The Surrogate Mother

by Freida McFadden

  “Yes, so you say,” she murmurs. “And how is Sam doing, anyway?”

  “He’s fine.”

  “Yes, I’ll bet he is.”

  My mother’s dislike of Sam was almost instant when they met. Sam quickly agreed to drive up to Long Island to meet her and my father when we had been dating about three months, which I thought was a great sign of his commitment to me. He was adorably nervous about the whole thing—he wore a suit and tie, and he purchased both flowers and a box of chocolates. He spent ten minutes in the mirror, trying to get the knot on his tie perfect.

  I would say the moment things went wrong was when my parents’ housekeeper Imelda opened the door, and Sam mistook her for my mother. I am still baffled at how he messed that one up, given Imelda is a dark-skinned Mexican and my complexion is about as pale as they come. When I asked him about it later, he muttered, Sorry, Abby, I don’t come from a house where we have servants opening the doors for people.

  After that, it was all downhill. Sam called golf “boring” before being informed it was my father’s all-time favorite sport. He offered to carry the carrots to the dining table, then dropped them all over the floor. His finale was backing into the mailbox on the way out of the driveway and knocking it over. He’s lucky he’s good-looking, my mother told me on the phone the next day.

  She eventually warmed up to him though. Well, sort of. Mostly, I try to keep them from getting together very often, a strategy that everyone seems happy with.

  “Listen,” I say. “You know, Sam has been great through all of this. Not every guy would be so understanding about… everything.”

  “So I’m supposed to be thrilled he didn’t dump you when he couldn’t get you pregnant?”

  I let out a huff. “That’s not what I’m saying, Mother.”

  “Listen to me, Abby,” my mother says, her voice suddenly very serious. “Life lesson—you can’t trust men. None of them.”

  “I can trust Sam.”

  “Especially not Sam.”

  “Mother!”

  “Fine,” she grumbles. “Sam is no less trustworthy than other men. Happy?”

  Not really. But I’m not going to belabor the point.

  “All I’m saying,” she continues, “is you don’t want to leave him alone with that woman. He’s a man and he won’t be able to help himself.”

  “Oh God.”

  “That’s simply the way men are.”

  “He’s not an animal,” I snap at her. “He’s a decent person. He’s not going to cheat on me because the opportunity arises. He wouldn’t do that.”

  “Wouldn’t he?”

  “No! He wouldn’t!”

  And I believe that. I really do.

  “Fine, Sam’s a saint,” my mother snorts. “But… all I’m saying is be careful, Abby. Don’t tempt fate.”

  Maybe I won’t mention to my mother that we invited Monica to have dinner with us. I get the feeling she won’t approve.

  Chapter 14

  “Do we really have to do this?”

  Sam is being his usual antisocial self and kicking up a fuss about having Monica over for dinner tonight. I called to remind him to put the lasagna I made in the oven, and he’s taking the opportunity to piss and moan about how he doesn’t want to do this. I’m sure he must realize it’s futile though—Monica is coming, whether he likes it or not.

  “Yes, we have to,” I say.

  “Do I have to wear nice clothes?”

  “Yes.”

  “And by nice clothes, you mean…?”

  “I mean if you open the door in sweatpants and that T-shirt with the rip in the sleeve, I will murder you.”

  “Okay. Gym shorts then. Got it.”

  I roll my eyes at the phone. “I’m going to trust you’re joking.”

  “Relax, Abby. I’m putting the lasagna in the oven as we speak while wearing my tuxedo.”

  “Sam…”

  “I just don’t understand why we have to do this,” he sighs. “We’re paying for her to go to grad school. We’re going to cover her expenses when she quits your company. Why do we have to have dinner with her?”

  “You don’t like to have dinner with anyone.”

  “I like to have dinner with you.”

  Well, that’s true. But he’s adverse to most social interactions, except with his closest friends. He’s okay with having dinner with his mother, but he’s thrilled with the arrangement where we only get together with my parents a couple of times a year.

  “I’ll be home by a quarter to six, okay?” I say to him. “Just… please try to be good.”

  “I’ll try to try.”

  I don’t know what he’s so worked up about. He seemed to like Monica enough when we gave her a ride home that other night. Although I have to admit, there’s a small part of me that’s glad he isn’t all that excited about having dinner with the twenty-three-year-old girl who’s pregnant with his child.

  I’ve got a few letters on my desk that Monica brought for me this morning that I never got around to opening. I grab my ABBY letter opener that Sam got me and slice open the first letter. But before I get it open, the letter opener nicks my finger, which immediately starts bleeding.

  Damn. That thing is sharp. It’s supposed to open letters, not perform surgery.

  “Abby?”

  I look up from my wounded finger and see Monica standing at the doorway of my office. She’s got on another of her outfits of black slacks paired with a white shapeless blouse buttoned up to her throat. In the last week or so, I’ve noticed a tiny bulge in her midsection, but she’s still probably got a smaller waist circumference than I do.

  “Hey.” She beams at me. “I’m so excited about tonight. Six, right?”

  I grab a tissue off my desk to ease the flow of blood from my finger. “That’s right.”

  “Are you sure I can’t bring anything?”

  “Just yourself.”

  She nods happily. “Would it be all right if I head out now? I need to go home first.”

  I glance at my watch—five o’clock. “Sure, sounds good! I’ll see you at six.”

  She claps her hands together. “This will be so much fun! I can’t wait!”

  As Monica races off down the hallway, I smile to myself. As long as Sam isn’t too cranky, this should be a nice night. I’m glad I invited her.

  My finger seems to have stopped bleeding—guess I don’t need stitches or even a Band-Aid. I spend the next fifteen more minutes answering emails, then I shut down my computer. I’m about to head out of my office when I practically slam right into Denise. Even though it’s the very end of the day, Denise’s suit is as crisp as it was this morning and she doesn’t have a hair out of place. How does she do that? She must spritz herself with some sort of glaze every morning.

  “Abigail.” Her cool, calculating blue eyes look me over. I’m sure I look as rumpled as I feel. “You never sent me the new website copy for Cuddles.”

  “Oh.” I frown. “Sorry, I thought I did.”

  “You did not.” She frowns at me. “I’d like to see it now. A printed copy, if you can.”

  “Um…” I glance at my idle computer. “Can it wait till the morning? I’ve sort of… got to be somewhere…”

  “It absolutely cannot wait until the morning.” She folds her arms across her chest. “Our meeting with the executives from Cuddles is tomorrow at eight!”

  It is?

  I’m usually so on top of these meetings, but I’ve had a lot on my mind lately. How could I not have realized I’ve got a meeting tomorrow morning?

  “Any time now, Abigail,” Denise sighs.

  “Right.” I go over to the computer to turn it back on. I glance at my watch—five-twenty. Plenty of time to get back for dinner with Monica. “Let me get this printed for you.”

  While I’m waiting for the computer to boot up, I slip my phone out of my purse and check my calendar. And there’s the meeting: eight in the morning, just like Denise said. How did I miss that?

/>   It takes several minutes to boot up and load the document Denise wants. I send it to my printer as I feel a vein throbbing in my temple.

  “It’s not printing,” Denise observes.

  Damn it. Monica’s the one who knows how to troubleshoot the printer. I don’t know what to do now. I try printing again, but nothing happens. I flash Denise an apologetic look, and she simply sighs loudly.

  “Could I just email it to you?”

  She sighs again. “I suppose that’s fine.”

  I look at my watch again—five-thirty. It takes me twenty minutes to get home by taxi if traffic isn’t too bad. I should be okay. Well, unless traffic is killer. But even so, Sam will entertain Monica until I get home.

  Denise stands in front of my desk, her phone held up to her face. She taps on the screen, obviously opening up my email. I hold my breath, watching her face.

  “Okay?” I ask.

  She shakes her head. “This is really what you’re going to present at the meeting tomorrow to Cuddles?”

  “Um…” Admittedly, it’s not entirely finished because I hadn’t realized the meeting was first thing tomorrow morning. But I didn’t think it was that bad. With a few finishing touches that I could come in early to do tomorrow morning…

  “I thought we were going to emphasize the nutritional value of the baby food,” she says.

  “I did.”

  “I don’t see it.”

  “It’s right here.” I read off the screen: “Cuddles baby food is made with only the healthiest and most wholesome of ingredients.”

  “Yes, but that’s the only place.” She frowns at me. “I said emphasize. Mentioning it once is not emphasizing, Abigail.”

  “So… I should mention it twice?”

  “It should be everywhere!” Her cheeks turn pink. “The apple puree should be made from apples harvested from a pesticide-free orchard! The pea oatmeal should be created from peas picked from a natural pea ranch!”

  A pea ranch? What the hell is a pea ranch?

  “You need to fix this, Abigail.”

  “I’ll fix it first thing tomorrow morning,” I promise. “I’ll come in at the crack of dawn.”

  “Unacceptable.” She arches an eyebrow at me. “Tomorrow morning, the clock will be ticking. This needs to be fixed before you leave for the day.”

  Great. If only I had known about this a few hours ago, it would have been fine. I can’t believe I forgot I had a meeting tomorrow morning. What’s happening to my brain?

  “I’ll be in my office,” Denise says. “Please send me a more appropriate draft as soon as you’ve completed it, then we’ll discuss if further changes need to be made.”

  I shoot daggers with my eyes at Denise, but they bounces harmlessly off her back as she exits my office. Fine. I can fix this draft in fifteen minutes, then I’ll grab a taxi home. I’ll be late, but not too late.

  I shoot a text to Sam: Denise making me fix something. Should be leaving within 15 minutes.

  Sam replies almost instantly: What????? She’s going to be here soon! Get your butt back home!

  Poor Sam. I can almost picture him freaking out. I write back: Really sorry. Start dinner without me. Should be back soon. I promise.

  You better be.

  And at the time, I really believe I will.

  _____

  When I stumble home over two hours later, I have a throbbing headache in my left temple. I fixed the draft for the meeting in fifteen minutes, sent it to Denise, but it was still unacceptable. So was the next draft. At one point, she gave me an exasperated look and said, “Honestly, Abigail, I feel like I’m talking to an intern.”

  If it had taken even five minutes longer to fix the document, I swear I would have strangled her with my bare hands. She never treated me this way before I started trying to have a baby.

  It feels like an icepick is jabbing me in the side of the head while I fumble in my purse for my keys. Whenever I get a headache, it’s always in my left temple. Why is that? Is it a sign of a tumor? Christ, where are my keys? Sam is going to kill me for being so late.

  And then I hear it:

  Laughter. Coming from inside the apartment.

  My fingers make contact with my keyring. I yank it out and when I get the door open, I see Sam and Monica sitting together in the living room. They’ve got two empty plates on the coffee table, which means they ate in the living room, which Sam knows I hate because I’m worried about the floral-patterned couch getting stained. There’s a bottle of white wine open on the table that is half-full, and Sam’s got that flushed look he always gets when he’s had a bit too much to drink.

  And Monica…

  In the time I’ve known Monica, I’ve always thought of her as being somewhat plain. She has some nice features, but she doesn’t wear makeup and she dresses like a choirgirl, which makes her look fairly average. But tonight she looks very different. She’s got on mascara that makes her dark eyes pop, dark red lipstick that compliments her jet-black hair, and a low-cut blouse that shows off her now impressive cleavage.

  Monica isn’t just attractive—she’s really hot. Much more attractive than I am, if I’m being completely honest. Especially right now, when I’m rumpled and exhausted from my twelve-hour workday.

  “Abby!” Sam exclaims when he notices me staring at them, probably for far too long. “You’re home!”

  He gets up off the couch and stumbles in my direction, nearly tripping on the carpeting. Oh my God, how much has he had to drink? He plants a wet, sloppy kiss on my face. “We missed you. The leftover lasagna is in the kitchen.”

  At first, I think he’s going to go get me some, but instead, he returns to the sofa next to Monica and falls back down with a plop.

  “Are you drunk?” I ask him, eyeing the half-empty bottle of wine. Sam rarely has more than one drink, so that’s more than enough to put him over the limit. And presumably, Monica wasn’t helping him make a dent in the bottle.

  “No!” He blinks a few times and pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “I barely had anything. We’re just having fun here. Right, Mon?”

  “Abby.” Monica smiles up at me. I still can’t get over how much makeup she’s wearing. “You didn’t tell me how funny Sam is.”

  I didn’t, because he isn’t funny. Well, sometimes he is. But certainly no more than average. Nothing worth commenting on. “Oh,” is all I can muster.

  “He’s been telling me all these math jokes,” she says. “They’re really funny.”

  Okay, I have heard Sam’s math jokes and they are not funny. The only thing funny about them is how incredibly unfunny they are. Like how something is so bad that it’s good? Although I think the math jokes might have circled around and gone back to being unfunny again.

  “Monica was a math minor in college,” Sam informs me. “Isn’t that incredible?”

  Yes. Incredible.

  She grins at him. “Do you have any other jokes, Sammy?”

  Sammy? She’s calling him Sammy? And he’s apparently calling her Mon. When did they get nicknames for each other? How long was I at the office for?

  Sam scratches at his chin, thinking for a moment. “Um… why did the chicken cross the Mobius strip?” When she doesn’t answer, he says, “To get to the same side.”

  Monica laughs louder than anyone should rightfully laugh at a joke about Mobius strips. And as she laughs, she grips his arm. “Oh my God, you are so funny.”

  Sam notices me staring at them blankly. “Abby, a Mobius strip is a surface with one continuous side that—”

  “It’s okay,” I say quickly. “You don’t need to explain it to me.”

  There’s an awkward silence. Monica’s eyes dart around and finally land on the two plates on the coffee table. She reaches for them. “Let me bring these to the kitchen.”

  “Hey, no way,” Sam says as he brushes her aside. “You’re our guest, and also, you’re pregnant. You let me take care of that.”

  He’s being a gentleman like I told
him to. I wish he would cut it out.

  He seems steadier as he brings the plates into the kitchen. Monica gets up off the couch to follow him, but I step in front of her. “Hey, Monica,” I say. “Did you know there’s a meeting tomorrow morning at eight?”

  “Uh huh.” She nods. “It’s on the calendar. The Cuddles people, right?”

  Damn, even Monica knew about the meeting. What’s wrong with me?

  “That reminds me,” she says. “I’ll need to take off for a few hours next week to do that ultrasound and the blood tests. Is that okay?”

  Sam drops the plates in the dishwasher and lifts his head. “Ultrasound?”

  Monica arches an eyebrow. “Abby didn’t tell you? I’m having this screening ultrasound next week.”

  He frowns. “Is something wrong?”

  “Not at all!” She clutches her chest. “I would tell you if there were. This is something everyone gets. But it’s a chance to see the baby. Do you want to come?”

  “Uh…” Sam glances in my direction, then back at Monica. He seems like he’s looking at her abdomen, but he could also be looking at her boobs. Not that I would blame him, because they’re pretty spectacular right now. “Yeah, of course I would. That would be incredible.”

  She brightens. “Hey, I recorded the heartbeat at my appointment last week. Do you want to hear it?”

  He nods vigorously. “Yeah, definitely.”

  Monica and Sam go back to the living room and sit together on the couch, while I take the loveseat. She gets out her phone and scrolls to the recording she took last week. Then she presses “Play.”

  Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!

  His eyes widen. “That’s the heartbeat?”

  She nods.

  I wouldn’t have expected it from Sam, because he’s not an emotional sort of guy, but his eyes start to get misty the same way mine and Monica’s did in the examining room. He listens to the whole thing, then he makes her play it a second time.

  “That’s amazing,” he breathes.

  She grins at him. “That’s our baby.”