really inappropriate for you to do something like that for me. I mean, we work together.”

  She squeezes her fists together, and at this moment, she looks so much like I used to at her age, it’s like looking into a time machine. “Listen,” she says, “I’ve been wanting to go back to school and get my Masters in graphic art, because what I really want is to be a creative director. That’s always been my dream.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “What about copywriting?”

  “I like it, but graphic art has always been what I love.”

  Somehow, that doesn’t surprise me. Monica has done sketches for some of our ads and it’s clear she’s got artistic talent. “So why not get your Masters at night?”

  “It’s expensive and I’m already deep in debt from college.” She shakes her head. “And you know what the schedule is like here. I’d never have time for both.”

  She makes a good point.

  “Don’t you see, Abby?” Her eyes are shining. “This is perfect! I can give you the baby you want, and you can help me get my advanced degree, which would be a drop in the bucket for someone like you with a trust fund and everything. It’s a win-win.”

  Technically, everything Monica is saying makes sense. But in reality, it’s insane.

  “You don’t want to do this, Monica,” I say. “Think about what you’re offering. This would be, for all intents and purposes, your baby. You’d be willing to just give away your own baby?”

  “I’m not ready to be a mother.” Her eyes become distant. “There are so many things I want to do in my life before I’m tied down with a child. But you—you’d be a fabulous mother, Abby. Any baby would be lucky to have you as a mother.”


  “God.” I rub my eyes. “I know you mean well, but… it’s a bad idea. We work together…”

  “I’d quit.”

  My mouth falls open. “What?”

  “As soon as I start showing,” she says. “I’ll leave so it doesn’t become an awkward situation. If you can cover my rent, that is.”

  “But I thought you wanted to be a creative director…”

  “Right.” She nods. “But it doesn’t have to be here. With my Master’s degree and a strong letter of recommendation from you, I’m sure I could find a good job at another agency.”

  No. This is crazy. I’m not going to consider this. Sam and I are going to adopt. As amazing as this potentially could be, it’s a terrible idea.

  “And we look alike,” she adds. “The baby would look just like you.”

  “I don’t care about that.”

  “You don’t?”

  I shift in my seat, which creaks loudly under my weight. “I just feel like you’re not thinking this through. You’re only offering because you feel sorry for me.”

  “No,” she says firmly. “I’m offering because I like solving problems. And I figured out a way for both of us to get our dreams.”

  She’s right. This would be a way to get the newborn baby I’ve been dreaming about. The dream I thought was gone forever.

  Am I honestly considering this? Oh God, I can’t believe I’m really considering this.

  “We would need to have a contract drawn up by a lawyer,” I say carefully. “And I’d need access to all of your medical history. Would you be okay with that?”

  Her eyes light up. “Of course. You can have access to anything you need.”

  I swirl around the black coffee in my mug. “I need to talk to Sam about it.”

  Monica flashes her teeth at me. She has great teeth. White and straight. I wonder if she had orthodontist work. Would it be inappropriate to ask?

  Yes. Yes it would.

  Chapter 5

  “No. Absolutely not. No way. Are you out of your mind?”

  Sam doesn’t seem enthusiastic about the idea of Monica being a surrogate for us.

  I brought it up in the best possible way. I cooked him his favorite dinner—pan-fried chicken with a side of creamed spinach. He seemed shocked by the food, considering the state I was in last night. But I could tell he was chalking it up to my enthusiasm over our future adoption prospects and I didn’t correct him. Then I waited until he had cleaned his plate and was nursing a full belly to bring up Monica’s proposal.

  “You’re not even going to think about it?” I say.

  Sam pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “If you asked me if I wanted to jump off a bridge and I said no, would you ask me if I needed to think about it?”

  “Stop being melodramatic.”

  “Melodramatic? I’m the only one being sane.”

  Despite my initial reservations, I’ve been warming to Monica’s idea over the last ten or so hours. The more I think about it, the more I realize this is the answer to our prayers.

  “You’ve met Monica,” I say. “She’s really great. I can’t imagine a better person to donate eggs.”

  He squints at me. “Which one was Monica? The blond with freckles?”

  “No, she has dark hair and dark eyes. She… uh, she actually looks a little like me.”

  “I don’t know.” He shakes his head. “I don’t remember if I met her. It doesn’t matter though. It’s a terrible idea.”

  “Give me one good reason.”

  “One!” Sam bursts out, his ears turning red. Despite everything, I can’t help but think Sam looks sexy when he’s angry. No wonder his students are always calling here. “I’ll give you five good reasons.”

  “Fine. Give me five reasons.”

  “One.” He holds up a finger—not the middle one, thankfully. “Won’t it be awkward to work with the woman carrying your baby?”

  “She said she’d quit once she’s showing.”

  He ignores me. “Two—paying for graduate school isn’t exactly cheap.”

  “Cheaper than an adoption. And we can afford it.”

  “You can afford it.”

  “We can afford it.”

  He rolls his eyes, but doesn’t comment further. “Three,” he goes on, “what if she changes her mind?”

  “This wouldn’t be a standard adoption contract,” I point out. “I mean, she’d be using your sperm so you’d have a legal claim to the baby.”

  The red in his ears invades his neck. “Yeah, that’s another thing. I’m not so crazy about the idea of using my sperm.”

  “It’s not like you’d have to have sex with her…”

  “Oh, wouldn’t I?”

  “Look,” I say, “isn’t this what you wanted? To have a biological child?”

  He drops his eyes. “I wanted a biological child with you, Abby. This is… it’s weird. I don’t want to do it.”

  “Well, you can’t have a biological child with me.” I fold my arms across my chest. “Because I’m defective.”

  “Stop it. You’re not defective.”

  “I am.” I blink back tears. “So if you want a biological child, this is the only way it’s going to happen.”

  “Jesus.” Sam rakes a hand through his hair until it stands up. “This is a bad idea. We were going to adopt. Let’s just stick with the plan.”

  “I can’t take any more disappointments, Sam.” The tears are spilling over now, rolling down my cheeks. “Monica… she’s a great girl. She won’t disappoint us—I know it.”

  He’s still shaking his head. “Abby…”

  “We could have our baby in a year. It’ll never be less than that with the agency.”

  This is the first thing I’ve said that’s swayed Sam. He’s thinking again about being an “old dad.” Even though he was thirty when we started, he’s now only a few short years shy of forty. He’s going to be an “old dad,” like it or not. The question is how old?

  “I don’t know, Abby,” he sighs. He picks up our plates from the table to bring them to the dishwasher. He does that every night without being asked. “I still think it’s a bad idea.”

  “Will you at least meet Monica?” I plead with him. “Hear her out?”

  He hesitates. And at that moment, I know I’ve got him.

  Chapter 6

  Monica looks like she’s at a job interview. She’s dressed up in a gray suit jacket and matching skirt, and her dress shirt is so white, it’s gleaming. She’s wearing makeup but it’s so artfully applied that her face looks bare. Her dark hair is swept behind her head in a tight bun. Her fingers are clasped together on the table of the restaurant so tightly, they’ve turned pale.

  Sam, on his part, looks like he’s conducting a job interview. He’s also dressed up in a crisp white shirt and a green tie. His glasses slide down his nose as he peers down at the yellow legal pad in front of him. Apparently, he’s going to be taking notes during this meal. So much for putting Monica at ease.

  The whole thing would be funny if my entire life weren’t riding on it.

  This is Sam all over—he takes everything so seriously. It’s adorable, except when it’s annoying, like now. It makes me think of the first time we met, actually. I was still Denise’s personal assistant at Stewart Advertising, and we were putting together a campaign for the university where Sam was a grad student in the math department. My job was to meet with grad students in all the departments and gather highlights that we could use in the advertising materials.

  For the most part, it was fun. The art grad student showed me some incredible paintings done by his classmates. The chemistry grad student showed me an experiment in the lab. And the English grad student took me all around campus, then offered me a joint in his office.

  Sam showed up to our meeting in his office wearing a dress shirt and tie. He proceeded to spend the next half an hour teaching me math. Something about series solutions to differential equations—who the hell knows? I would have fal
len asleep completely if he weren’t so incredibly cute in his shirt and tie. I still remember him gesturing at a line of Greek symbols on his whiteboard and saying emphatically, “This should go in your pamphlet.”

  “Yes,” I said and pretended to write it down. “Absolutely.”

  At the very first moment it wouldn’t have been rude, I stood up and thrust my hand in his direction. “Thank you very much, Mr. Adler. This was really… helpful.”

  And then, as we shook hands, I noticed the handshake was lingering more than I would have expected. His kind brown eyes met mine and a nervous smile touched his lips. “So, uh… you wouldn’t be interested in… maybe grabbing some dinner together?”

  I hesitated. I had already turned down the English grad student, who had gotten grabby after he smoked that joint. But he had a giant beard and smelled like BO. Sam smelled good. I still love his aftershave, which he applies every day without exception.

  “I need to finish explaining how to solve differential equations,” he added.

  “I’ll tell you what,” I said. “I’ll go to dinner with you but you have to promise not to talk about differential equations again for the rest of the night. Or any other kind of equations.”

  I half-expected him to clasp his chest in horror, exclaiming, “But what else could we possibly discuss?” But instead, he smiled and said, “Deal.”

  As it turned out, we had plenty to talk about that night. So much that we didn’t leave the diner until well after midnight. So much that I was mid-sentence when Sam leaned in and kissed me for the first time.

  And now here we are, over ten years later, interviewing a woman to carry our child in her womb for nine months. Couldn’t have predicted that one.

  Sam has made it very clear he’s not excited about doing this. But he consented to meeting Monica and discussing it. If he’s satisfied with the terms, then… well, he wouldn’t give any promises. Sam can be very stubborn at times.

  We’ve chosen an Italian restaurant we’ve never been to before, because I don’t want the staff at one of our regular establishments to overhear us asking a woman to rent out her womb to us. It’s a small, dark restaurant, and Sam is squinting to see his notes on the legal pad by the light of the candle on our table.