The Choices We Make

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?”

12

KATE

David and I were sitting in the gym’s parents’ lounge—really a well-used room with plastic orange chairs and fluorescent lights that made the purple walls practically glow—watching the girls at their weekly gymnastics class and drinking bad coffee from the café next door. Every time I sat watching one of their classes I felt grateful for my mom, who had endured years of thrice-weekly dance classes and competition weekends throughout my childhood and teenage years, never complaining about uncomfortable plastic chairs or bad coffee or the time it took away from her having her own hobbies.

I took a sip from my white plastic take-out cup and grimaced. “Next time, why don’t we make coffee at home and bring it?” I silently thanked my mom again. “Oh, almost forgot. I’m meeting Hannah for a drink tomorrow night. That okay?”

“Sure. How is she doing?”

I paused. Long enough for David to swivel in his chair and look at me.

“She’s okay.”

“And?” he asked.

“And nothing.” I gave Josie a thumbs-up after her unassisted cartwheel and smiled big.

“Kate, what’s up? I know that look.”

“What look?” I asked, but then sighed and took a deep breath. “Fine. She was planning to meet with a surrogate.”

“A surrogate? Where?”

“Here. In town.”

David let out a low whistle. “I didn’t realize they were at that stage of things.”

“Well, they aren’t exactly at that stage of things.” I shrugged, then looked back at the girls. “It’s been six years and they’ve basically tried everything. I don’t blame her, but I’m worried for her.”

“What do you mean by they aren’t at that stage of things?”

I kept my eyes trained on the girls, even though they were doing nothing but waiting for their turns on the balance beam. “She didn’t tell Ben about the surrogate meeting.”

“What? Really? So, she was just going to go by herself? Without Ben?” David’s eyebrows rose along with his voice.

“I told her I’d go with her, but she said she was going to cancel anyway.”

“Katie...”

“What? I couldn’t very well let her go alone. She’s...she’s definitely off-kilter right now.”

David sighed and leaned back in his chair. “Do not get in the middle of this, Kate. She needs to talk with Ben, period. You can’t go meet a surrogate with her. This isn’t like getting dragged to boot camp for moral support or something. This is no small thing, and it’s between them.”

“Don’t you think I know that?”

“Do you?”

I looked back at the girls, trying to mellow the irritation threatening to take over. “It doesn’t matter, because I talked her out of it.”

“I hope so. I would lose it if you did something like that without telling me.”

We sat in silence for a moment. “How would it even work?” David asked. “They don’t have embryos, right?”

“This surrogate would use her own eggs.”

“So the baby would be Ben’s and this other woman’s?” David gave his head a couple of quick shakes. “No way. I could never do that.”

“Why? It’s not really different from adoption when you think about it. Except at least Ben’s genes would get in there.”

“But what if this woman decided to keep the baby in the end? I mean, it would be her baby, right?”

“It would,” I said, frowning at the thought. “I don’t think Hannah really thought it all through.”

“Shit, Ben would flip if he knew she had propositioned this woman without telling him.”

“She didn’t exactly ‘proposition’ her,” I said, his choice of words grating on me; my need to defend Hannah boiling up. “It was more curiosity, or a reconnaissance mission, I guess.”

“Still...don’t you think he’d be open to it? He wants a kid as much as she does. But not telling him?” David shook his head again. “That’s a sure way to guarantee he won’t go along with it.”

“Well, she implied he wasn’t on board with the idea anyway.”

“That makes it worse,” David said. “I love Hannah, but she’s playing a dangerous game here.”

I pressed my lips together, pausing for a moment. “She’s desperate, David.”

“Desperate enough to risk her marriage?”

I shrugged. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t worried about Hannah and Ben sticking it out if there was no baby—a relationship could only bend so much under stress before it snapped. And Hannah keeping this from Ben felt like a big crack in their happy marital veneer.

David nudged my shoulder, and I lifted my coffee cup to avoid spilling it on my legs. “For the record, if you ever kept anything big like that from me I’d be beyond pissed.”

“Noted, and ditto.”

* * *

“Are they asleep?” David looked at me from our bed, lying on top of the duvet in his boxers and an old hole-filled T-shirt from his days as a first aid instructor. He had plenty of shirts, including others from his instructor days, but for whatever reason this was the one I couldn’t get him to let go of. I filed it under things-to-ignore-even-though-they-drive-me-crazy-because-I-love-my-husband-more-than-I-hate-what-he’s-wearing.

“They are.” I got into bed beside him. Running my hands over his chest, feeling the softness of the fabric, I remembered back when we were as new as the T-shirt. Pushing it up, the black color now faded to a velvety gray, I planted a row of kisses around his exposed belly button. His abs flexed, and I looked up to see him smiling. “I’m going to lock the door,” I whispered into his stomach, kissing it again. I jumped to my knees and scrambled off the bed, my feet padding softly on the hardwood floor of our bedroom. With a quick twist of my hand, our bedroom door was locked—one of the best tips my hippie mother-in-law, a sex educator, had ever given me, even though I had been horrified at the time—and I was back in bed stretched out beside David.

“Do you think they’ll be okay?” I asked.

“Who?” His voice was low, his lips caressing my ear and whispering that I had too much clothing on. I obliged by lifting my arms over my head so he could do something about that.

“Hannah and Ben,” I replied, only half paying attention to what his hands were doing. “If they can’t have a baby, do you think they’ll stay together?” My heart beat faster, in part from David’s touch and in part from imagining the end of Hannah and Ben, which was unacceptable as far as I was concerned.

David propped himself up on an elbow and rubbed his thumb over my jawline. “They’ll work it out. They love each other. And, yes, they’ve been through hell with all of this. But they are stronger than that. You’ll see. It’ll be okay.”

I smiled, then wriggled out of my underwear with some help from David’s persuasive hands. Our bodies knew each other so well—having done this enough times there was never any doubt of a home run for all. My breathing sped up and a moan formed in the back of my throat as David gently spread my thighs, moving between them. When I wasn’t sure I could hold out much longer, I lay a hand on his head and pulled his hair gently, forcing him to look at me. I gestured under the bed and he smiled, nodding.

“Which one do you want tonight?” he asked, and I heard him rustling through the box under our bed, which held a variety of adult-only toys and, like the door, also had a lock on it.

“You choose,” I replied.

A minute later I was enjoying David’s choice for the evening, no longer caring about hole-filled T-shirts I’d dreamed of tossing out weekly with the trash or the state of Hannah and Ben’s marriage.

13

HANNAH

Ben was working late, so I said I’d meet him at the restaurant. My mind was still spinning from my coffee date with Lyla, but I had such a good feeling about things. It had been a long time since I’d felt anything but unhappiness and disappointment in the baby-making department, and Lyla had given me something to hope for again.

After we’d polished off another piece of cake and latte each, Lyla basically told me she was in. That she had to chat with her husband, of course, but she couldn’t see a reason for us not to take the next steps, which involved lawyers and contracts and doctors and probably a hundred other things I hadn’t yet considered. I wasn’t expecting her to decide that quickly, picturing many emails, phone calls and meetings between the four of us, and it threw me off. Tears in my eyes, I’d jumped up and hugged her while she was still in her seat. She’d laughed and said I could thank her when she was pregnant.

Though she answered my questions about why she wanted to be a surrogate—with refreshing honesty she said it was a financial decision for her family but also an altruistic one because it meant helping another couple become a family—and gave me some insight into the process, which was about as complicated as I expected, I never got around to asking the most difficult question.

I could lie and say I decided it wasn’t all that important—after all, this wasn’t her first time. She had walked away from a baby before, so there was no reason to think she wouldn’t—couldn’t—do it again. But the truth was I had been too afraid in the moment to do anything to ruin things before they even got started. It was a lot like a first date, where you leave out the baggage and unsavory details, because you really want to go out with this person again.

Thinking about how to tell Ben what I’d done—and that Lyla had chosen me, chosen us—left me light-headed with anxiety on the cab ride over to the restaurant. With every passing minute I became more convinced I should have talked with him first, like Kate said. Of course he would have been fine with it. Ben wanted a baby as badly as I did...

Or at least he used to.

These days I wasn’t sure if he really was willing to do whatever it took, like I was. Would he be okay joining his sperm with another woman’s egg, a stranger for whom this was more a job than anything else? Would he feel awkward about bringing home a baby that wasn’t actually ours? Was he willing to invite another woman into our lives—us using her for her genetic material, her using us for our willingness to hand over tens of thousands of dollars?

Was I prepared for all that, as well?

Suddenly the idea felt all wrong. Too many variables crowded my thoughts. There were so many ways this could go wrong, and only one way it could work out.

But if it worked, I would have a baby.

My phone buzzed, and I looked down to see a new text had arrived. My stomach lurched when I saw it was from Lyla.

So nice meeting you today. Forgot to ask, do you have a picture of you and Ben? I’d love to show Jason. Can’t wait to get started! Chat soon—Lyla

For a moment I did nothing. I read the text a half dozen times, then, fingers shaking, found a great photo of Ben and me, from our last vacation a year earlier in Jamaica for his annual family reunion. When that picture was taken we had been waiting to hear if our latest procedure had worked, distracting ourselves with family dinners on the beach, massages at the spa and long afternoon naps in lounge chairs shaded by palm trees. We weren’t pregnant as it turned out, but at the time—sun shining and ocean warm—it felt as if anything was possible.

With a quick note saying it was lovely to meet Lyla, as well, and a promise to be in touch soon to sort out details, I attached the photo and hit Send.

It started to rain just as the cab approached the restaurant, and I grumbled about forgetting to bring an umbrella. The cabdriver kindly offered to walk me to the restaurant door, pulling out a large umbrella from the trunk and giving me his arm. I took it as a sign that my luck was changing. That Ben would be thrilled at my news, once he got over his surprise. I could spin this. He would forgive me for not telling him first.

Inside the restaurant it was dim and heady with scents of roasting meat and the hostess’s sharp perfume. I quickly scanned the tables, looking for Ben, and saw him in a booth in the corner. With a smile and a point, I told the hostess I saw my husband, and she walked me over to the table. Ben was facing me and looked up as I walked past the few tables to get to where he sat. He smiled, eyes lighting up as they took me in. I thanked the hostess, then stood in front of Ben.

“What do you think?” I asked, turning one foot out and placing a hand on my hip. I winked and smiled, and he nodded slowly.

“That dress was made for you.”

I flushed, suddenly wishing we were home and wearing a lot less. After I sat down—still imagining Ben unzipping my dress and running his hands all over my body—he leaned toward me and kissed me firmly on the mouth. “Those shoes are going to get you in trouble later,” he whispered. I smiled, taking my foot out of my red patent leather heel and running it up the inside of his leg under the table.

“Well, look at you.” Ben leaned back and grabbed my foot under the table. He rubbed my arch and my calf, and shivers ran up and down my body. I was transported back to the early days of our relationship, when the feel of his fingertips on my bare skin made my stomach wiggly and my cheeks hot, much like now.

“I need a drink,” I said, slightly breathless. Ben pouted as my foot slipped from his hand, and I laughed. The waiter was there a moment later and I ordered a gin and tonic with extra lime. Ben caught me up on his day and the project he was working on with his dad, and I told him about my latest recipe—spicy chocolate torte for our February issue—not mentioning anything about Lyla. I had no clue how to bring it up. So, Ben, today I had coffee with a surrogate who said she’d like to carry a baby for us. You should really try this olive tapenade, it’s amazing.

Ben was ordering our appetizers and main courses and I was trying to figure out how to open up the Lyla conversation when my phone buzzed again. I nibbled the crostini our server placed in front of me, topped with grilled octopus and spiced mango marmalade, and glanced at my phone under the table. Lyla. But an email this time. I quickly opened it and tried to read it discreetly.

“Medium rare?”

“Sorry?” I asked, looking up to find Ben and the server watching me.

“Your steak. Medium rare?” Ben asked.

“Sure. Yes, that’s perfect.” I hadn’t had a steak rare in a while, always eating everything fully cooked just in case I was pregnant.

While Ben and our server debated if he should have the flatiron steak or the paella, I scanned the email.

Sorry to tell you this... Jason and I agree that we’re better suited to a Christian, more traditional couple... I’m sorry to get your hopes up... I’ll be praying you find your perfect match...

I felt dizzy and hot, my face surely going fiery red in the candlelight. The half-eaten crostini dropped from my hand, hitting the table and leaving an oily splotch on the tablecloth.

“Hannah? You okay?”

My mouth open, I looked at Ben and tried to get the words out. No, I am not okay.

“What’s up? Is something wrong?” He gestured to my phone resting limply in my hand.

I looked back at the screen, which had since faded to black and tried to reconcile what I’d just read. Only half an hour ago Lyla had written she was looking forward to getting started. What changed? I racked my brain, thinking of our conversations. Everything was fine until I sent the photo. What happened?

I couldn’t hear Ben but could see his lips moving. The whooshing in my head grew louder; then everything focused on Ben’s face. On the errant eyebrow hair that grew longer than the others, the one he made me pluck out monthly. On his crystal-blue eyes, which were perhaps the slightest bit too far apart and were now filled with worry. On his beautiful brown skin—much darker from a week in the sun in the picture I’d sent to Lyla. Jason and I agree that we’re better suited to a Christian, more traditional couple...

More traditional couple. In a flash I knew what had happened, why Lyla changed her mind, and that I could never, ever explain any of it to Ben.

“I’ll be right back,” I sputtered, getting up so fast my napkin and purse fell to the floor. Ben stood quickly, too, looking unsure about what to do. I asked a passing server where the washroom was and practically ran there, grateful for the individual stalls. Once inside a stall, I locked the door, then sat down when I thought my legs wouldn’t hold me up anymore.

I read the email again and then once more, tears coming fast. I heard the bathroom door open and a woman’s voice calling my name, identifying herself as the hostess.

“In here,” I said, mentally willing the young woman to leave. “I’m okay. I’ll be right out.”

The door squeaked shut and I heard her exchanging words with Ben, who was obviously right outside the women’s restroom.

Shit. I couldn’t tell him now. I had fucked up big-time, not to mention the promise I made all those years ago to always tell him the truth—especially about the big stuff. Why had I even sent that first email to Lyla? I was being punished—for lying to Ben, for being so desperate to have a child I didn’t see the warning signs right in front of me, for that time, long ago, when I’d wished motherhood away.

Pulling myself together, I flushed the toilet even though I hadn’t used it and splashed water on my face. Taking a deep, shaky breath I walked on unstable legs to the door and paused one more moment before opening it.

Ben stood right outside, frowning, the lines on his forehead thick with concern. He took a quick step forward and wrapped an arm around me. “What happened?”

I shook my head, staying in his protective embrace a moment longer. “I think it might have been the octopus?”

“Are you sick?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe I’m allergic?”

“All of a sudden?” Ben led me back to our table, where I sat down and sipped the glass of water he handed me. Then he crouched in front of me, hands on my thighs. “You’ve had octopus so many times before.”

“I don’t know. I had a bite and suddenly felt awful. Sorry. I’m mortified.” I drew a shaky hand over my forehead and attempted a smile. “You can’t take me anywhere.”

He let out a long breath and gave me a gentle smile. “Don’t worry about that. I’m just glad you’re all right.” He stood, and I took his outstretched hand. “Let’s get out of here.”

A few minutes later—after multiple apologies to the waitstaff for leaving before our meals came out—we were in a cab on the way home, my head resting on Ben’s shoulder, his arm around me. It was still raining, and I felt empty inside. Gutted by the most recent defeat, which lay overtop of so many other setbacks like a thick woolen blanket.

I would never tell him what I’d done, or why Lyla had gone back on her decision. And I hoped I could forgive myself for it.

14

HANNAH

We’d been living together for three months, dating for six, when I realized I was late. The first few days I ignored it; then a few days later I double-checked the calendar to be sure I had counted properly. Then I looked through my pills, and in horror discovered I’d missed a day. I was so panicked I didn’t even tell Kate.

Ben knew something was up and kept asking if anything was wrong—clearly I wasn’t hiding my anxiety well. I said things were fine, just stress at work because I was up for a promotion, which I didn’t end up getting.

At the two-week mark I told Ben I had an off-site meeting so we couldn’t commute in together, kissed him goodbye, then called in sick the moment he left the apartment. After buying as many pregnancy tests I could fit in my hands at the pharmacy—five—I went back home, where I hoped to prove I wasn’t about to become a mother.

It was too soon. We hadn’t seriously talked about marriage, let alone kids. I hated my job at the newspaper, creating and testing recipes the guy with the byline took credit for, but knew it was a necessary stepping-stone. I was taking night classes to become a pastry chef and wasn’t ready to trade any of that for diapers or late-night feedings. And I’d started rowing again a few mornings a week, liking how taut my stomach had become as a result. I didn’t want a baby, didn’t see how a baby would fit into our lives—not yet.

Ben came home early—around three in the afternoon—and about one minute into the wait for test number five. A nearly empty two-liter bottle of soda was on the bathroom counter beside four used test sticks, all with two blue lines.