Page 9 of The Surrogate Mother
After our approval, the search began for a child to match us with. Sam was open to older children, but I was adamant about wanting a newborn. During all those years of trying to conceive, I had dreamed of a tiny little infant, and I couldn’t let go of that. Sometimes I felt guilty about it, because I knew there were older children who needed homes, so we agreed our second adoption (and possibly third, if we got to that point) would be an older child. But I wanted to experience having a newborn. Just once. And it cost us a year of being rejected by multiple pregnant women until Janelle finally made our dreams come true.
Well, almost.
And now, after having it all for a very short time, we have nothing again.
“What now?” I whisper to my husband.
Sam drops his head back against the sofa, staring up at the ceiling, his eyes glazed. Sometimes I get so caught up in my own misery that I forget it means just as much to him as it does to me. He wanted a child even before I did. This is killing him—I can see it in his eyes.
“I think we should look into adopting an older child,” he finally says.
I suck in a breath. “Sam…”
“I know,” he says tightly. “I know you were hoping for a newborn. Iknow. But Abby, there are so many young kids out there who need a home.”
I look over at the tiny bassinet that nearly broke my knee. It’s trimmed in yellow ribbon with little pink flowers on it. Yesterday, when we still believed we were going to be parents, I had laid out a little outfit inside the bassinet. A blue onesie barely the size of my hand, paired with tiny yellow socks. I remember putting one of those little socks in my palm, marveling at how tiny it was. How could ahuman beinghave a foot tiny enough to fit into that little sock? I kissed the sock gently, knowing it would soon warm the tiny foot of my infant son.
I know it sounds silly, but I had my heart set on a newborn. I don’t feel ready to let go of my dream of holding an infant in my arms—of sliding a tiny foot into that little sock.
“We bought all newborn stuff,” I point out. “The clothes… the crib… the bassinet… the car seat.”
“So?” He rolls his head to look at me. “We can buy all new stuff. It’s juststuff, Abby.”
Yes, it’s just stuff. And it isn’t the stuff that’s made me hesitant to do this.
“Everyone wants newborns,” he says. “But the kids in the orphanages… they need parents so badly. I want to do that, Abby. I’m sick of waiting for a newborn. I just want for us to be parents to a child who needs us.”
He’s right, of course. I’ve got to let go of my stupid fantasies from my days of TTC. It also doesn’t escape me that if Sam wanted kids so badly, he could dump me for someone like April.His sperm is normal. I’m the problem.
But he’d never do that.
“Okay,” I say. “Let’s do it.”
4
The worst thing about going to work the next morning is seeing other people. If I could be magically transported into my office and not have to speak to anyone, I’d be much happier.
It’s a two-minute walk from the subway station to the office building, and during that time, I pass roughly five-thousand women pushing baby carriages. I don’t know what they’re all doing out and about at this early hour. I try not to look, but it’s hard not to. One of the babies can’t be more than a month or two old—she still has that fetal look to her, with her tiny eyes squeezed shut and her minuscule hands squeezed into red fists. Her hat has fallen off her head, and I want to reach over and put it back on. If it were my baby, I would never allow her hat to fall off or her little head to be cold for even an instant. I would never neglect my hat duties.
Why would the universe take my baby away from me?
When I walk into the office, the entire room goes deathly silent. If there were music playing, it would have come to a screeching halt. All eyes are on me as I attempt to sprint tomy office. It’s enough to make me wish I had taken that personal day after all.
I’ve almost made it to safety when I practically collide with Shelley. She’s standing with two other women from the office. I’ve attended baby showers for all three of them within the last five years, none of which ended abruptly in tragedy.
“Are you okay, Abby?” Shelley asks me.
“Fine.” I force a smile. “I’m fine. Really.”
And I mean it. Well, I’m partially fine. Sam and I contacted the social worker at the agency last night and we told them we wanted to broaden our options for adoption. Sam figured there was no point in sitting around, feeling sorry for ourselves—we’d feel better if we got started on the process of finding another child to adopt. While he was saying it, it sounded stupid, but it turned out he was right.
Not that I feel all better, but that stabbing pain in my heart feels more like a dull ache.
Even so, Shelley hugs me, as do the other two women, even though I barely know either of them.
“You’re going to get your baby someday,” Shelley promises me.
I avoid her eyes. I’m not in the mood for patronizing pep talks. “Yep.”
