The Offering (7 page)

“I saw a movie—
Radio Flyer,
I think it was called—about a boy who'd been abused by his stepfather. I wanted to help that kid in the movie so much I found myself wishing I could jump through the screen. Maybe that's crazy, but that's when I learned that social workers help kids like that boy. People have always been important to me.”

“Did you identify with the child in the movie?”

Recognizing the motive behind the question, I shook my head. “I wasn't ever abused. My dad died when I was six, so after that it was just me and Mom. We didn't always get along—in fact, we're not close even now—but I can't say I was ever abused. I was probably a little spoiled because my daddy would have given me the moon if I'd asked for it. I loved him more than anything, and when I lost him . . . well, it wasn't easy.”

“If spoiling a child results in the kind of altruism you're displaying, maybe the world needs to rethink its child-rearing philosophies.” Natasha smiled and wrote something on her notepad. “What do you remember most about your dad?”

“Most? I have so many memories, it's hard to pick just one. He sold insurance and worked out of an office in the house, so he was always around when I was little—in fact, I think he changed more of my diapers than Mom did, because she worked at a pet shop in town. He taught me how to count, he read me stories, he would sing silly songs to make me laugh—” I sighed as a flood of nostalgia swept over me. “I miss him even now.”

“Did your mother remarry?”

“No. Mom never seemed to have much interest in men . . . or maybe she just didn't have time to date. Between her job and taking care of me, she stayed pretty busy.”

“So you grew up as an only child?”

I nodded. “That's why I want to have more kids when Gideon and I can afford them. I've always wanted a big family—that's probably why I love being around Gid's family so much. They're always together.”

Natasha glanced at her notes, then looked up at me. “What's the one moment you're dreading most in terms of being a gestational carrier? It's perfectly natural to have concerns and anxieties about the process, so you can be completely honest.”

I considered the question. “Everyone seems to think I'll have trouble surrendering the baby, but I don't think that'll be a problem. Maybe I'm being unrealistic, but I honestly feel . . . detached.
It won't be my baby, so I won't bond with him or her. I won't allow myself to get all caught up in feelings I have no right to feel.”

Natasha nodded, her expression thoughtful. “If you don't expect to feel maternal, how do you expect to feel? How do you envision your relationship with the child you'll be carrying?”

I smiled, confident of my answer. “I think I'll see myself as a babysitter. As someone who's been placed in charge of a helpless little one, trusted to take care of it and help it grow. And once it's grown and ready to meet the world, I think I'll be relieved to hand it to its true parents. And proud of myself for completing a job to the best of my ability.”

A smile lifted the corner of Natasha's thin mouth. “That's an extremely healthy attitude.”

“To be honest, though, one thing does concern me . . . but maybe it's no big deal.”

Natasha lifted a brow. “I'm listening.”

“Well”—I twisted my hands—“I'm a little worried that my husband won't find me attractive if I get all fat with a stranger's baby. I know pregnant females are supposed to look beautiful, but my husband comes from a family of gorgeous women and I don't know what he'll think if I have swollen ankles, a round face, and a big belly. When I was pregnant with Marilee he kept telling me I was beautiful, but he might not feel the same way when it's someone else's baby—”

“That's why it's important you face this situation together.” Natasha's gaze softened. “After talking to both of you the other day, I got the impression that your husband is completely on board. I also picked up on the fact that the man adores you.”

A rush of blood heated my face. “I am a lucky woman.”

“And a very normal one.”

We both turned as someone knocked on the door. When Natasha called permission to enter, the blonde who worked at the reception desk came in with a large envelope. “Dr. Dickson just messengered this over,” she said, after a quick glance at me. “I thought you might want to take a look.”

My stomach dropped at the mention of the psychologist. He'd been a blank wall during my interview with him—I had no idea whether he'd describe me as an altruistic saint or a confirmed lunatic.

Natasha smiled her thanks and opened the envelope. I pretended to study my nails as she pulled out a typed letter. From where I sat I could see dense, square paragraphs on the page, but I couldn't read a word of what the doctor had written.

What if he hated me? What if he didn't like the answers I gave? He probably thought I was a monster because I said I'd been a daddy's girl, so my mom and I weren't really close. I'd tried to follow up and explain that Mom and I loved each other even though we didn't have a lot in common, but my rushed fumbling must have sounded like pure rationalization. Furthermore, he probably cared more about
how
I answered his questions than what I actually said, which meant he had probably written that I would be unsuitable for this program or any other. . . .

Natasha leaned back in her chair, then smiled and lowered the letter. “Good news, Amanda—Dr. Dickson says you're no crazier than any other woman in the program. If you still want to help an infertile couple, we have a green light to proceed.”

I pressed my hand to my chest. “For real? That's it?”

“This was the last report I needed. I still want to go over your personality and marriage profiles, but I only use those to help match you with a pair of prospective parents.”

“Oh, my.” I gulped a quick breath. “I can't wait to tell Gideon.”

“I hope he's as delighted as we are. And now, if you'll step into the waiting room for a few moments, I want to review the profiles you brought in today. In about half an hour, I'll ask you to join me again.”

“For . . . more questions or something?”

“For something far more interesting than mere questions.” Something twinkled in the depths of the woman's eyes. “For something I think you'll enjoy very much.”

In the waiting room, I read magazines, studied the wall art (softly focused photographs of smiling couples with adorable naked babies), and attempted to finish a crossword puzzle in a magazine someone had left behind. Too restless to focus on the crossword clues, I hummed along with the Muzak Christmas carols and double-checked my shopping list to be sure I had a gift for everyone I needed to remember. I thought about calling Amelia, just to see how things were going at the grocery, or Mama Isa, to make sure Marilee wasn't being any trouble.

But true to her word, thirty minutes later Natasha opened her door and gestured to me, and I found myself staring at three file folders in a neat row on her desk.

Natasha sank into her chair, crossing her arms and pressing her lips together in the look of a woman struggling to remain impartial.

“I think you'd be a good fit for any of these three couples,” she said. “Look them over and see what you think.”

“You mean
I
choose?”

“Prospective parents tell me what sort of gestational carrier they would like, and I have matched you to three couples who have indicated a preference for a woman of your age and experience. But the contract will be between you and the parents. I am only the agent who brings the two parties together.” She chuckled. “Think of me as renting real estate during a seller's market.”

“My uterus is the property?”

“And there are more couples seeking that property than there are willing renters. So yes, you hold the upper hand. You choose.”

I ran my fingertips over the nearest folder. For the first time in my life, I held real power in my hands, a godlike authority to change other people's lives with a single word. But I couldn't be comfortable with that kind of control. This felt like too much responsibility.

“I don't want to do this alone.” I looked up and bit my lip. “Could you tell me which one you
want
me to choose?”

Natasha shook her head. “I would never presume to make that kind of decision for you. You're the one who will have to work with these IPs.”

“IPs?”

“Intended parents. I'm sure you couldn't go wrong with any of these couples, but ultimately, you must make this choice.”

I swallowed hard. “It's so much pressure. Can I take these home and let Gideon help me?”

She smiled. “By all means. I'm not saying you have to decide right here and now. These are duplicates of files I have in the office, so don't worry if you spill something on the pages. But they are confidential documents, so I must ask you not to leave them in a public place or show them to anyone but your husband. Read through all the enclosed information, consider the applications carefully, and come back whenever you're ready to name your choice. Whoever you pick, I'm sure they'll be ecstatic to hear that their long wait is finally coming to an end. Your decision may be the best Christmas present one of these couples has ever had.”

I picked up the three folders and put them in a large envelope Natasha slid across her desk. I wasn't sure Gideon would care about looking through the information, but maybe this would help him feel more involved. After all, this process would affect our entire family.

“Thank you,” I said, my voice hoarse. “I will guard these with my life.”

“I don't think we have to go that far.” Natasha's smile deepened. “I had a good feeling about you the first time we talked, so I went ahead and prepared a contract—you'll find it in the envelope. Read it over carefully, consult with a lawyer if you like, discuss everything with your husband. And when you're ready to proceed, call the office to set up another appointment. Take as long as you need, but don't forget that these couples have been waiting a long time.
The sooner you make your decision, the sooner we can begin, and the sooner you will receive your initial payment. The payout details are on a sheet in the envelope along with the contract.”

I smiled. Charity was a marvelous thing, but so was an additional paycheck.

Because I got caught in heavy traffic on the Howard Frankland Bridge, the sun had set by the time I walked through our front door. A blanket of stillness lay over the house, an unusual quiet that alarmed me at first. But as I tiptoed through the living room and neared the hallway, I heard the rumble of Gideon's baritone and followed it to the threshold of Marilee's bedroom.

“I'm sorry your throat hurts,” I heard him say. “And I'm going to ask God to make you feel better.”

“Can you ask God to help Auntie Amelia, too?”

“Something wrong with Auntie Amelia?”

“Uh-huh. She read
Curious George
to me the other day, but in the middle she started cryin'. And that's not a sad story, Daddy.”

I leaned against the wall outside Marilee's bedroom and wondered what had bothered Amelia. She seemed perfectly fine when I talked to her Saturday night at Mama Isa's, so why would she cry while reading Marilee's story? Maybe she got something in her eye and Marilee misinterpreted those tears. . . .

I folded my arms and waited in the hallway as Gideon prayed for Amelia and for Marilee's sore throat. Without looking, I knew he was kneeling by our daughter's bedside, his big, strong hands clasped over hers. In a moment he would pull up the covers and tuck them under her chin, then he would turn on the ceiling fan and wish her a good night. . . .

“Sleep tight, precious,” I heard him say, right on schedule. “I love you.”

“Daddy?”

“What?”

“I'll meet you by the river.”

A moment of surprised silence followed, then Gideon replied in the way he'd answered me so many times before. “I'll be waiting for you under the tree, baby girl.”

Later that evening, I pulled Gideon from the talking heads on ESPN and led him to the kitchen table, which I'd covered with the three folders and the contract from the Surrogacy Center.

“What's this?” A frown line creased his forehead. “This had better not be bad news from the IRS.”

I tweaked his nose. “These are folders from prospective parents. We get to choose whose baby we carry.”

“
You
carry,” he corrected, but he sat and flipped the cover of the first file.

I sat next to him and skimmed the page as he read. I'd devoured each couple's information as soon as I came home, which meant we settled for a dinner of microwaved fish sticks and cold potato salad.

The first couple, Forrest and Jennifer Jeffrey, lived in Orlando, less than two hours away. They were in their midthirties and had been married ten years. “We have tried everything to have a child,” Jennifer wrote on the application. “We've tracked my ovulation, Forrest has worn boxer shorts for months, we've done everything the doctors and the old wives' tales suggested. We even tried IVF, but none of our babies implanted after transfer and we felt guilty about using up so many living embryos. When our doctor suggested we contract with a gestational carrier, we didn't take the idea seriously at first, but I want a baby more than anything in the world. So we're going to wait for you, dear volunteer, and hope you will be willing to carry our child to term. Time is of the essence, of course, because Forrest and I aren't growing any younger. We don't want to pressure you, not now or ever, but we have a lot of time, love, and resources to share with you and with a baby.”

“Resources.” Gideon tapped the page. “That's code.”