Читать книгу The Choices We Make - Karma Brown, Karma Brown - Страница 20

11

HANNAH

As I stood in the coffee line, secretly observing Lyla—who was engrossed in something on her phone—all I could think about was how tiny she was, her hips narrow and legs so short her feet only just grazed the floor when she was sitting down. I had good hips for pregnancy—wide and sturdy. I was also, at five-eight, on the tall side for a woman and so assumed that when Ben and I had a child he or she would probably end up tall—perhaps a volleyball player like Ben had been, or a rower like me.

I still hadn’t allowed myself to really consider what I was doing here—that this woman, waiting for her green tea latte and cinnamon coffee cake, was prepared to use her own eggs and body to carry a child for me, a complete stranger. Lyla looked up and smiled, and I smiled back, face flushing at being caught staring.

The guilt that swept through me was deep and swift, and I had the sudden urge to run back out through the coffee shop’s front door and pretend like I hadn’t agreed to this. Or better yet, I wished I could go back and erase that first email I’d sent Lyla, finish my ice cream and go back to bed instead of hitting Send. I should have told Ben—I had lied to him about something important exactly once in our relationship, back when we were still figuring out who we were to each other, and had promised him at the time I wouldn’t do it again. That was not who we were. My stomach knotted, and I felt sick.

“Fourteen seventy-five,” the young guy at the cash register said, and I had the feeling based on the tone of his voice that it wasn’t the first time he’d told me what I owed.

I mumbled an apology and fished a twenty out of my wallet, handing it to him with a smile. He gave me my change and the place card holder with my number, and I went back to our table.

Lyla looked up as I sat down and I noticed her eyes were brown, flecked with amber highlights that almost looked like there were tiny lights behind her irises. They were pretty. I had accepted that if we were to go the surrogate route, the baby would not look like me. Lyla was quite fair skinned, so at least Ben’s coloring would shine through. For some reason that mattered to me—that the baby looked like one of us—though I knew I should have let go of that ages ago.

“They’ll bring it out to us.” I placed the numbered card on the edge of our table.

“Thank you,” Lyla said, her voice exuberant and her smile wide. “So, Hannah, why don’t you tell me a bit about yourself?”

Her forwardness caught me off guard, until I remembered this wasn’t the first time she’d sat across from a woman she was considering carrying a baby for. I hated that I was the inexperienced one—the desperate one. The one who needed something and who had so much to lose.

“Well, let’s see,” I said, chewing one of my cuticles—a nervous habit I had been trying to break since I was a girl. You could always tell the state of my anxiety or stress based on the shape of my cuticles. “I’m thirty-five, grew up in Marin—Mill Valley, specifically. I’m a recipe developer at Femme magazine, which means I spend a lot of time in the kitchen, cooking and eating, so as you can imagine it’s a great job.”

“Oh, I love the recipes in Femme,” Lyla said. “I don’t know how you stay so thin, having to eat everything.”

I smiled at the compliment and wished I could record it for my mother. “Well, we have a little industry trick. We don’t swallow most of what we taste—we spit it out. It sounds gross I know, but it’s the only way to avoid buying a new wardrobe every year. I gained about ten pounds the first six months I was at the magazine until I learned the taste-and-spit trick.”

“Huh, I never even thought about that, but it makes sense. What about your family? Are they here in San Francisco?”

“My dad died when I was ten,” I said, then thanked her when she told me she was sorry to hear that. “My mom lives over in Pacific Heights with my sister and her husband.” I cleared my throat and looked over to the coffee bar, hoping our drinks were on their way. The nervousness in my belly was increasing with every word.

“Are ya’ll close?” Lyla asked. “You and your sister?”

I looked back at her. “Claire’s five years younger than me, but yeah, I guess we’re close? Or as close as you can be when you have that many years between you.” Claire was an associate partner at her husband Peter Todd’s law firm and expected to make full partner within the next year—which would make her the youngest partner at the firm. And it had nothing to do with nepotism. She worked hard; she got what she wanted. As for me, I liked my job—a lot most days. I got to work with food—my first love—and it was the sort of work that allowed room for motherhood, too. But careers and age difference aside, the truth was that Claire and I were different in every way we could be—she was ambitious and confident, petite and pretty, while I was less so in all areas.

Lyla nodded. “I get that. My two boys are quite close in age, but have very different personalities. Luke is the oldest, and a risk taker—he’s going to turn my hair gray soon. Jason, my husband, says we’re going to spend a lot of time in the ER with Luke.” She smiled. “And Johnny is only fifteen months younger, but he’s an old soul. He’s a very quiet and responsible boy.”

“Do you have a picture?” I asked.

“I do!” Lyla shifted her chair to come beside me. She smelled like lavender and mint, and I took a deep breath in, the scent pleasant and relaxing. “Here’s Luke last year in the school play.” I looked at the screen on her phone, seeing a boy—around six or seven I guessed—dressed in a brown sheet cinched at the waist with a belt and sandals, a huge smile on his face—Lyla’s smile. “He played Joseph.” I nodded and murmured how sweet he looked, glancing at the next picture she pulled up. “And this is Johnny, also last Christmas.” Johnny sat in front of a fully decorated Christmas tree. He wore glasses and smiled, though he showed no teeth.

“They’re very handsome,” I said. “And really look like you.”

Lyla looked at the photos, still smiling. “I get that a lot.”

My stomach dropped, thinking again that no one would ever say that about my child—if I could even find a way to have a child. I pushed the sadness away and focused on my coffee and brioche, which had just arrived.

Lyla went on to say she and Jason had just celebrated their ten-year anniversary, and had moved from Texas to San Francisco a year ago to move in with his mother, who was ill. Jason was working as a security guard but wanted to become a police officer, and while Lyla had worked as a medical receptionist in Texas, she was taking care of Jason’s mom and the boys now. I commented how tough it must have been to make the move, and she shrugged, saying that she wasn’t close to her own family and Jason’s mom was like a mother to her.

“So why are you looking into surrogacy?” Lyla asked.

I was suddenly uncomfortable—as much as I knew this was the conversation we needed to be having, I didn’t want to be having it.

“Oh, well, wow. Where do I start?” I laughed, but it came out sounding forced, and Lyla gave me a sympathetic smile. “We’ve been trying for six years, which when you say it out loud seems like way too long, doesn’t it?” I shook my head and took a deep breath, hoping it might relieve the tension sitting in a band across my chest. It didn’t. “I’ve been pregnant three times but miscarried very early on. And other than that, no luck. We’ve been working with a fertility specialist for about four years now.”

“I’m sorry, Hannah. That must be real difficult for you and Ben.”

“Thanks, yeah, it hasn’t been...easy. But I’m lucky. He’s amazingly supportive.” Except he has no idea I’m here talking with you, and I’m not sure what that says about me. About us.

“Are ya’ll married?” Lyla’s tone was casual, but the way she looked at me suggested otherwise.

“Yes! Didn’t I mention that? Seven years.”

“Oh, good,” she said, stirring her latte and sucking some of the green-tinged foam off the spoon. “Sorry if that sounds strange, but that’s real important to me and Jason.”

“Of course, I understand completely.”

“Do you and Ben belong to a church?”

I had been dreading this, knowing it was important to Lyla, and wasn’t sure how to answer. I went with the truth.

“No, we don’t.” I took a bite of my brioche and left it up to her to decide what to do with that.

“That’s okay,” Lyla said, forking her cinnamon cake and popping the piece into her mouth. I waited while she chewed and swallowed. “I just need to let you know I won’t do any genetic testing with the baby or anything like that and I’m pro-life.” She said this casually, as if we were discussing a new restaurant opening or the weekend weather forecast.

I sat there with my mouth open for a moment, surprised at how quickly we were at this stage of the conversation. “Of course,” I said again, swallowing hard. I hadn’t thought any of this through, and it was becoming clear I had not been ready to hit Send on that email.

“Do you have any questions for me?” she asked, pressing the back of her fork into the sugary crumbs that dotted her plate. She licked her fork and looked at me expectantly, her face open and friendly.

Yes, Lyla, I have no fewer than a million questions for you. Like, why are you doing this? How does this whole thing work? Do we pay you in one lump sum or monthly? Will we get to come to all the ultrasounds and be at the delivery? Will you agree to take a multivitamin every day and never drink a sip of alcohol? Will you talk to the baby while it grows, tell it about us?

“A few,” I said, trying to decide the best way to ask her the questions that overtook my mind, certain I couldn’t find a diplomatic way to ask the most important question: How will you place this baby into my arms, knowing it is part of you? “But how about another piece of cake first?”