The worst thing about going to work the next morning is seeing other people. If I could be magically transported into my office and not have to speak to anyone, I’d be much happier.
It’s a two-minute walk from the subway station to the office building, and during that time, I pass roughly five-thousand women pushing baby carriages. I don’t know what they’re all doing out and about at this early hour. I try not to look, but it’s hard not to. One of the babies can’t be more than a month or two old—she still has that fetal look to her, with her tiny eyes squeezed shut and her miniscule hands squeezed into red fists. Her hat has fallen off her head, and I want to reach over and put it back on. If it were my baby, I would never allow her hat to fall off or her little head to be cold for even an instant. I would never neglect my hat duties.
Why would the universe take my baby away from me?
When I walk into the office, the entire room goes deathly silent. If there were music playing, it would have come to a screeching halt. All eyes are on me as I attempt to sprint to my office. It’s enough to make me wish I had taken that personal day after all.
I’ve almost made it to safety when I practically collide with Shelley. She’s standing with two other women from the office. I’ve attended baby showers for all three of them within the last five years, none of which ended abruptly in tragedy.
“Are you okay, Abby?” Shelley asks me. “Fine.” I force a smile. “I’m fine. Really.”
And I mean it. Well, I’m partially fine. Sam and I contacted the social worker at the agency last night and we told them we wanted to broaden our options for adoption. Sam figured there was no point in sitting around, feeling sorry for ourselves—we’d feel better if we got started on the process of finding another child to adopt. While he was saying it, it sounded stupid, but it turned out he was right.
Not that I feel all better, but that stabbing pain in my heart feels more like a dull ache.
Even so, Shelley hugs me, as do the other two women, even though I barely know either of them.
“You’re going to get your baby someday,” Shelley promises me.
I avoid her eyes. I’m not in the mood for patronizing pep talks. “Yep.” “Honestly, you should consider yourself lucky,” a woman named Jan
says to me. “Kids are nothing but work. I mean, right now, you can go out to dinner any time you want and you don’t even have to think about getting a babysitter.”
“And you never sleep when you have a baby,” the other woman, Sidney, says. “You walk around for a year feeling like a zombie. Actually, make that five years!”
“Make that eighteen!” Jan laughs.
Sidney winks at me. “You can have my kids if you want them, Abby.”
I look at Shelley, who can tell how much these comments are getting to me. God knows how long these well-meaning women would have kept me there, telling me how fortunate I am to have the adoption yanked out from under me, if Denise Holt herself hadn’t shown up. The heels of her Christian Louboutin pumps tap loudly against the ground with each step.
Denise Holt walks right up to us, not a trace of sympathy in her blue eyes. I wonder if she’s glad the adoption fell through for me. But in a way, I’m grateful for her stony gaze. At least one person is treating me the same as always.
“Abigail,” she says sharply, folding her slim arms across her chest. “I informed you that you were welcome to take a personal day. But if you are going to be at work, please don’t disrupt the entire staff.”
“Abby’s upset!” Jan says. “We were trying to cheer her up.”
“Actually, there’s no need,” I say quickly. “I’m completely fine. Sorry, Denise. I’ll just… be in my office.”
Thanks to Denise, I’m able to escape without any more sympathetic gazes or hugs. I slip into my office, slamming the door shut behind me. Finally, I’m in my safe haven.
Except the entire corner of my office is littered with presents from the baby shower.
At least they had the good sense not to give me the diaper cake. But why would they think I want to look at this giant stack of gifts, each one covered in a different shade of pastel wrapping paper? I don’t have to open
them to know they’re filled with tiny clothes and bibs and rattles. For a baby we won’t be getting.
I pick up the present from the top of the pile. It’s wrapped in blue paper, which has little teddy bears, baseball bats, and basketballs on it, interspersed with the words “IT’S A BOY.” I glance at the card and see that it’s from my ex-assistant Gertie, who couldn’t make the shower yesterday because she was having a second surgery on her broken hip. I’m sure the box contains something tiny and cute that will break my heart.
At the time, I thought it was so sweet of her to send a gift—now I wish she hadn’t bothered. I wish none of them had bothered.
And now I have to figure out how to sell diapers. Wonderful.
I settle into my ergonomic leather armchair. I was so thrilled the day I got my own office—the luxurious chair was just icing on the cake. Now? It doesn’t matter. I’d give it all up if only Janelle would change her mind back.
I try to put those thoughts aside as I check the messages on my phone. My mother called my office line last night, after I sent her call on my cell phone to voicemail. She always calls on Wednesday nights—it’s between her book club night and her ballroom dancing night. But I couldn’t bear to talk to her. My mother is not the comforting type, and she was never in favor of adoption. It was her opinion that if Sam and I couldn’t conceive, we were better off childless. Someone else’s child—someone else’s problems. I didn’t want her to tell me about how I was better off.
I’ve finished sorting through most of my messages and am feeling closer to some semblance of normal when Monica inches into the office with a cup of coffee for me. She’s wearing that same deep crease between her eyebrows that everyone else has. They must think I’m five minutes away from a psych admission.
“How are you doing?” she asks as she carefully places the coffee mug down on my desk.
“I’m okay,” I say. “But, um, could you get all these presents out of my office?”
“Oh!” She whirls around to look at the stack of gifts. “Sorry about that! I wasn’t sure what to do with them. Nobody wanted to take their present back, so I just…”
“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.
spit.
And part of me is so jealous of young, carefree Monica that I want to
“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.
