Page 19 of Nine Months to Bear
I watch Ms. Chopard’s perfectly manicured nails drumming against the armrest of her chair. It’s my judgment bringing down the walls, God’s judgment—and Ms. Chopard’s, too, probably, once she finally starts reading faster than two words per minute.
Just when I think she must be done reading, her nails go back to tapping. The sound matches the staccato of my pulse.
Tap, tap, tap. A countdown to professional suicide.
I try to smooth my hair back into its bun and flatten the wrinkles from my blouse, but nothing can hide the bags under my eyes after three consecutive all-nighters. That’s what it took to get this contract to a place where I could hand it to Ms. Chopard without immediately wanting to hurl myself into traffic.
Each second she reads feels like an eternity. My fingers twitch with the urge to snatch the contract back, to laugh it off as a terrible joke.
Just kidding, Ms. Chopard! Of course I wouldn’t suggest your daughter become a surrogate to cover her tuition and my outstanding balances. What kind of monster do you think I am?
Don’t worry—I hate me, too.
Outside, rain streaks the windows, turning the world beyond into a blurry watercolor of gray. All that’s missing is a dramatic score and crackles of foreboding lightning.
Ms. Chopard eyes finally,finally, flick up—and they are red with rage.
“You want me to rent my daughter’s womb like some kind of… of… broodmare?!”
“That’s not—” But it is, isn’t it? Bile rises in my throat. I swallow hard. “The surrogacy program is completely ethical, with full medical support?—”
“‘Ethical’?” She spits the word in utter contempt. “You think there’s anythingethicalabout suggesting my twenty-two-year-old daughter carry someoneelse’schild for money?”
“Many young women find the experience rewarding.” The line I spent hours rehearsing in the mirror sounds every bit as flimsy as it is. “It’s a chance to help another family while providing financial?—”
“It’s blackmail.” Ms. Chopard lurches to her feet, her Hermès bag swinging on her elbow. “First, you jack up your rates, and I held my tongue. But now, you’re suggesting I sell out my ownchild to cover the difference?” She barks out a laugh. “Rebecca Walsh was right about you, Dr. Aster. You’re morally bankrupt.”
“Dr. Walsh doesn’t—” I clear my throat, desperate to hide the sob lodged in the base of it. “Dr. Walsh is entitled to her opinion of me, but I have my own of her. She runs a baby factory. She doesn’t give a damn about individualized care. She puts everyone on an assembly line and treats women like?—”
“She treats women like paying customers.” Ms. Chopard’s lip curls. “Unlike you, who treats them like cheap commodities to be traded as you see fit.”
My chest tightens. “Ms. Chopard, please try to understand. The financial situation?—”
“Oh, I understand perfectly.” She slams her hand on my desk, rattling my framed degrees. “Rebecca has been calling me for months. Did you know that? Offering discounts, VIP treatment, access to their new genetic screening program.”
I want to scream. I want to cry. I want to go to sleep for a very long time.
“But I stayed loyal to you,” Ms. Chopard continues, her voice rising to a keening wail. “When she told me your clinic was failing, I defended you. When she said your methods were outdated, I argued that personal attention trumps fancy machines any day of the week. Didn’t I? Didn’t I say those things?”
Guilt coils in my stomach. I feel like I’m going to be sick. “I appreciate your loyalty?—”
She laughs as soon as the word passes my lips. “Loyalty—that’s a small word for trusting you with my family’s future. With myhopes of giving Lila a sibling. And this is how you repay that trust? That ‘loyalty’? By suggesting my daughter sell her body?”
“It’s not selling—” I start, but the words die in my throat.
It is, though, and there’s no point in denying it. I’m suggesting a financial transaction involving a woman’s reproductive capacity. It’s everything I stand against, but I’ve just wrapped it in clinical terminology to make it palatable. A spoonful of sugar to make the medicine go down.
I hate everything that’s brought me here.
I hate myself most of all.
“My daughter is studying neuroscience at MIT,” Ms. Chopard hisses. “She has dreams, ambitions. She is not a solution to your business problems.”
I rise from my chair, wishing I could take it all back, even though I know it’s far too late for that. “The arrangement would be temporary. Nine months, with full compensation and healthcare. We could expedite your treatment once?—”
“Once what? Once you’ve pimped out my daughter? Or once you’ve finished using my family’s bodies to keep your failing business afloat?” She shakes her head in disgust. “I expected better from you, Dr. Aster. I thought you were different. Joke is on me, I suppose.”
That hurts worst of all—because I thought I was different, too.
