Page 10 of The Surrogate Mother
“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 youneversleep 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’swrapped 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 selldiapers. 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 evennotice. 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.”
