Page 3 of Jasper
“It syncs with your cycle tracking. If you don’t sync the accounts, the hormonal recommendations won’t optimize.”
“I’ll double check it.”
“I’d prefer if you did it now.” Her tone leaves no room for argument.
I fish my phone out of my purse with fingers that barely want to move.
Mrs. Whitmore watches me closely. If she weren’t wearing Dior and diamonds, she’d remind me of a prison warden.
This is just for nine months, I remind myself. After that, they get what they want. And I get what I need—my gran’s medical issues resolved. Unfortunately, we’ve barely started with the surrogacy process, and it already feels longer than nine months. When Mrs. Whitmore barks orders, I feel like the walls are closing in on me. I can already tell that I chose the wrong couple. Maybe if the IVF wasn’t successful, I can back out and choose another couple.
A notification pops up on my phone. It’s an alert from the clinic:
Please remain in the waiting area. Your appointment will begin shortly.
My eyes flick up towards the nurse’s station just as a woman in lavender scrubs opens the door.
“Ms. Grant?” she says.
I nearly sag with relief. It’s stupid, but I feel as though I’ve been rescued from being pecked to death by Mrs. Whitmore. I jump to my feet saying, “That’s me.”
The Whitmores stand with dignity and grace, falling into step behind me as I walk through the door.
The hallway is bright, quiet, and sterile. Mrs. Whitmore’s high heels click against the tile. The nurse leads us into aconsultation room with taupe walls and soft lighting. There’s a low couch, a couple of modern chairs, and a potted plant in the corner that might or might not be real.
I quickly grab a seat on the couch. Mrs. Whitmore sits beside me. She’s not too close, once again, close enough to keep me on edge. Her husband takes the chair opposite us, looking around the room like it’s the strangest thing he’s ever seen.
“I brought a printout,” Mrs. Whitmore says, reaching into her oversized handbag. She pulls out a manila folder, glossy tabs poking out. “This is the full prenatal schedule. Vitamins, nutrition, sleep tracking, hydration, screen time guidelines, and the scent list.”
“Scent list?” I say before I can stop myself.
She nods sharply. “Certain chemical perfumes and household cleaners can disrupt fetal neurological development. I included an approved cleaning product list, and a diffuser blend you can use instead. I had it formulated by a doula in Marin.”
“Oh. Okay.” I’ve decided that no matter how absurd she gets, I’m just going to nod and agree. She has a stern, overpowering personality. And if she wants me to use organic cleaning products handcrafted by artisans, then I’ll do it. Though I’m guessing her scent rules don’t apply to her husband, who insists on wearing an eye-watering cologne which is giving me a headache.
She flips open the folder and shows it to me. “We also need to lock down the birthing plan. Natural, of course. No epidural unless there’s risk to the fetus. I’ve already spoken with Dr. Krauss’s office.”
“We haven’t even verified the…” I stop myself. Force myself to breathe and start over. “Shouldn’t we wait until we’re sure it worked?”
“We are sure. I have a very good feeling this time.” She says it like it’s a fact, not a bold prediction.
Her hand reaches into the folder again, and I brace. My God, what is she going to pull out next? I can’t imagine. Oh, it’s more documents, color-coded this time. There’s even a chart.
“Now, for food,” she says, smoothing the paper with long, perfectly manicured fingers. “We’ve eliminated dairy, soy, caffeine, wheat, corn, processed sugar, artificial colorings, and anything genetically modified.”
“That’s almost everything I eat.”
“It’s nine months,” she says, without a trace of sympathy. “Surely your grandmother can manage the groceries?”
I blink. Clearly, she doesn’t know that Gran is in a personal care home at the moment. “What?”
“The delivery orders,” she clarifies. “I’ve arranged for weekly deliveries, but it would be helpful if someone could accept them and ensure proper refrigeration. Or perhaps you could provide a key to your house?”
My jaw goes tight. “I don’t feel comfortable with that.”
“You signed the contract,” she interrupts. “There’s a clause regarding dietary compliance.”
“I signed a medical agreement, not a lease on my privacy.”
