Page 15 of The Surrogate Mother
“I need to finish explaining how to solve differential equations,” he added.
“I’ll tell you what,” I said. “I’ll go to dinner with you but you have to promise not to talk about differential equations again for the rest of the night. Or any other kind of equations.”
I half-expected him to clasp his chest in horror, exclaiming, “But what else could we possibly discuss?” But instead, he smiled and said, “Deal.”
As it turned out, we had plenty to talk about that night. So much that we didn’t leave the diner until well after midnight. So much that I was mid-sentence when Sam leaned in and kissed me for the first time.
And now here we are, over ten years later, interviewing a woman to carry our child in her womb for nine months. Couldn’t have predicted that one.
Sam has made it very clear he’s not excited about doing this. But he consented to meeting Monica and discussing it. If he’s satisfied with the terms, then… well, he wouldn’t give any promises. Sam can be very stubborn at times.
We’ve chosen an Italian restaurant we’ve never been to before, because I don’t want the staff at one of our regular establishments to overhear us asking a woman to rent out her womb to us. It’s a small, dark restaurant, and Sam is squinting to see his notes on the legal pad by the light of the candle on our table.
“This is a little awkward, I know,” I say to break the ice. “But I think it would be great for us all to get to know each other better.”
“Uh huh, absolutely.” Sam taps on the legal pad with his pen. “Monica, do you live in Manhattan?”
She nods eagerly. “Yes. I live downtown with a roommate.”
“And what’s your roommate’s name?”
“Chelsea Williams.”
He writes it down, then makes her tell him the roommate’s phone number, which he jots down as well. I want to grab the pen out of his hand.
“Sam,” I murmur. “You’re being rude.”
“No, it’s fine,” Monica says quickly. “I mean, I know this is a really important decision for you guys. Anything you want to know—I’m an open book.”
She tugs at the top button of her white blouse. She’s got her shirt buttoned all the way up to her throat, although I notice that’s something she often does. Monica is not an unattractive girl, but she seems reluctant to show off her sexuality at work. She usually wears slacks or skirts that fall below the knee. I assume she’s got breasts under there somewhere, but you’d never know it. That’s something I respect about her. Too many girls are willing to flash a little skin to get what they want, but Monica doesn’t go that route. She’s got integrity.
A waiter approaches us to take our drink orders. I get a glass of red, because damn, do I need it. Sam sticks with water, and then the waiter turns to Monica: “And for you, Miss?”
She glances down at the menu. I try to send her telepathic messages:Don’t order alcohol. Don’t!
“Water’s fine for me too, thanks,” she says.
And Sam nods his tacit approval. Not that he doesn’t drink himself, but tonight, Monica needs to be a saint.
“Do you mind if I ask a few questions about your family?” Sam asks, when the waiter’s gone to fetch our drinks.
“Of course not,” Monica says. “Like I said, I’m an open book. I really want this to work out.”
He puts down his pen on the table and peers across the table at her. “Why?”
She blinks a few times. “What do you mean?”
“I understand you respect Abby and want her to have a baby,” he says, “but if you don’t mind my saying so, you seem very eager to make this happen. It doesn’t make sense to me.”
I kick my husband’s leg under the table. “Sam…”
“No, I think it’s a fair question.” He doesn’t take his gaze off Monica’s face. “Don’t you, Monica?”
Her eyes dart briefly in my direction, then she nods. “Yes, it’s a fair question.”
The waiter comes by at this moment to drop off our drinks. Water for Sam and Monica, wine for me. I take a big gulp.
“Dr. Adler, Abby tells me you’re a math professor,” Monica says.
