Page 25 of The Surrogate Mother
I whip out my iPhone, which of course doesn’t recognize my thumbprint because my fingers are all sticky from babyfood. I punch in my passcode, which is my birthday. Yes, I know—it’s not very secure. But I don’t think anyone is plotting to steal information from my phone. Half of what’s on there are text messages with my coworkers. Mostly between Shelley and me, complaining about Denise.
I type a quick text to Sam:
Monica’s pregnant!
After I type the words, the iPhone suggests a pregnant lady emoji, which I add in, even though I know Sam is not a big fan of random emojis. Oh well.
“What did he say?” Monica asks, casually leaning over my desk to see the screen of my phone.
Sam’s reply comes a second later:
Wonderful.
It’s hard not to imagine a touch of sarcasm in his response. Even though Sam has been on board throughout this process, he’s been noticeably reluctant the whole way. When he left to give the sperm sample, he gave me this look and said, “Here I go.” And then he waited, like he was hoping I might tell him to forget the whole thing. I didn’t.
“He said, ‘Wonderful!’” I say.
Monica beams. She doesn’t need to know I inserted the exclamation point myself.
I look down at her stomach, which is flat as a board. We agreed she’d work until she was showing, but it doesn’t look like that will happen any time soon. “How are you feeling?”
“Good!”
“Any nausea?”
“Not at all.”
“Tired?”
“Just a bit.” She holds her thumb and forefinger a centimeter apart. “But not too bad.”
She doesn’t look like she feels tired or nauseous. She looks… great, actually. Like she’s glowing.
“You’re taking the prenatal vitamins, right?” I ask.
She nods.
“Two a day,” I remind her. “The recommended dose is two pills per day.”
She smiles. “I know.”
I squeeze my hands together. “And you have to avoid cold cuts. And sushi. And, well… alcohol is supposed to be okay in moderation, but—”
“Don’t worry, Abby,” Monica says in that calm voice of hers. “I’m not going to drink at all. I promise.”
I hear a knock on the door, and before I can say anything, Denise is standing in the doorway. She never waits for a reply before barging in. She peers at me, a noticeable lack of a smile on her lips, but that’s nothing new. She regards Monica briefly, but chooses not to even acknowledge her with a greeting.
“Abigail,” she says. “Have you found a slogan yet for Cuddles? I just got a call from them.”
“Um…”
Cuddles baby food—tastes fifty percent less sickening than the other leading brands.
“Not yet,” I say.
Denise eyes the baby food containers on my desk. Too late, I notice Monica’s pregnancy test is still lying there. I put my elbow in front of it, hoping Denise doesn’t notice. Aside from Shelley, I haven’t told a soul here about my arrangement with Monica, and I don’t intend to. Nothing good can come of that. She’s going to leavethe company before she’s showing, so really, it’s none of their business.
“We’re meeting with them tomorrow,” Denise reminds me. “I hope you’ll have something by then.”
