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In the next twenty-four hours, I will be arrested for first-degree murder.
But I’m not guilty. I didn’t do it. I didn’t kill anyone… Did I?
“Will you be purchasing Cuddles for your baby?” “Of course,” I lie. “I want the best.” Yeah, there’s no way I’m putting those shoddy diapers on my own child.
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.
I’ve known Shelley ten years, since the two of us were both lowly assistants ourselves, but I still have trouble knowing what she’s thinking.
Sam lifts his brown eyes to meet mine. Sam has really kind eyes. They say the eyes are the window to the soul, and if that’s true, my husband has the best soul of anyone I’ve ever met. He has a lot of good qualities, but it’s his kind eyes that made me fall in love with him. And I know just from looking into those eyes that something horrible has happened.
I want to live in five minutes ago—when I was having a (relatively) great time at my first and only baby shower. Before my husband showed up and everything fell apart.
If the calls he gets here are any indication, I hate to think what goes on when he’s on campus. Good thing I trust my husband.
She chews on her lip. “I would do it.” “Do what?” “Be your surrogate.”
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.
“So,” she says, “this pretty assistant who is over ten years younger than you will be pregnant with your husband’s child. And that doesn’t bother you?”
she’ll see what a great guy he is, that he does dishes, laundry, and that he’s an excellent kisser…” I can’t argue with any of that. Sam does do dishes and laundry. And he is an excellent kisser.
She’s right. That’s why I intend to investigate all of Monica’s references before jumping into this. I’m not making a mistake. I don’t care what Shelley says—I know Monica. I can trust her. This is all going to work out.
I thank her again, but as I put down my phone, there’s something tugging at the back of my mind. Something not entirely right. But that makes no sense. Mrs. Johnson was perfectly nice, especially given what we’re proposing to her daughter. Nothing she said raised any kind of red flag. So what is that nagging feeling that I’m missing something?
Mrs. Johnson lives in Indiana. Her phone number was an Indiana area code, and she told me she was “born and raised” in Indianapolis. 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! That’s what Monica said at the baby shower when I tried to give her that baby Yankees cap. But the Red Sox is a Boston team. Every Yankees fan knows that. I’d suspect nobody in Indiana is going to give you that a hard time for being a Yankees fan. But maybe they would. It’s not like I’ve ever been there before. So why is Monica a
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She looks down at the positive pregnancy test lying on the table in front of me. She starts to reach for it, but I shake my head. “I can throw this away for you.” “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?
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.
I swivel my head to the side. I’m shocked to see none other than Monica Johnson standing only a few feet away from us. We’re nowhere in the vicinity of work. What is she doing here?
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. Considering we’re giving her a ride, that seems odd to me. I’m Sam’s wife—I should be the one sitting next to him. Technically this is his car because it’s in his name, but he bought it with money from our joint bank account. And since I earn way more money than he does, that means, in a way, this car is more mine than his. In any case, it’s more mine than Monica’s.
Monica exclaims: “Oh my gosh! The new Quentin Tarantino movie is out!” Sam’s eyebrows shoot up. Quentin Tarantino is one of his favorite directors and we’ve already made plans to see the movie this weekend. “You like Quentin Tarantino?” “Uh huh.” She nods eagerly. “My favorite is Pulp Fiction.” Pulp Fiction is Sam’s absolute favorite Tarantino movie. Without exaggerating, I would say he’s probably seen it ten-thousand times, and those are just the times we’ve watched it together.
I’m definitely making too much of this. So what if Monica sat in the front seat? So what if she shares movie taste with my husband? I’m the one who’s married to Sam. And thanks to Monica’s generosity, we’re going to be parents soon. I don’t know why I’m getting so paranoid.
Monica is gazing down at her belly, her mouth hanging open. “That’s incredible,” she breathes. And then her eyes start to water. She swipes at them quickly, before the tears can fall, but she’s definitely on the verge of crying. Except why is she crying? “Can we get a recording of this?” Monica asks. She wants a recording of this? What the hell?
She should have asked me. I’m going to be the mother of this child. But I suppose she’s the one carrying the baby. Anyway, I’m not going to make a big thing of it. I do want her to get the screening test, so there’s no need to intervene. She’s doing exactly what I want her to do. So why do I have a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach?
“Listen to me, Abby,” my mother says, her voice suddenly very serious. “Life lesson—you can’t trust men. None of them.” “I can trust Sam.” “Especially not Sam.” “Mother!” “Fine,” she grumbles. “Sam is no less trustworthy than other men. Happy?”
“It absolutely cannot wait until the morning.” She folds her arms across her chest. “Our meeting with the executives from Cuddles is tomorrow at eight!” It is? I’m usually so on top of these meetings, but I’ve had a lot on my mind lately. How could I not have realized I’ve got a meeting tomorrow morning?
But even so, Sam will entertain Monica until I get home.
“That’s amazing,” he breathes. She grins at him. “That’s our baby.” Her words hit me like a punch in the gut. Our baby. No, it’s not our baby. This fetus inside her is my baby. Mine and Sam’s. Even if she’s using a general “our” to include me too, it’s still inaccurate. This is not her baby. We have a contract. What the hell is wrong with her?
I take a deep breath. I need to calm down. It’s not Monica’s fault I got delayed at work by Miss Oxford. It’s not Monica’s fault Sam drank too much and is acting like an idiot. And it’s not Monica’s fault that she’s more attractive than I thought she was. It’s also not her fault that she’s pregnant with Sam’s seed. That last one is entirely my fault. God, I can’t wait for this pregnancy to be over so things can get back to normal.
All of a sudden, I get this horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach. I can imagine Monica telling the doctor that Sam is her husband—that seems consistent with her recent behavior. But Sam would never have gone along with it. If the doctor had asked him, he would have told her that he wasn’t Monica’s husband. He would have corrected her. Wouldn’t he?
She bows down her head. 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?
Denise hates pregnant ladies and children and probably also animals and flowers and Christmas snow.
“Look, she’s carrying my baby. It would be weird not to ever talk about it.” I drop my eyes. “Your baby.” “I meant our baby.”
“You understand the position I’m in, Abby, right? This isn’t just a regular adoption. This is my kid.” “Our kid.” “No,” he says. “My kid. This is half my DNA. My son.
“She started having what I thought was a quite ill-advised affair with her math professor in college. I told her so, but she didn’t want to hear it.”
“I’d be happy to.” Gertie winks at me, and I can’t help but notice that up close she doesn’t have as many wrinkles around her eyes as I’d expect her to. I always thought of Gertie as pushing seventy, but now I think she’s likely closer to sixty. It’s a shame that she hurt her hip so badly at such a young age. I still wonder if Monica was responsible—I’ll probably never know the truth.
“No,” Gertie says. “It was in the orange juice. She drank it about ten minutes ago.” My mouth falls open. “Gertie?” “And you put the whole bottle in there?” Monica asks. “Every last pill.” Monica smiles at Gertie—this time a genuine smile. “Thanks, Mom,” she says.
