Page 14 of The Surrogate Mother
“Wecan afford it.”
He rolls his eyes, but doesn’t comment further. “Three,” he goes on, “what if she changes her mind?”
“This wouldn’t be a standard adoption contract,” I point out. “I mean, she’d be using your sperm so you’d have a legal claim to the baby.”
The red in his ears invades his neck. “Yeah, that’s another thing. I’m not so wild about the idea of using my sperm.”
“It’s not like you’d have to have sex with her…”
“Oh, wouldn’t I?”
“Look,” I say, “isn’t this what you wanted? To have a biological child?”
He drops his eyes. “I wanted a biological child withyou, Abby. This is… it’sweird. I don’t want to do it.”
“Well, youcan’thave a biological child with me.” I fold my arms across my chest. “Because I’mdefective.”
“Stop it. You’re not defective.”
“Iam.” I blink back tears. “So if you want a biological child, this is the only way it’s going to happen.”
“Jesus.” Sam rakes a hand through his hair until it stands up. “This is a bad idea. We were going to adopt. Let’s just stick with the plan.”
“I can’t take any more disappointments, Sam.” The tears are spilling over now, rolling down my cheeks. “Monica… she’s a great girl. She won’t disappoint us—Iknowit.”
He’s still shaking his head. “Abby…”
“We could have our baby in a year. It’ll never be less than that with the agency.”
This is the first thing I’ve said that’s swayed Sam. He’s thinking again about being an “old dad.” Even though he was thirty when we started, he’s now only a few short years shy of forty. He’s going to be an “old dad,” like it or not. The question ishowold?
“I don’t know, Abby,” he sighs. He picks up our plates from the table to bring them to the dishwasher. He does that every night without being asked. “I still think it’s a bad idea.”
“Will you at least meet Monica?” I plead with him. “Hear her out?”
He hesitates. And at that moment, I know I’ve got him.
6
Monica looks like she’s at a job interview. She’s dressed up in a gray suit jacket and matching skirt, and her dress shirt is so white, it’s gleaming. She’s wearing makeup but it’s so artfully applied that her face looks bare. Her dark hair is swept behind her head in a tight bun. Her fingers are clasped together on the table of the restaurant so tightly, they’ve turned pale.
Sam, on his part, looks like he’s conducting a job interview. He’s also dressed up in a crisp white shirt and a green tie. His glasses slide down his nose as he peers down at the yellow legal pad in front of him. Apparently, he’s going to be taking notes during this meal. So much for putting Monica at ease.
The whole thing would be funny if my entire life weren’t riding on it.
This is Sam all over—he takes everythingsoseriously. It’s adorable, except when it’s annoying, like now. It makes me think of the first time we met, actually. I was still Denise’s personal assistant at Stewart Advertising, and wewere putting together a campaign for the university where Sam was a grad student in the math department. My job was to meet with grad students in all the departments and gather highlights that we could use in the advertising materials.
For the most part, it was fun. The art grad student showed me some incredible paintings done by his classmates. The chemistry grad student showed me an experiment in the lab. And the English grad student took me all around campus, then offered me a joint in his office.
Sam showed up to our meeting in his office wearing a dress shirt and tie. He proceeded to spend the next half an hour teaching me math. Something about series solutions to differential equations—who the hell knows? I would have fallen asleep completely if he weren’t so incredibly cute in his shirt and tie. I still remember him gesturing at a line of Greek symbols on his whiteboard and saying emphatically, “This should go in your pamphlet.”
“Yes,” I said and pretended to write it down. “Absolutely.”
At the very first moment it wouldn’t have been rude, I stood up and thrust my hand in his direction. “Thank you very much, Mr. Adler. This was really… helpful.”
And then, as we shook hands, I noticed the handshake was lingering more than I would have expected. His kind brown eyes met mine and a nervous smile touched his lips. “So, uh… you wouldn’t be interested in… maybe grabbing some dinner together?”
I hesitated. I had already turned down the English grad student, who had gotten grabby after he smoked that joint. But he had a giant beard and smelled like BO. Sam smelled good. I still love his aftershave, which he applies every day without exception.
