Page 2 of The Surrogate Nanny

“Simone, we need you to push,” the doctor insisted.

“I’m not pushing anything,” I huffed. “Try him again! He has to pick up! This is his goddamn baby!”

The hospital room felt like an inferno with zero relief. My hair stuck to my forehead, I was drenched in sweat, and alone—save for the doctor and nurses.

One of the nurses fumbled with my phone and held it to my face to unlock it. It took several tries.

Even my phone has trouble recognizing me in the state I’m in.

“Ms. Livingston, we can’t delay anymore. You have to push!” the doctor urged again. I shrieked as the baby began to crown. The pain made my head spin.

“Not...yet,” I whimpered, trying to pull my feet out of the stirrups. The doctor sighed heavily, sick and tired of my antics.

“Take a deep breath. We’re here for you, Simone, but it’s time. If you don’t push, then we’re taking you to an OR for a C-section. It’s your choice.”

The threat of a C-section felt like a bucket of ice water was dumped on my head. I pushed as instructed with my contractions. All I heard was white noise as my body did what it was made to do. It contracted and pushed, forcing the child into the world. The white noise dissipated at the sound of her first tiny cry. I stared at the white tiled ceiling and attempted to catch my breath; my tongue licked at my bottom lip.

“Do you want to hold her?” the doctor asked, smiling and trying to hand her to me. She was a little pink thing—screaming, writhing, and clawing at the air. Her cries were intense—a sign that she was a healthy baby. That was all I could hope for.

I did my job.

I didn’t reach for her as her hands moved and her feet kicked. My mind wandered to those nights when she kept me up, kicking around in there like she had a bone to pick with me.

She did all of that inside of me.

I glanced away and ignored the doctor’s disappointed look before they took her to weigh her and check her vitals.

“Where’s the father?” Nurse Tanya asked, her mouth twisted in a simper.

That’s a good question, actually. Where is he? Where is Anthony?

I reached for my cell phone again. Nothing. No missed calls. No voicemails. No texts, emails, or a sorry-I-left-you-with-my-baby carrier pigeon—nothing.

“How you are feeling, Mom?” another nurse asked.

“I’m not her mom,” I protested weakly. “I mean, I had her, but she’s not mine. I’m just—”

“Do you have a name, Mom?”

My forehead twitched in annoyance as I glanced up from my phone.

Are these people deaf? How many times do I have to tell them I’m not her mother?

“I’m not Mom. I’m...Simone. I’m just the surrogate, and her father should be here soon.”

I redialed the number, putting it to my ear. My eyes cast on the newborn, who’d taken to making small whimpers rather than outright crying. They managed to ease a little cap over her head. The baby looked around curiously, most likely trying to make sense of the already cold world. She was only a few minutes old, and her father had abandoned her.

Her slate-gray eyes connected with mine from the plastic bassinet. She was a beautiful baby with a nose, ten fingers, and ten toes. She deserved a name, but it wasn’t my place to give her one.

“You’ll need to nurse soon,” a red-headed nurse commented.

I swallowed and glanced at the baby.

Pick up the phone, Anthony!

Something dark and twisted settled in my stomach, leaving a sour taste in my mouth. The man I met was Mr. Responsibility. He talked a good game with his perfectly slicked-back hair, soft, insincere smile that never reached his eyes, and his light southern drawl with a hint of Texas twang. He played the perfect expectant dad—attending all my appointments after the first trimester and calling me daily to see how I was and if I needed anything.For Christ’s sakes, the man would leave his house in the middle of the night to bring me iced gingerbread cookies and chocolate milk to satisfy my late-night pregnancy cravings.

Call me day or night. I want to know everything.

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