Page 3 of The Surrogate Mother
Another lesson I learned from Denise.
“How are you doing?” she asks.
“Good,” I say cautiously, because anything more positive than that is a cue for Denise to make my life worse.
“Wonderful, wonderful.” Denise taps a dark red manicured finger against her chin. “Remind me how long you’re planning to take for your family leave? Eight weeks?”
A muscle twitches in my jaw. “Twelve weeks.”
“Twelve weeks?” Denise's eyes widen in astonishment, despite the fact that we’ve had this exact conversation nearly a dozen times. “That long?”
The muscle twitches again. I had my first migraine earlier this year following a particularly tense discussion with Denise—I can’t let her get to me.
“Twelve weeks is allowed as family leave,” I say.
“I realize that.” Denise’s ice-blue eyes narrow at me. “But that doesn’t mean youmusttake twelve weeks, does it? It seems like an awfully long time. Your clients will be disappointed.”
“I can do some of my work from home during the last month,” I say. That’s a compromise we’ve worked out. “Everyone is going to take on some of my workload. And of course, my assistant Monica will be around to help out.”
“Monica will be around to help,” she repeats in a vaguely mocking tone. She blinks a few times. “Well then, perhaps we should giveMonicayour position?”
If I slugged her in the face, I’d get fired. I have to remind myself of that. Again and again.
“I’m just kidding,” Denise says, even though she’s not smiling. “Of course, you are entitled to your twelve weeks, Abigail. I was just hoping you might reconsider.”
I will not reconsider. I love my career, but I have thought long and hard about my priorities. I will not rush back to work. I don’t care if Denise hates me because of it. And let’s face it—she wouldn’t hate me any less if I took four weeks.
“Anyway.” Denise pats her flawless chignon, which makes my hand go automatically to my own French knot. I feel a strand has come loose and I quickly tuck it behind my ear. Denise must use a bottle of hairspray each day to keep hers intact, but it doesn’t appear that way. Her hair looks silky and perfect. “I believe Shelley has planned some sort of…partyfor you in the break room.”
I’m well aware that my best friend Shelley has scheduled a baby shower for me to follow this meeting—she would have preferred to surprise me, but given my tight schedule, that was impossible. It’s sweet of her, but after fifteen minutes, I’ll definitely have to make my excuses and slip away. My afternoon is packed—as it is, I won’t get home till eight or nine tonight.
“I’m afraid I won’t be able to make it,” Denise tells me, which is no surprise. She’s made no secret of the fact that she does not approve of events that “waste everyone’s time” such as baby showers. “But please make sure you clear away all the trash from the room when you’re done.”
I bite my tongue to keep from reminding her that I am no longer her assistant, and she can’t tell me to clean up garbage anymore. But I keep my mouth shut, because I’m happy. I’ve impressed the Cuddles people, and I’m about to go to a baby shower in my honor. Ababy shower. Forme.
In the time I have worked at Stewart Advertising, I have made an appearance at roughly two million baby showers. Okay, that could be a slight exaggeration. It’s possible I’ve only been to one million baby showers. Maybe three-quarters of a million. Definitely no less than half a million.
But now, for the first time, the shower is for me. Not for Elsa in reception, who has had at least a dozen children in her time working here. Not for Shelley, who has had a more respectable two. This shower is forme. The fingersandwiches that will be piled in the corner will have been brought inmyhonor. The presents stacked neatly in the corner of the room will be forme. The first piece of chocolate hazelnut cake will be handed tome.
There’s only one thing different about this baby shower from all other baby showers thrown for the other women in my company:
I’m not pregnant.
2
“Here’s your bottle, Abby.”
Shelley is thrusting a baby bottle into my hand. It’s filled with… well, it’s not milk. Something amber-colored. “We’re going to start in another minute.”
I hold up the bottle to the light. “What’s in it?”
“Apple juice,” Shelley says, but then she winks, which makes me worry.
“I’m not drinking whiskey at work, Shelley,” I hiss at her.
“It’sapple juice.”
We’ve played this game… well, at least half a million times. Everyone gets a bottle of liquid, and we all chug it through the nipples. Whoever finishes first is the winner. It’s just one of several inane baby shower games we’ve devised and perfected over the years.
