Page 64 of The Surrogate Mother
I squeeze my fists together. “I don’t know. But I’ve never seen that bag before in my life.”
Sam plucks the bag out of my hand and looks at it in disgust. “I’m flushing this down the toilet.”
“Don’t do that!”
He shakes his head. “Why not?”
“Because it’s evidence. There might be fingerprints on it.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” He rolls his eyes. “You know what will happen if you get caught with this? You’ll go to jail. I’m flushing it. Sorry—you’ll have to get your next high somewhere else.”
I stare after him in disbelief. I look down at my hands, which are shaking badly. I don’t know what’s going on here. Is it possible I’m a meth addict and don’t know it? Maybe I have one of those conditions where I black out and have a whole other life on the side. Is that possible? Because he’s right—there’s only one logical explanation for all of this.
And it doesn’t make me feel very good about myself.
27
For the first time in a long time, I sleep like a rock. It’s surprising, given how anxious I was all day. I thought I’d be awake until two in the morning with thoughts racing through my head, which has become the norm lately. But instead, the second my head hits the pillow, I’m out like a light, even though I didn’t take a sleeping pill. I don’t even wake up during the night to pee, which is practically a miracle.
When I get up, Sam isn’t in the bed anymore. He didn’t sleep on the couch or anything, but he slept as far on his side of the bed as possible without being in an entirely different bed. I’ve never fought like this with him in the entire decade we’ve known each other. It’s depressing.
I stumble out of bed and hit the bathroom. When I see myself in the mirror over the sink, I almost gasp. I lookawful. My hair has that Bride of Frankenstein look it always gets when I’ve slept too long, and there are a few new gray hairs that weren’t there the last time I looked at myself. There are deep purple circles under my eyes and my cheeks are hollowed out. Honestly, if someone held up a photo of awoman who looked like me and said she was a meth addict, I’d believe it. No wonder Sam was suspicious.
I forgo a shower because I’m suddenly starving. I pad out to the kitchen to get some food… and stop short at the sight of the couple sitting on my couch.
Sam and Monica.
What isshedoing here?
“You’re awake,” Sam notes, a clearly forced smile on his lips.
Sam is dressed for work, wearing a crisp white shirt with a tie, and he’s clean-shaven. Even though he might not be wearing Prada or Armani, he looks very good right now. This is the version of Dr. Adler that makes all the undergrad girls fall in love with him. Monica is wearing a blue maternity dress that shows off her substantial cleavage, and her hair looks luscious and silky. The two of them are a really attractive couple. I think of the reflection of myself in the bathroom mirror and wince. Also, I’m wearing pajama shorts and an oversized T-shirt, neither of which is doing me any favors.
“Um, what’s going on?” I say.
“Can you sit down for a minute, Abby?” Sam says.
I finger the rat’s nest on my head. “Can I shower first?”
“No, I’ve got to get to work, and we really need to talk to you.” His brown eyes meet mine, but the usual affection is absent. “This won’t take long.”
I don’t know what they have to say to me, but it’s clearly nothing good. Still, I settle down in the armchair across from them. Monica crosses her legs, smiling kindly at me. I want to punch her in the face.
“Monica and I had a long discussion yesterday,” Sam begins. Ha, I knew he smelled like her perfume! What thehell was that woman doing with my husband the whole evening? “And she has some very valid concerns.”
“Concerns?” I echo.
He glances at Monica, then plows forward. “She’s worried about the adoption, given your recent problems with… you know, drugs.”
“I don’t have a drug problem!” I burst out. “This is all just a huge mistake!”
The two of them exchange looks. I really dislike these meaningful looks they’re giving each other. Monica barely knows him! I’m hiswife!
“I think Monica’s concerns are really valid,” he says. “And… well, we’ve come up with a compromise. We’d like you to attend an inpatient drug rehabilitation program.”
My mouth falls open. “You want me to go torehab?”
He nods. “Yes. There are a lot of great programs. I called up a bunch of them yesterday and—”
