The Offering (20 page)

I picked up my purse and checked my reflection in the mirror. “I don't see why not.”

In mid-July, Simone and Damien flew in for my twenty-week ultrasound. I expected to enjoy the usual easy conversation with
Dr. Hawthorn, but this time she directed nearly all her comments to Simone and Damien. Like a third wheel I lay on the table and heard my doctor announce that I was carrying a baby boy. “He's still small”—she peered at the screen—“but I can see everything I'm supposed to see. Arms, legs, eyes, ears, and, of course, the little boy bits. Congratulations, Mom and Dad.”

Simone turned to Damien and gripped his hand. Damien kept his gaze fixed on the glowing monitor.
“Un fils,”
he whispered, his voice filled with awe.
“Dieu merci! Merveilleux!”

Simone pressed her free hand over her heart, then smiled at me with affection and gratitude.

In that moment, I stopped feeling like a mindless vessel and became someone who was deeply appreciated. I had to bite my lower lip to keep from bawling right there on the table.

After the ultrasound, the Amblours invited my family to lunch, but Marilee was spending the day with Amelia and Gideon was still away, probably in Afghanistan.

“I'm sorry,” I told Simone and Damien. “Seems like my family is scattered everywhere.”

“Then we will take
you.
” Simone slipped her arm through mine and playfully led me toward their rented car. “Tell me your favorite place to eat, and we will go there. It is not enough to repay you for what you're doing, but perhaps it is a start.”

I went along, bemused by her attitude. Had she forgotten that they were paying me by the month? They didn't need to do anything else, but I didn't want to appear ungrateful for their kindness.

I led them to The Frog Pond, a small café near the beach, and I wasn't surprised that Simone and Damien had never discovered it on any of their trips to Florida. The café lay in a strip mall well away from the usual tourist haunts, but the establishment served a wonderful breakfast and lunch, then closed for the day. I suspected the owner was a working mom who wanted to spend evenings with her family. If that was the case, I couldn't blame her.

After we enjoyed a delicious salad and quiche, Damien went off to buy a newspaper while Simone and I strolled through some of the stores in the little shopping center. One shop featured children's clothing, and I was delighted when Simone asked if I wanted to look inside. We went in together, then split up as I veered toward the girls' clothing and Simone beelined for the boys' section.

I couldn't believe the adorable outfits and gadgets offered in the baby boutique. Infant items had become much more useful and creative in the years since Marilee's birth.

I paused by a beautiful crib set. The bumper pads and quilted coverlet featured sea creatures—a smiling octopus, a happy whale, several colorful fish, and an embroidered big-eyed crab. The set was far too expensive for someone like me, but the exorbitant price wouldn't be a problem for Simone.

I ran my hand over the soft cotton fabric. Since we lived near the beach and I'd heard that the Amblours did, too, I thought Simone might appreciate the blending of both our locales as a nursery motif. I turned and waved to get her attention, then lifted the comforter as she approached. “Isn't this darling? They're making such beautiful items for children's rooms these days.”

Simone gave me a perfunctory nod, but the set clearly didn't charm her as it had me. I lowered the blanket, my smile fading as a sharp sense of disappointment replaced my enthusiasm.

What was wrong with this crib set? Did she not like my taste? Or was it not good enough for her? She didn't even take a good look at the design—

I brought my hand to my forehead and told myself to calm down.

What was
wrong
with me? Simone and I weren't best friends, not really, and this wasn't my baby. I was carrying her son and of course she wanted to decorate her own nursery. Once I delivered, I might never see the baby, Simone, or Damien again. We would not be permanently connected, so I'd be foolish to think she would seriously consider my suggestions about her nursery.

On the other hand, would it have killed her to say something nice about the stupid comforter? She could have said any one of a dozen things or even placated me with an “Isn't that lovely,” but instead she simply nodded and walked away.

I drew a deep breath and tried to shake off my growing resentment. I had to be hormonal; that's why my mood kept swinging from ecstatic to indignant and back again.

“Not my baby,” I murmured as I walked toward a display of high chairs. “This is not my baby, so I don't care what kind of crib he sleeps in. Simone will buy his bed, his high chair, his clothes, his shoes. She
wants
to buy for him, she wants to care for him, and she may even resent my suggestions because I'm doing something she desperately wants to do—”

Obviously oblivious to my muttered monologue, Simone stopped at the front door and turned to look for me. “Amanda, are you ready to go?”

I nodded and hurried after her, eager to leave my irritations behind.

On a hot Sunday night in August, well after I'd put Marilee to bed, a story from Massachusetts dominated the news: in the wealthy enclave of Martha's Vineyard, two ten-year-old girls had gone out for ice cream and disappeared. Local citizens and police were scouring the area to determine what had happened to them.

The news showed a picture of the two girls, both smiling, both wearing bright red windbreakers and dark shorts. In a few years, Marilee might look just like them.

I turned off the TV and sat in an unnatural silence, broken only by the sound of the refrigerator dumping ice into the freezer bin. Inexplicably, my uneasiness swelled into alarm. Was this near panic the result of restless hormones, or was it some kind of premonition that something was happening to Gideon?

I swallowed to bring my heart down from my throat. I was
spending too much time alone in this house. I had too much free time and too active an imagination. At times like this, the house was far too quiet.

With Gideon away, Marilee and I had no one to protect us—maybe we needed a dog now. Maybe we should go to the animal shelter and see if they had a big dog that would love us and fight off an intruder.

Or maybe I should buy a gun.

I turned off the lamp and moved to the window, lifting the louvers on the shutters so I could look out and see the dimly lit street. Nothing moved in the darkness, and my neighbors' vehicles had been neatly tucked into garages and parking spaces. This was a safe neighborhood, or at least as safe as a neighborhood could be.

Still, a chill climbed the ladder of my spine.

What was wrong with me? I would drive myself crazy if I kept looking for trouble. I should go to bed, let myself drift away on a soft tide and awaken in reassuring daylight.

I moved toward the hallway and my bedroom, but paused to pick up my cell phone from the kitchen counter. I could try to reach Gideon, but I'd feel foolish if I asked someone to track him down just so I could hear his voice.

None of the other military wives were this skittish. I saw them at the PX; I heard them talking about how they argued with auto mechanics, climbed on rooftops to repair leaks, and delivered puppies without help from anyone. They had all their fears bottled up and put away on shelves, and nothing seemed to faze them.

But everything bothered me. Especially the evening news.

The darkness around me felt heavy and threatening as I hurried into my bedroom, slid beneath the covers, and pulled the comforter up to my nose. I peered out, searching for signs of trouble, but nothing moved, not even the curtains. The air conditioner clicked on, then a current of cool air stirred the dust trails hanging from the ceiling fan.

My mouth twisted in a wry smile. Would the Amblours allow
me to clean my fans, or would they rather I leave that chore to the Happy Housekeepers?

After several minutes, my pulse rate slowed and I was able to sleep.

My fingers grasped handfuls of dew dampened grass, my sneakers slipped as I struggled to find my footing. I was lying on my back, blinking at a star-spangled sky, but I wasn't alone. From somewhere off to my left I heard a vague mechanical tick, accompanied by low moans.

“Daddy?”

I rolled onto my belly and looked around. A long stretch of asphalt sliced through the woods and our Pontiac lay upside down on a patch of gravel. I saw vacant windows, crumpled metal, and red plastic shards glinting in the moonlight. Then someone groaned again.

“Daddy!” I crawled forward, tiny rocks cutting into my knees as I inched toward the sound. Sparkling glass pebbles mingled with the scree. My father's hand was visible inside the car, the fingers twitching. He was alive.

“Daddy!” I hurried forward on hands and knees, then lowered my head to peer into the gloomy space. I saw my precious father's dark jacket, the ghostly whiteness of his shirt, and his face, painted red like a devil mask.

“Mandy.” A weak smile flitted over his mouth as our eyes met. “Honey, you need to get away from the car. Go sit on the grass. And stay there.”

“I don't want to leave you, Daddy.”

“You have to, honey. You have to obey me, right now.”

“I can't leave you!”

“I want you to go,
now
.” His voice firmed. “And don't worry. I'll meet you at the river.”

I knew what he wanted me to say next; I could feel the words on my tongue, but I couldn't say them. “Don't leave me, Daddy!”

“Get away, honey.”

“Daddy!” I grabbed his hand and pulled until I heard him cry out, but I couldn't move him more than a few inches. “Daddy, help me. Please.”

“Mandy.” A note of fear entered his voice, chilling my bones, and an instant later I saw the flickering light. “Mandy, get away from here, right now!” He screamed at me, his voice rougher and louder than it had ever been, and the shock of his panic forced me back.

I scooted away, scarcely aware of the glass and gravel slashing my palms. My tears had given birth to sobs, but something in me knew I had to obey. “I'll meet you at the river!” he yelled, his voice ragged with panic. “I'll look for you!”

I pressed my hands to my face, unable to say the words he wanted to hear.

While I sat motionless, paralyzed with panic, the car erupted into flames. A hair-raising scream swallowed up my father's voice, and blazing heat sent sweat streaming over my face.

“I'll be under the tree.” I hiccupped the words, hoping my belated obedience would somehow set things right. “I'll be waiting at the tree, I'll be waiting, Daddy, I'll be waiting—”

The scene dissolved and I sat up clutching a sheet to my chest, aware of the dampness of perspiration between my breasts. My breath came in gasps and my arms were covered in gooseflesh.

I reached for Gideon, but my hand closed around empty space.

“You're doing very well.” Dr. Hawthorn smiled at me as she concluded my August checkup. “At twenty-three weeks you haven't gained too much weight and your blood pressure is steady. How's your sleep? Is the baby keeping you up at night?”

“He moves a lot these days.” I forced a smile. “But it's not the baby keeping me up at night, it's the dreams.”

“Still?” She arched a brow. “Let me guess—are you dreaming of a trip to a foreign country where you don't want to go?”

I shook my head.

“Dreaming of your baby's face, but he looks like some kind of animal?”

“I have dreamed of the baby's face, and he looks like Gideon. But that's not keeping me awake. I'm having a recurrent nightmare. I had it Sunday night, then I had it again last night.”

“Did you write it down?”

I nodded.

“Tell me about it.”

I pressed my lips together, reluctant to revisit the nightmare even in the dull reality of Dr. Hawthorn's exam room. But since she'd asked . . .

I wrapped myself in resolve. “I dream I'm little again, and I find myself lying on a patch of grass. My family's car is upside down, and my father is still inside. I go to him, wanting to get him out, but I can't move him. He tells me to get away, then the car bursts into flames. That's it.” I shrugged and turned my head, not wanting her to see the tears that had begun to blur my vision. “If that's a message from my subconscious, I don't know how to interpret it.”

She waited, and because nature abhors a vacuum, the absence of sound pulled a sob from me. I cried for a minute, fanning my face as if I were a boiling pot, then Dr. Hawthorn handed me a box of tissues.

When I finally had my emotions under control, I looked up to find her watching me with a slightly perplexed expression, as if she'd thought of a question but didn't want to ask it. “Is your father . . .” she finally said, “. . . still living?”

I shook my head. “He died when I was six.”

“May I ask how?”

“Car accident.”

“Ah.” She glanced at my chart, then looked back at me. “Nearly all pregnant women deal with anxiety, Amanda, and you're probably repressing a boatload of stress. Your husband's overseas, you're dealing with a surrogacy, and for a while, at least, you're functioning as a single parent. You may not be aware of it, but you're probably feeling a high degree of unconscious worry, and your mind has linked it to that traumatic period in your childhood. My advice is for you to schedule some time for personal relaxation. Find a way to release some of that stress, and you'll be fine. Your pregnancy is proceeding just as it should, and you're as healthy as the proverbial horse. So relax and get a massage. Enjoy your family. Ask for help when you need it. And think about how happy your intended parents are going to be because of your generosity.”