The Offering (27 page)

I didn't ask about the outcome of the mission. I didn't need to, because with pulse-pounding clarity I understood the only fact that mattered—my husband had pushed the wandering child away and thrown himself on the explosive device.

When it came to little girls, Gideon had always been a pushover.

The day after Gideon's service, I found myself possessed by an odd restlessness. I knew I was expected to stay home and receive visitors, casseroles, and sympathy cards, but I couldn't sit still and didn't want to linger in the house where I saw Gideon every time I rounded a corner. Knowing how he died had answered my questions, but the knowledge did nothing to ease the empty feeling inside me.

Reminders of the baby also haunted me. Maternity clothing filled my closet while prenatal vitamins and stretch mark preventatives littered my bathroom counter. The kitchen calendar bore scrawled notes about doctors' appointments, and a Post-it on the computer displayed Simone's email address.

Everywhere I looked, I was reminded of my losses.

Mom had driven over to be with us, so I asked her to watch Marilee and greet visitors while I went out. Without waiting for an answer, I grabbed my purse and headed toward the garage.

“Where are you going?” Mom called, alarm in her voice. “When will you be home?”

“I don't know.” Since a brisk wind had begun to blow, I grabbed Gideon's favorite hoodie from a hook by the back door. “But I'm not going to jump off a bridge, if that's what you're worried about.”

I knew it was a stupid thing to say, but at that point I didn't know where I wanted to go. Yet as soon as I slipped behind the wheel, my subconscious yearnings crystallized into a coherent
directive: I had to see the baby again. I had to hold him one more time before the Amblours carried him to France.

To steady my nerves, I pressed my nose to the thick fabric of Gideon's hoodie and breathed in his scent. Gideon would understand my feelings. He would tell me to go see the Amblours, say good-bye, and then get back to being Marilee's mother. To comfort me he'd whisper,
Good things usually hurt.

Hard experience had taught me how true that saying was.

I dug through my purse and found the slip of paper where I'd written the Amblours' Florida address. I never thought I'd have a reason to visit their rental, but the morning we parted at the hospital I'd been so exhausted and grief-stricken that I barely looked at the baby. All I remembered was rosebud lips, a light spray of brown hair, and tiny fingers, but that description would fit half the infants in any hospital. It wasn't enough. I wanted to examine Julien, I wanted to hold him and say my own special good-bye before he was gone for good.

I pointed my car west and drove. Because Julien was only four days old, I suspected his parents were still trying to figure out how and when to feed him, what his cries meant, and how to get a decent amount of sleep. They were bound to be at the house on Sandpiper Drive, and might even welcome a visit from an experienced mother.

I wasn't surprised when the GPS led me to a home only a block from the beach—the Amblours could afford to rent near the water. My heart pounded as I pulled into the driveway, then parked the car and walked up to the front door. The drapes were open and a rolled-up newspaper lay on the sidewalk, so I picked it up, thinking they might appreciate hand-delivered news. I tried on a smile and rang the bell, then waited for a long moment. When no one answered, I took a few steps back and studied the front of the building. Nothing moved at the windows, no sound came from within. So the family was either sleeping or ignoring the bell.

“Can I help you?”

I flinched at the sound of an unfamiliar voice and turned to see a man in Bermuda shorts approaching from a neighboring home. “I'm looking for the Amblours, the couple renting this house.”

“I met them.” The man smiled at me, interest flickering in his eyes. “They're gone. Packed up and flew home two days ago.”

“They went home?” My jaw dropped. “But—but their baby is only a few days old. He's too young to fly.”

“I don't know anything about that.” The man gave me the once-over, taking in my puffy figure and maternity top. “But maybe they decided to spend the holidays at home, 'cause they're definitely gone. I have the keys, if you know someone who would like to rent the house—”

“Thank you, but I don't know anything about renting houses.”

I stumbled back to the car, somehow placing one foot in front of the other when all I wanted to do was drop onto the front walkway and weep. How could they have gone without telling me good-bye? Without calling? Without stopping at the house to let me hold the baby one final time?

How could they have gone home even before Gideon's memorial service?

I could almost hear my mom's voice:
What'd you expect, lasting friendship?

No, I didn't expect friendship. But from people who kept going on and on about how they could never thank me enough, I had expected more kindness and compassion.

I had expected one final opportunity to kiss the baby good-bye.

A
s a college psychology major, I had been thoroughly schooled in the stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and finally, acceptance. I had also listened to enough purveyors of pop wisdom to know that after a loss, I should begin with denial and move through the stages as quickly as possible in order to Get On With Life.

The trouble was, I didn't want to get on with life. I wasn't suicidal—I loved my daughter too much to consider such a selfish act—but I didn't want to move through any of the required stages, no matter what the TV gurus advised. So I bucked the system and freely admitted that my husband was gone. I gave his books to Tumelo and boxed up his trophies for Marilee. I moved his photos from my bureau to a special shelf in the living room; I piled his clothing into bags and hauled them to our church's thrift store, keeping only a flannel shirt I liked to sleep in. On Sunday mornings I looked around the congregation and wondered if I'd see a pair of Gideon's pants walking by.

I gave Gid's truck to Snake, knowing that's what Gideon would have wanted. On the few occasions Snake dropped by to check on us, I glimpsed the truck through the curtains and felt my heart fling itself against my rib cage, the result of some inexplicable cellular conviction that Gideon had come home.

Yet my mind knew better. My husband was gone, the baby was gone, life as I had known it was gone forever. The rational part of my brain wondered if I was experiencing the results of postpartum depression, but the emotional part of me stared out at a world that had shifted from color to gloomy shades of gray.

Mom watched wide-eyed as I cleared out Gideon's things, then she told me that refusing to go through the stages of grief was the mother of all denials. “Can't you see what you're doing?” Her face twisted into a human question mark. “This isn't normal, Mandy. I'm worried about you.” When I wouldn't listen, she shook her head, urged me to see a therapist, and drove home to The Villages.

Mama Isa and Elaine worried over me, too—I could see concern in their faces—but they did their best to make sure life for me and Marilee remained consistent.

After about a month, I went back to work at the grocery, smiling and behaving as though my world hadn't been completely devastated. When regular customers asked how my new baby was doing, I said I'd been a surrogate, so the child had gone home with his parents. After hearing this, the person who'd asked always gave me the compassionate look they'd give someone who'd just lost their dog.

Sometimes I left work early and went to the mall, where I walked around and studied new mothers with their babies in carriages or strollers. I knew they'd come to the mall because they were desperate to put on makeup and get out of the house—I had done the same thing when Marilee was an infant. I never spoke to the mothers, but peered at their babies' faces and wondered if I'd spot a little boy who looked like Julien. I knew
my
Julien was living in France, but I yearned to see something of him in another child's face.

Despite my best intentions, after three months I realized I couldn't stay in the rental house Gideon and I had furnished together. I glimpsed his shadow on the stairs, heard his voice in the hallway, and listened for his steps on the front porch every night.
His empty pillow seemed to mock me on our big bed, and I had trouble sleeping.

His family seemed to understand my need to relocate, and Mama Isa offered her home as a way station, a place of healing and rest. “Jorge and I do not need so much space,” she told me, opening her hands wide to indicate the empty bedrooms. “You and Marilee come live with us for a while. You help me, I will help you, and we will keep
la familia
together.”

Accepting her offer was one of the easiest things I'd ever done, though my mom couldn't understand why I seemed so eager to give up my independence. “You're not a child,” she told me during a phone call. “You need to learn to stand on your own two feet.”

I snorted, baffled by her belief that I had somehow been coerced into making the decision to move. “Why should I live alone? It takes a village to raise a child, haven't you heard?”

Later, though, I realized that I wanted to move in with Jorge and Isa because being with them brought me closer to Gideon. He wasn't in the house, but I felt him in his
family
. His eyes lived in his father's and aunt's faces, his voice rumbled from his grandfather's throat, and his smile frequently flashed on Mama Isa's mouth. Everyone in the family spoke his melodious language. As long as Marilee and I remained close to
la familia,
we would never feel far from Gideon.

And I knew there'd be no room for ghosts in Mama Isa's guest room's narrow bed.

The family helped me move on a Saturday. Mama Isa came over the day before to help me pack, and I could tell she was stunned to see me dumping papers, bills, and drawer contents into packing boxes without first going through them. “You might be able to throw much of that stuff out,” she said, gently making her point. “You will save money if you do not store so much.”

“I don't have time to go through everything,” I answered, dumping yet another stack of Gideon's meticulous files into a packing box. He had managed our important papers, our taxes, our
canceled checks. One day I
might
go through them—but probably only if the IRS came knocking at my door.

I sold the furniture we no longer needed (including the grand piano) and squeezed our lives into cardboard boxes. We sent some of our furnishings to a rented storage unit and moved everything else into Mama Isa's empty bedrooms.

Living with Isa and Jorge helped me feel less alone, and I know Marilee enjoyed their company. She never complained, but I suspected that she thought her mother had turned into some sort of zombie.

And why shouldn't I? Gideon had been such a huge part of my life that without him I felt like a quadruple amputee. His in-and-out schedule had allowed him to take charge of our bills, make most of the decisions, and even handle a lot of the grocery shopping. He accepted every responsibility I didn't want, and managed everything so smoothly that I never realized how helpless I would be without him.

When Mama Isa took us in, I gratefully surrendered my responsibilities to her. I helped around the house, of course, but she washed our clothes, prepared our dinners, and made sure we were up and out the door every morning. She was stronger than I had ever been, and though I admired her, I didn't think I could ever be like her.

After one family dinner, Amelia asked if I still planned on going back to college, but what would be the point? I had wanted to get my degree so I could get a better job to provide for Marilee's schooling and allow us to enlarge our family. With Gideon gone, I no longer needed extra money.

Our finances, you see, had also been affected by Gideon's death. Due to payments from Gideon's life insurance, the military death benefit, and my surrogate work, Marilee and I had more money than we needed.

Yet thanks to
la familia,
we didn't need anything. And at Mama Isa's house we were always surrounded by people who loved us.

Six months after my husband's memorial service, the president invited me, Tumelo, and Elaine to the White House to receive Gideon's posthumous Medal of Honor. My in-laws went, but I sent Marilee in my place. Even at the ripe old age of five, she had more military steel in her spine than I did.

At about the same time, Natasha Bray invited me to share my experience with one of her surrogacy support groups. I turned her down without a second thought. Sitting in front of pregnant strangers to describe my experience would be like ripping the skin away from my pounding heart and assuring them the experience didn't hurt.

Days without Gideon stretched into weeks and months. Marilee remained at the Takahashi school, and we continued to enjoy Saturday family night dinners at Mama Isa's. I stayed behind the cash register at the Cuban grocery, and Claude Newton of the Hawaiian shirt and flip-flops kept shuffling in every morning. Marilee and I went to church on Sundays, sat in our usual pew, sang the praise choruses, and lifted our prayers. God must have grown tired of hearing mine because they were always the same:
Lord, why did you take Gideon?

I prayed another prayer, too, but this one I whispered only in the privacy of my bedroom: “Lord, bless that baby boy. Wherever Julien is, keep him safe and help him be happy.”

Around the family, I never mentioned the baby I'd carried—I didn't think they'd understand why I mourned the loss of a child who wasn't mine, especially after I'd insisted that carrying a baby and handing it over would be a simple, uncomplicated matter. And while Gideon's loss colored every moment of every day, the loss of that child tinged my nights with despair. The vivid dreams I'd experienced in pregnancy persisted, leading me to wonder if my surrogacy had been a life-altering mistake. Would I never be free of the shadowy remnants that haunted my sleep?