Page 87 of The Surrogate Mother
“Likewise,” I say.
He narrows his eyes at me. “Also, you smell like whiskey.”
Well, that could be accurate.
“Good night,” he says, as he slams the door shut behind him. If he wasn’t having an affair before, I think I’ve remedied that.
But on the plus side, at least he hasn’t duct-taped me to a chair.
37
Isorely regret my alcohol intake last night when I wake up the next morning with a throbbing headache and a mouth that tastes and feels like sandpaper. I roll over in bed and see the empty spot next to me. It’s the first time in our entire marriage that Sam went to the couch to sleep. I have a bad feeling it won’t be the last.
While I’m lying in bed, the doorbell chimes sound throughout the apartment. I rub my eyes, wincing at the noise. I can’t even imagine who would be coming here on a weekday morning. I’m certainly not expecting anyone.
Oh my God, is it the police coming to arrest me?
My heart is slamming in my chest as I race out to the door in my bare feet. I lean in to look through the peephole, and I nearly faint with relief when I see my old assistant Gertie standing there. She’s clutching a shopping bag from the grocery store in one hand, her cane in the other, and beaming at the door.
I fling the door open and her face breaks out in a smile when she sees me. Well, until she gets a closer look at me. It’s disturbing the way her eyes widen and she takes a stepback. I wish I had checked a mirror first before I ran out here.
“Abby!” she gasps. “You look like you haven’t slept in weeks.”
No, I’m just hungover. But I don’t say that. “Yeah, it’s been rough lately.”
“Well, that’s why I’m here!” She holds up the shopping bag. “You were so sad last time I saw you. I wanted to make you some breakfast.”
“That’s really sweet, but…”
Apparently, Gertie is not taking no for an answer. She pushes past me and quickly makes herself at home in our kitchen. Within seconds, she’s running water and clanging pots.
“Can I do anything to help?” I ask.
She waves me away. “Of course not! You go, um… freshen up.”
I can take a hint.
I stumble in the direction of the bedroom to check out the damage. I almost gasp when I see the circles under my eyes and my hair sticking up in defiance of gravity. When I was in my twenties, I could throw back a bunch of drinks and still look gorgeous in the morning, but not so much now. I run a brush through my black hair, and dab on some makeup.
There. Better.
When I return to the kitchen, I smell frying eggs, which makes my stomach growl in spite of my semi-hangover. It reminds me of Sam’s attempt to cook an omelet for breakfast a few months ago. He put too many eggs in the pan, and the center of the omelet was completely raw while the outside was dark brown. We nicknamed it “SalmonellaSurprise.” We laughed a lot that morning. (And had corn flakes for breakfast.)
I can’t believe Sam is sleeping with Monica. How could he?
“Have a seat, Abby dear,” Gertie says. She’s wearing Sam’s “I ate some pie” apron and moving eggs around the frying pan. She picks up the pan and scrapes the eggs onto two plates. She brings my plate out to the dining table, then limps back to bring out a glass of orange juice. “Breakfast is served!”
I don’t know if I’m hungry, but I don’t want to seem ungrateful so I sit down. At the very least, I’m incredibly thirsty, so I down the orange juice in three big gulps. It makes my pounding headache feel ever so slightly better.
I dig into the eggs a little more reluctantly, but after the first bite, I’m shoveling them into my mouth. They’re actually really good. Much better than Salmonella Surprise.
“What do you think?” Gertie asks, grinning at me across the time.
“You need to show my husband how to make this,” I say. Although I suspect Sam will never try to make me eggs ever again. Those days are over.
“I’d be happy to.” Gertie winks at me, and I can’t help but notice that up close she doesn’t have as many wrinkles around her eyes as I’d expect her to. I always thought of Gertie as pushing seventy, but now I think she’s likely closer to sixty. It’s a shame that she hurt her hip so badly at such a young age. I still wonder if Monica was responsible—I’ll probably never know the truth.
I’ve nearly cleaned my plate of delicious eggs when the doorbell rings again.
