The Surrogate

by Freida McFadden

I’m not guilty. I didn’t do it. I didn’t kill anyone…

It wasn’t until she found out I was trying for a baby that our relationship deteriorated.

There’s only one thing different about this baby shower from all other baby showers thrown for the other women in my company: I’m not pregnant.

In about three weeks, I’m going to become the proud parent of a newborn boy, whose sixteen-year-old birth mother is currently living in Tucson, Arizona.

“Oh, no. I grew up a Red Sox fan—I went to all their games when I was a kid. I could never put on a Yankees cap. They’d never let me come home!”

Sometimes when I look into her eyes, I really do feel like I’m looking into a mirror. Her jet black hair is like mine, although hers is ramrod straight while mine falls in random waves around my face. In any case, Monica and I do look somewhat similar, although she’s more than a decade younger than I am. Sometimes I appreciate when people remark on our likeness to each other, but not so much when Jack in the Creative department calls her Abby Two Point Oh.

he presumably changes the toilet paper roll more than once per millennium.

I like having an attractive husband, but it’s not so great when that attractive husband is a math professor who works with young undergrads.

Denise used to be the woman I respected most in the entire universe, but now I hate her. I hate Denise. No, “hate” isn’t a strong enough word for what I feel for her. “Loathe” or “abhor” don’t quite do it either.

That’s the best part about having a landline. You can slam it down. You don’t get the joy of slamming a phone down when you’re on a cell phone. What can you do—press “end call” really angrily?

“It’s a lot to ask of someone… I mean, we’d be using their egg and their uterus, so we’d be asking them to get pregnant with their own child just to give it up.”

She chews on her lip. “I would do it.” “Do what?” “Be your surrogate.”

Her pale cheeks redden. “Sorry, I just… I was thinking and… I think we could help each other out.”

She knows how much money she has

“This is perfect! I can give you the baby you want, and you can help me get my advanced degree, which would be a drop in the bucket for someone like you with a trust fund and everything. It’s a win-win.”

“I’m offering because I like solving problems. And I figured out a way for both of us to get our dreams.”

“Monica… she’s a great girl. She won’t disappoint us—I know it.”

I assume she’s got breasts under there somewhere, but you’d never know it. That’s something I respect about her. Too many girls are willing to flash a little skin to get what they want, but Monica doesn’t go that route. She’s got integrity.

“Unless Monica changes her mind and decides she wants it.” She gives me a pointed look. “And then Sam’s on the hook for child support. Or worse.”

“So.” Shelley gives me a look. “So what if she decides she wants him?”

“You know, I’ve seen her listening outside the door to your office.”

So why is Monica a hardcore Red Sox fan if she’s from Indiana? It doesn’t make sense.

Yes, I know—it’s not very secure. But I don’t think anyone is plotting to steal information from my phone.

“Oh, no.” She snatches it off my desk and holds it up, admiring the two blue lines. “I want to save it. You know, as a keepsake.” She wants to save it? She wants a keepsake from a pregnancy she’s going through just to get a ticket to art school? Is it just me or is that odd?

I pull it out of the box, admiring the design. It really is beautiful. The blade catches the overhead light and I notice how sharp it is. Well, I shouldn’t have any problem opening letters anymore.

Murder weapon

But here’s the weird part: when Sam unlocks the doors to the car with his key fob, Monica immediately jumps into the shotgun seat.

“Life lesson—you can’t trust men. None of them.”

“That’s our baby.”

I notice for the first time that even though Monica has jet black hair like I do, her roots are pale. One of the selling points when she suggested being a surrogate for me was our similar appearances, but now I’m not sure anymore she’s a natural brunette. Does Monica dye her hair black?

Where the hell is that letter opener Sam got me?

Done rushing to make deadlines and getting pushed down the stairs.” I start to say something else, but her words stop me. “Pushed down the stairs?” She waves a hand. “Just a joke. It was an accident, obviously.” “But…” I grip the edges of my chair, my heart pounding. “You were pushed down the stairs?” “No, no!” She shakes her head. “There were a lot of people in the stairwell and… well, it felt like a push, but it was obviously an accident. Who would push little old me down the stairs?” Maybe someone who wanted her job.

A chill goes through me. Monica killed someone as a teenager and got away with it. Not only is Monica a killer, but she’s apparently good at it. She was good at it when she was a teenager, so she must be great at it by now.

you can’t underestimate the influence of an evil woman. And my big bank account. And sex. That’s a pretty big influence too.

Monica smiles at Gertie—this time a genuine smile. “Thanks, Mom,” she says.

“I never said Monica was dead.”

He’s really upset. All this over a blanket?

That’s Monica’s personality showing. She’s going to turn him into a monster like his bio mom. Uh oh. Great book, great ending.