The Offering (21 page)

I let out a long exhalation of relief, then gave her a heartfelt smile. “Maybe I'll take my daughter out for pizza tonight. She'd like that.”

“That's the spirit.” As I stood to get dressed, Dr. Hawthorn clicked her pen and turned to write on my chart. I hoped she wasn't writing,
Be alert for possible nervous breakdown.

O
n several occasions Simone had mentioned that the grape harvest took place in the fall, so everyone at the vineyard would be busy during that season. So it was with great and guilty anticipation that I bid adieu to August and welcomed September, hoping I'd be able to enjoy a few days without international phone calls or daily emails to inquire about my burgeoning belly.

I didn't begrudge Simone the opportunity to vicariously experience this pregnancy—honestly, if I'd had the power to empathically transmit each of my twinges, cramps, and episodes of heartburn, I'd have done so in a New York minute. But I'd been hired to complete a task, and I was working hard to complete it to the best of my ability. At some point, surely, the employer needed to give the employee some breathing space.

I prayed it would come in September.

Payments from the Amblours allowed me to enroll Marilee in the Takahashi program again, so the Monday after Labor Day I sent her off to school, grateful she'd have something to take her mind off missing her daddy.

At my monthly obstetrics appointment I learned that I had officially entered the third trimester, so I'd be seeing Dr. Hawthorn every two weeks instead of every month. I winced at the news,
knowing Simone would gently request complete reports on every checkup and weigh-in.

“I'm concerned,” the doctor said, studying my latest sonogram. She swiveled on her stool to better see the image. “At twenty-seven weeks, a baby should be the size of a head of cauliflower. Your little passenger is more the size of a spaghetti squash.”

I smiled. “I've seen some pretty big spaghetti squash.”

“Next week he should be as big as a butternut squash, but your baby will probably be the size of a large mango.”

Her references to fruit and vegetables confused me. Didn't human beings come in different sizes? “We've always known he'd be small. We've been told the egg donor was petite.”

“Yes . . . but a twenty-seven-week fetus should weigh twice what yours does. If you were the typical patient, I'd assume you got the conception date wrong, but you're not the typical patient.” Her brow wrinkled. “I'm wondering if we ought to consider amniocentesis.”

I grimaced. I'd endured so many needle pricks back in the Lupron phase that the thought of having a sharp instrument stabbed into my uterus made me feel faint. Amnio also carried a risk to the developing baby, and I didn't think Simone would want to take that risk.

“I think we should talk to the intended parents before deciding,” I said. “They're supercautious about medical tests. They may not want me to have amnio.”

The doctor clicked her tongue against her teeth, then shook her head. “I suppose we might as well stick to our wait-and-see position. I'd be more concerned if the baby wasn't growing at all. He
is
developing, just more slowly than usual.”

“A slow starter,” I said, echoing what she'd told me weeks ago. “Some babies don't want to be the first ones out of the gate.”

“Perhaps.” The doctor closed my chart, then swiveled toward me. “Anything bothering you? Any more bad dreams?”

I nodded, reluctant to tell her about my continuing
nightmares. “I'm still dreaming about my dad in the car wreck. And every once in a while I dream about water—I'm swimming and breathing under the surface, I'm in a river, I'm in the ocean, or living in a swimming pool. I'm not drowning, though I'm pretty sure I'm about to.”

“Water is a common element in pregnancy dreams,” the doctor said, smiling. “Think about it—the baby is swimming in amniotic fluid, and every time he moves you're reminded of that. Perfectly natural.”

“And the car wreck?”

A corner of her smile twisted. “Your husband's still away and you're still anxious. Remember to make time to relax. Now that we're in the third trimester, you're heading for the home stretch. Take good care of yourself, and I'll see you in a couple of weeks.”

I hadn't run many races in my lifetime, but I knew the home stretch could be the toughest part of the race.

The warm, muggy days of September slid slowly into October, and October brought a welcome surprise—Gideon came home. He didn't know how long he'd be able to stay, but his unit would be working out of MacDill's Special Operations command headquarters for a while, and that was good news for our family.

My baby bump had become more pronounced while Gideon was away, but my fears about him finding me unattractive while carrying another man's baby proved to be unfounded. I saw a new light in his eyes when he gazed at me, a glow that looked like appreciation.

“I guess absence really does make the heart grow fonder,” I told him one night as I stepped up to his chair and ran my fingers through his curls. “I think you actually missed me while you were away.”

“I wouldn't want you anywhere near the places I've been, but I can't count the times I've wished I were back here with you.” His
gaze traveled over my face and searched my eyes. “And I've never seen you looking more beautiful.” He lowered his head and pressed a gentle kiss to my stomach. “You're a brave one, to do all this for our family.”

Brave? I coughed rather than release the laugh that bubbled to the surface. If only he knew how I cowered when he was away.

One Saturday soon after his return Gideon went with me to Mama Yanela's grocery to help the family take inventory. From the corner of my eye I glimpsed kilted Claude Newton speaking to him in the canned goods aisle, then Gideon looked at me and smiled. I finished checking out another customer and sent her on her way. What were Gid and our local nudist talking about?

A few minutes later, Gideon strolled toward the register.

“You know Claude?” I tilted my head toward the man now browsing the vegetable bins. “You two seemed to be having quite a conversation.”

Gideon laughed and hopped up on the counter. “He asked if I was part of Yanela's family, so I said yes. Then he asked if Mama Isa was my mother, so I told him no, I was Tumelo's son. Then he asked if Amelia was my wife, so I said no and pointed to you.”

“He was probably sorry he asked. Instead of a simple answer, he got the entire family tree.”

“That's not the best part.” My husband's eyes warmed as he smiled. “Once he realized you were my wife, he congratulated me on the coming baby. I said the baby wasn't ours; you were a having a baby for another couple. The guy looked confused, then he asked how I could let my beautiful wife sleep with another man.”

I snorted. “I'm not at all surprised. For one thing, Claude's not . . . conventional. And when I get the same thing—people who congratulate me until I explain the baby's not mine—most of them look shocked and ask how I could possibly give my baby away. I thought people understood surrogacy, but apparently I was wrong.”

“Maybe”—Gideon tweaked the end of my nose—“when someone congratulates us, we should just say ‘Thanks.' ”

“I think you're right.”

Though the Amblour vineyard was in the midst of a busy harvest season, Simone's emails continued to arrive as dependably as the sunrise. I endured them as graciously as I could, usually choosing to answer them at the end of the day, when any follow-up questions could be postponed until the next night.

In the meantime, I tolerated the presence of Happy Housekeepers in my home on Wednesdays, used only the “green” cleaners Simone sent when I had to clean, asked grumbling service station attendants to pump my gas, and ordered chicken when I really wanted steak. I cut back my hours at the grocery to the point where one morning Mario clutched his chest and feigned a heart attack when I came through the door.

“I don't know why you even bother to come in,” Amelia said, a bemused look on her face as I waddled toward the register. “Aren't you earning a paycheck just by being pregnant?”

“Maybe I miss the joy of the job.” I tossed a teasing smirk in her direction and stashed my purse beneath the counter. “Maybe I come to work just to see
mi familia.
”

In truth, I couldn't imagine giving up my work at the grocery. If I didn't go in for at least a few hours every week, I would feel as though I had cut myself off from the world. My mom hadn't visited in months, and I had no other close relatives. The Lisandras were my family now, and I couldn't imagine not seeing them every day.

As much as I enjoyed working at the grocery, I told Amelia I wouldn't be in on October 12, Marilee's birthday.

“You know my mom's driving over tomorrow,” I told Gideon as we climbed into our big four-poster the night before Marilee's big day. “She wouldn't miss a special occasion like this.”

“I remembered.” Gideon stretched out and draped a protective arm over my stomach, then he yawned. “Are you going to play Simone's recording tonight?”

I glanced at the headphones on my nightstand and groaned. “I'm too tired, and there's too much going on tomorrow. We have
the birthday here, the party at Mama Isa's, and I'll have to deal with Mom. . . .”

Silence slipped between us, then Gideon drew me closer. “What is it with you and your mother? I thought women were supposed to be tight. Like soul sisters or something.”

Too tired to go into explanations I didn't like to think about, I closed my eyes. “I love my mom.”

“But you're not close. Sometimes I think you're closer to Mama Isa than to your own mom.”

I sighed heavily, hoping he'd take the hint and let me drift away. “I don't know. Sometimes women can drive each other crazy.”

“But she's your
mother.
”

“So? Maybe we're too much alike.”

“I don't think you're alike at all. And you're pregnant—I thought other women thrived on discussing that stuff. When we had Marilee I expected her to be over here to give you advice every weekend, but she hardly ever came.”

“My mom's . . . modest. If you ask her, she'll say the stork brought me.”

“She's never struck me as being that old-fashioned. I just don't understand why you two aren't close.”

I opened my eyes and frowned into the darkness. “I don't know, Gid, and I'm really tired. Can we go to sleep, please?”

Around us, the room lay quiet, as if listening, then Gideon chuckled. “Get your rest, baby girl. Didn't mean to play the shrink at this hour.”

“That's okay, sweetie. I love you.”

I rolled onto my side, away from him and his confounded questions.

Sunlight had only begun to fringe our window blinds when my daughter's voice jarred me into full wakefulness. “Mama, wake up! Daddy,
please
wake up!”

Thankfully, Gideon answered her. “I'm comin', jelly belly. But let's let your mama sleep a little longer.”

“But, Daddy, it's my
birthday
!”

Marilee's anguished plea—along with a relentless pressure on my bladder—forced my eyes open. A few days ago Gideon had dubbed me the Pee Queen, and I couldn't blame him for making fun. The near-constant need to find a bathroom was annoying, but at least I'd only gained twenty-four pounds. By this point in my last pregnancy, I was packing on a pound per week.

“I'm up,” I mumbled.

Unlike Gideon, who seemed to sleep with one eye open, I needed a good ten minutes before my eyes focused and my brain slipped into gear. But Marilee had been anticipating this special day for weeks.

When my surroundings finally shifted from soft blurs to discrete shapes with edges, I saw my adorable daughter dancing in the bedroom doorway, her ruffled purple tutu around her waist and her stuffed monkey under one arm. “Come on, Mommy, get up! It's time to open presents!”

I braced myself on the edge of the mattress. “I thought we were going to wait until the party to open your gifts.”

“Do I have to?”

“I dunno.” I leaned back on my elbows and peered at Gideon, adorably rumpled and propped against the headboard. “Does she have to wait until the party?”

“I think”—Gideon grinned—“this is a good time for her to open the gifts from us. The family will bring other stuff later, so she can save those presents for the family party.”

Proving once again that she had Gideon wrapped around her little finger, Marilee clapped and twirled.

I dropped back onto the bed, my head missing Gideon's thigh by inches, and folded my hands atop my soccer ball belly. “I think the birthday girl and her daddy should make a nice breakfast for the mommy.”

“Whaddya think, bug?” Gideon stood and tied on his robe. “Should we make French toast or pancakes?”

“Toast!” Marilee danced away, leaping toward the kitchen.

Gideon paused to plant a kiss on my forehead. “Sleep a little longer if you want. I'll call you when breakfast is ready.”

“No, I need to get up.” With an effort, I pushed myself upright. “I'm going to shower and dress. I'll see you in a few minutes.”

By the time I made it into the kitchen, Gideon and Marilee had done a passable job of making French toast, eggs, and sausage. I couldn't help noticing that Marilee's toast had raisin eyes, a cinnamon-powdered nose, and a chocolate chip smile. “Nice touch, five-year-old girl.” I winked at her. “Was that your idea?”

“Daddy's.” Marilee bit the end off a sausage link and grinned. “He said birthdays are for chocolate chips.”

“I think every day should be for chocolate chips.” I sighed as Gideon set a plate in front of me. “Maybe every day should be for Daddy to do the cooking.”