The Surrogate Mother

by Freida McFadden

  I am hard at work. At this point, I can’t afford any more screw-ups. I’ve been showing up early, taking lunch in my office, and staying later than anyone else. It’s still a little hard to focus, since my sleep is still not great, even with my new prescription for sleeping pills, but I’m doing the best I can.

  “Yeah,” I say. “What can I say—I’m lost without you, Gertie.”

  Her face softens. “I heard what happened. About, you know… the adoption falling through. I’m so sorry. That must have been awful.”

  “Yes,” I agree. If only Janelle hadn’t changed her mind. We’d have a baby right now, and I’d probably be exhausted like I am now, but a good kind of exhausted. “I’m okay though. We’re… uh, adopting from someone else.”

  No need to get into the details.

  She places the plate of cookies down on my desk and clasps her hands together. “Oh, that’s so wonderful to hear! You’re going to be a great mom, Abby. I just know it.”

  “Thanks.” I manage a smile. “Anyway, have a seat. How is your hip feeling?”

  Gertie settles gingerly into a chair in front of my desk and rests her cane against my desk. “Good days and bad days. I’m on my feet again, and that’s what’s important.”

  “Absolutely. You look great.”

  She laughs and pats her puff of white hair. “Well, aren’t you sweet?”

  “Any chance you might come back?”

  This time when she laughs, she throws her whole head back like I made a hilarious joke. Except it wasn’t a joke. “Oh, I don’t think so, Abby. I’m done living in the fast lane. Done rushing to make deadlines and getting pushed down stairs.”

  I start to say something else, but her words stop me. “Pushed down stairs?”

  She waves a hand. “Just a joke. It was an accident, obviously.”

  “But…” I grip the edges of my chair, my heart pounding. “You were pushed down the stairs?”

  “No, no!” She shakes her head. “There were a lot of people in the stairwell and… well, it felt like a push, but it was obviously an accident. Who would push little old me down the stairs?”

  Maybe someone who wanted her job.

  I stare at Gertie, my mouth hanging open. I know she thinks it’s all a big joke, but I’m not so sure. She said it felt like someone pushed her down the stairs. And then almost immediately after the accident, Monica appeared to take her place.

  It’s got to be a coincidence.

  It’s got to.

  “Abby, are you okay?” Gertie asks. “You look downright pale! Are you eating enough cookies?”

  “Uh, I guess not.”

  “Well, take one! I made you a whole plate. For you and that lovely husband of yours.”

  Right. Me and my lovely husband.

  I reach out and take a cookie from the plate. It tastes like cardboard.

  Chapter 24

  I’m in the ladies’ room, dabbing extra concealer under my eyes. I’m absolutely exhausted because I haven’t been taking my sleeping pills for the last week. They’re doing the annual drug screens today and I didn’t want there to be any chance that stuff would show up. I’ve got a note from my doctor and all, but I can’t give Denise any ammunition to get rid of me.

  I look really tired. Like I’m ten years older than I actually am. Sam came into the bathroom this morning while I was brushing my teeth, and when he kissed me, I couldn’t help but wonder how he could be attracted to me when he’s got a younger, prettier version of me texting him every five minutes. But I’m not going to say that to him. Don’t need to give the guy any ideas.

  Shelley walks in on me mid-dab. Her eyes widen. “Abby,” she says. “Are you okay?”

  I snap my compact closed. “Yes, I’m fine.”

  “You look really tired.”

  “Gee, thanks a bunch.”

  She winces. “Sorry. I didn’t mean it that way.”

  My shoulders sag. “No, I’m sorry I snapped. It’s just… it’s been a rough month.”

  That’s an understatement. Monica’s belly has really popped in the last few weeks, and everyone is oohing and ahhing over her. Only a few people know the whole story about her being my surrogate—I’ve noticed she’s not volunteering that information, which is just as well. I’m sure I’ll get lots of weird looks when the truth comes out.

  But the good news is, Monica’s pregnancy will be over soon. And then I won’t have to deal with her anymore. I’ll leave the company if I have to—it’s not like I’m getting anywhere fast with Denise as my boss. Maybe I’ll just stay home with the baby. At least money won’t be an issue.

  “It’s okay,” Shelley says. “I get it. And Monica… well, she’s acting weird. I don’t blame you for being worried.”

  I frown. “Acting weird?”

  “Well…” She hesitates. “I didn’t want to say anything…”

  “Oh my God, please just tell me.”

  “It’s just… I know it’s uncomfortable for her to admit she’s giving the baby up. But if you talked to her, you’d never guess in a million years. She really acts like she’s keeping the baby.”

  I feel a lump in my throat. “What do you mean?”

  She lowers her voice a few notches. “Like I overheard her having a long discussion with Mia about baby names. She told Mia she was all but decided on David.”

  That one hits me like a punch in the gut. Especially since David is one of Sam’s favorite baby names—it was his father’s name. He’s been pushing hard for the name, even though I told him I dated a guy named David who was a bit of a jerk.

  “And then she was asking for advice from Lucy on cribs,” Shelley continues. “Like, they were really getting into it. They went to a website and everything.”

  “Do… do people think she’s married?”

  Shelley shakes her head. “I heard her telling someone she has a serious boyfriend.”

  A serious boyfriend? No way. One thing I know for sure is Monica doesn’t have a serious boyfriend. For starters, her roommate Chelsea told me she didn’t have one and…

  Chelsea.

  An idea takes root in my brain. Maybe I should call Chelsea. She seemed nice enough and clearly she knows Monica really well. Maybe I could get an idea from her what the deal is with her roommate. Like she could tell me if Monica’s apartment is filled with baby apparatus or if she’s saying inappropriate things about Sam. Chelsea might be reluctant to betray her roommate, but I can be fairly persuasive. I can put it in the context of trying to help Monica.

  “I’m sorry.” Shelley winces at the look on my face. “I probably shouldn’t have said all this. You’ve got enough to worry about without my putting ideas in your head.”

  “No, it’s good to know,” I say. “If Monica plans to back out on us, I want to know in advance.”

  I’ve got to give Chelsea a call.

  _____

  I wait until I get home to try Chelsea’s number, remembering how Shelley told me she’d seen Monica listening at the door to my office. Plus I don’t have her number handy. Thankfully, Sam files all our paperwork away in the second drawer of his desk, and he’s ridiculously organized. He has everything about Monica in a file labeled “Monica Johnson.” Chelsea’s number is still in there.

  I go into the bedroom while Sam is cooking dinner and dial Chelsea’s number on my cell phone. My heart is pounding as I hit the green button to send the call.

  Before the phone even rings on the other line, I hear an automated voice: “You have reached a nonworking number.”

  I stare at the phone. Chelsea’s number is no longer functional. That’s… interesting.

  Sam comes into the bedroom in his “I ate some pie” apron, which is dotted with pesto sauce. He’s also got some pesto on his chin that I’m guessing he doesn’t know about. He looks very proud of himself.

  “Dinner is served,” he says.

  I don’t budge.

  “I tasted it this time,” he assures me. “And it’s definitely edible. I swe
ar.”

  I can’t even manage a smile.

  Sam frowns and looks at the phone in my hand. “Who were you talking to?”

  “Monica’s roommate Chelsea,” I say. “Or at least, I was trying to. Her phone was disconnected.”

  “Oh,” he says.

  “Don’t you think that’s odd?”

  He shrugs. “Maybe she forgot to pay her phone bill.”

  Maybe. But somehow I don’t think so.

  “Why were you calling Monica’s roommate anyway?” he asks.

  “Because.” I shift on the bed. “Shelley told me that Monica is talking about the baby like she’s planning for after he’s born. She even has a name picked out.”

  “Oh yeah? What name?”

  “David.”

  He grins at me. “Hey, she’s got good taste!”

  I glare at him. “I feel like you’re not taking this seriously. This is our baby we’re talking about. It’s not funny.”

  Sam sits down beside me on the bed, leveling his kind brown eyes at me. “I’m sorry. It’s not funny—you’re right. But I genuinely don’t think there’s any chance Monica will keep the baby. It’s all just talk.”

  Just talk. He seems so sure of himself, but I’m not so confident.

  “Hey,” I say.

  He raises his eyebrows.

  “Did you tell Monica you wanted to name the baby David?”

  “Uh…” His ears turn red. “I guess I… must have mentioned it to her.”

  “I see. I thought you said you only talk about her professional development.” I fold my arms across my chest. “So what else do you talk to her about?”

  “Look, she’s carrying my baby. It would be weird not to ever talk about it.”

  I drop my eyes. “Your baby.”

  “I meant our baby.”

  “Then why didn’t you say that?”

  “I don’t know… it just… slipped out.”

  “Because that’s how you think of him. As your baby.”

  Sam rakes a hand through his hair. “Abby, I’m going to remind you again that this was all your idea. I wanted to adopt, remember?”

  “Actually, it was Monica’s idea.”

  “Fine.” I can hear the anger growing in his voice as he stands up off the bed. Sam rarely gets angry. “Monica is the bad guy here. She’s the worst.”

  I look up at my husband with his tousled hair and his sexy five o’clock shadow. We haven’t had sex in a week, which has got to be some kind of record for us. I’ve been so stressed out with work, and he hasn’t initiated anything. And when I look up at him now, I know nothing will happen tonight either.

  “Do you want to have dinner or not?” Sam says impatiently.

  I nod and follow him to the living room.

  Chapter 25

  I’ve got to find Chelsea Williams.

  Calling her is obviously out, given she no longer has a working phone. But she lives with Monica. As I head up in the elevator to my office, it occurs to me that I could look up her address in the computer and pay ol’ Chelsea a visit. Maybe I’ll do it during lunch, at a time I’m sure Monica won’t be around.

  Except as I’m walking to my office, Denise is standing in the doorway, a grim expression on her face.

  Christ, what now?

  “Abigail,” she says sharply. “Can I speak with you in my office?”

  “Now?” I say.

  She looks at me like I’m an idiot. “Yes, now.”

  I wordlessly follow Denise down the hall to her office. Her heels click loudly on the floor, echoing through the relatively quiet room. I look around and notice everyone seems to be staring at us. What’s going on here?

  “Please have a seat,” Denise tells me, gesturing at the chair in front of her desk.

  I settle into the chair, my heart now pounding audibly in my chest. There is no way this is good news. She’s definitely not telling me I just got a promotion and a huge raise.

  “As you know,” she begins, her ice-blue eyes on my face, “yesterday, we completed company-wide urine drug testing. I was informed this morning that your test came back positive for methamphetamines.”

  My… what?

  “That… that’s got to be some sort of mistake,” I gasp.

  “Is it?” Denise arches an eyebrow at me. “Your behavior has been increasingly erratic in the last several months. I’ve been suspecting drugs were involved for some time now. This only confirmed my suspicions.”

  I feel like someone punched me in the gut. How could there have been meth in my urine? That’s not possible! I don’t take meth. I don’t even know how to take meth? Do you snort it? Smoke it? Chew it? Mix it in a blender with bananas and yogurt?

  The only thing I’ve been taking is an occasional sleeping pill. But I haven’t had one in a week… and anyway, I’m pretty sure sleeping pills don’t have meth in them. It would defeat the purpose.

  “I don’t take meth,” I manage. “This is a big mistake.”

  Denise rolls her eyes. “Well, in any case, the laws in New York State allow us to dictate our own policy for positive drug screens, and Stewart has a zero tolerance policy. So as of now, you are terminated.”

  I’m… fired?

  I can’t believe this is happening. I’ve never done drugs in my life. I’ve never even smoked a joint! I’m too square for any of that. I know there are rumors about businesspeople doing coke and then there’s that opioid epidemic, but I never do any of that! Hell, I’ve never even smoked a cigarette.

  “I swear to you,” I choke out, “I never… I mean, I would never… you know me, Denise…”

  “Do I?” The woman who hired me right out of college more than a decade ago raises an eyebrow. “I gave you an incredible opportunity, Abigail. I put my trust in you. You’re the one who chose to throw it all away.” For a moment, her voice breaks. “I’m very, very disappointed.”

  I think back to the day when I got the call from Denise Holt herself, telling me I was her new assistant. As soon as I put down the phone, I started jumping around the room and shouting like a crazy person. She was my idol. And those first few years, she was so good to me—she taught me everything she knew. Not just about the advertising business, but about life. She listened when I admitted things were getting serious with my mathematician boyfriend. He sounds like a keeper, Abigail. She taught me how to dress, how to smile, and how to be confident.

  I still remember standing in the ladies’ room with Denise, the two of us giggling like schoolgirls while I attempted to twist my hair into a chignon. I doubt many people besides me have seen that side of Denise Holt. I haven’t seen it in years.

  “Please, Denise.” I’m ready to get down on my knees. “You have to believe me.”

  When she raises her blue eyes, that twinge of emotion has disappeared. “I’m sorry, Abigail.”

  I’ll have to go over Denise’s head. I’ll have to talk to her boss, and figure out if there’s anything I can do. But it can’t be now because a security guard has arrived to escort me out of the building. They don’t even let me go back to my office. The guard marches me right out to the elevators, in front of everyone. I can hear them whispering.

  Everyone knows.

  I realize at this moment that I can never return to Stewart Advertising. My reputation has been irreparably tarnished. And what sort of job will I land with this in my history?

  As soon as I get out of the building, I hail a taxi back home even though I usually take the subway. I need a taxi. I don’t think I can keep from crying for the length of a train ride. As it is, I sob in the back seat the entire way home. The taxi driver doesn’t comment.

  When I get back to the condo, I can hear the water running in the bathroom. Sam must still be home. Thank God. I need someone to talk to about this. He’ll know what to do.

  He comes out of the bathroom, his hair still damp from the shower, his face smooth and smelling of aftershave. His eyes light up when he sees me. “Abby! What are you doing home?”


  It takes him another half-second to notice the tears in my red, swollen eyes. He sprints across the room, his brow furrowed. “What’s going on? What happened?” Before I can answer, he says, “Is Monica okay?”

  “Is Monica okay?” I practically scream at him. “Is that the first thing you ask when you see me crying?”

  “Well, I… I just thought…” His face turns bright red as he stammers out the words. “I thought maybe it was something with the baby…”

  “No, Monica’s fine,” I snap at him. “The baby’s fine. But I…”

  His brow creases, looking down at me. “What?”

  “I… I got fired!” I sob.

  He pulls me close to him, even though I’m ruining his dress shirt with my tears and snot. He doesn’t seem to mind. He holds me until my shoulders stop shaking.

  “That Denise is unbelievable,” he says. “You need to fight this. Take them to court for wrongful termination. What was the bullshit reason they gave for firing you?”

  I pull away from him, wiping my eyes. “My drug test came back positive for methamphetamine.”

  Sam’s mouth falls open. He drops his arm from my shoulder and takes a step back. “What?”

  “Denise told me this morning,” I say. “They did this urine drug test yesterday and apparently it was positive for meth.”

  He takes another step back, shaking his head. “You’re not serious.”

  Oh my God, does he think I was actually doing meth? He can’t possibly. “It’s a false positive, Sam. I’m not doing meth!”

  But he doesn’t say anything. He just keeps staring at me.

  “Sam!” My heart is pounding. “You don’t really think I’m a meth addict, do you?”

  “No…” He squints at me through his glasses. “But… you have to admit, it does explain a lot of your behavior lately. The way you’re up pacing every night. The paranoia.”

  “Yes, but the insomnia is from stress.” I frown at him. “And I’m not paranoid.”

  “You’re definitely paranoid.”

  “No, I’m not!”

  “Abby.” He shakes his head at me again. “You went on a long rant last night because you were trying to get through to Monica’s roommate on the phone and couldn’t. You thought something terrible was going on.”