The Offering (34 page)

I leaned forward, barely able to suppress my eagerness. “What happens next? And when do you think—realistically—my boy will come home?”

Mr. Pippen pressed his hands together and looked thoughtful. “The first thing we need to do is inform the other couple of these
test results. We need to give them an opportunity to face the facts and do the right thing.”

“And if they don't?”

“Then we go to the French courts. Seeing the genetic report, I'm almost certain the judge will rule in our favor, and what happens afterward will depend on the other couple's determination to see this through. They might contest the judge's ruling. Their lawyer will almost certainly insist on DNA testing from a French lab. They'll try to establish a genetic link between the child and Mr. Amblour.”

“But there is no link.”

“I said they'd
try
it. I didn't say they'd prove it.”

I sat back, satisfied with his answer. “Then they'll surrender my son?”

He held up a warning hand. “These cases can be tricky, and any time you deal with an international court, you can run into problems. They may refuse to hand the boy over because he's bonded with them and breaking that bond could be detrimental to his mental health. If I were their lawyer, I'd contest the judge's ruling and build a case centered on the best interests of the child. I'd hire child welfare experts and developmental psychologists. I'd send an investigator to learn as much as he could about
you,
and then I'd try to prove that living with the Amblours would be far better for the child than living with you.”

I listened with a rising sense of dismay. “How could they do that? I'm his birth mother, and I'm raising his sister. I have close ties with Gideon's family, so I have an excellent support system. I don't do drugs, we're all hard workers, no one's an alcoholic and no one's ever been arrested—”

“But you're a single mother and the Amblours are a two-parent family. You're living with a relative in a home you don't own, while the Amblours live on a large generational estate. You have some money put away, but the Amblours are independently wealthy, with means to provide nannies, tutors, and anything else the boy
might need. Furthermore, the child has formed a strong bond with them, and any developmental expert is going to testify about the detrimental effects of taking a child from parents he has come to know and trust. In addition to all that, a judge could view your participation in a surrogacy program as evidence that you never wanted another child of your own; you were only interested in money.”

My cheeks flamed. “That hardly seems fair. I never would have surrendered the baby if I'd known he was
mine
—”

“We can't change the past.” Mr. Pippen removed his glasses and gentled his voice. “I'm not trying to discourage you, I'm trying to prepare you for a possible worst-case scenario. This situation could be involved, complicated, and expensive.”

“Is there a best-case scenario?” My voice sounded small in the room. “Is there any chance this could be easy?”

One corner of the attorney's mouth lifted in a smile. “Sure. They could hire a lawyer who will so thoroughly spell out the difficulties and complications in a worst-case scenario that they decide to do the right thing from the beginning. To spare the boy and themselves from a long and protracted court battle, they could sign away their parental rights and bring the boy to you almost immediately.”

“Then that's what I'm hoping for.” I locked my hands and tried to steady my voice. “That's what I'll be praying for.”

“I'll let you know what happens when they're presented with this evidence.” Mr. Pippen made a copy of the DNA report and slid it into a folder on his desk. “From this point, leave everything in my hands and wait to hear from me.”

I drew a deep breath and nodded, but waiting had never been easy for me.

Marilee and I had just come through the front door and greeted Jorge when my cell phone rang. I answered, expecting to hear from
Amelia or someone at the grocery, but the voice on the line was hoarse, agitated, and heavily accented. “How could you, Amanda?”

I whirled away from Marilee and stepped back outside, amazed at how quickly Mr. Pippen had relayed the DNA evidence to France. I'd left the report with him only two days before. “Simone?”

“What have you done?”

In the sound of her broken voice I heard the shattering of my secret hope: that faced with the probability of a long and difficult custody battle, Simone and Damien would simply release Julien and let him come home.

“How could I do this?” My voice trembled. “How could I not? He is my son, Simone, and he deserves to know his mother, his sister, and his grandparents. Gideon would want him to grow up surrounded by his family.”

I drew a deep breath, wanting to tell her how much I'd suffered since losing Gideon, but inelegant sobs rolled over the phone line before I could begin.

“You will . . . never know,” Simone cried, her words muddied and indistinct, “how this has . . . destroyed us.”

I closed my eyes, regretting her pain even as I struggled with my own. “I'm sorry,” I managed to whisper, “I didn't want to hurt you. I would have investigated sooner, but I never saw Julien's photos until recently, and then I knew.” I hesitated as a thought I hadn't considered occurred to me. “
You
must have known there was a problem months ago. How could you look at that baby and not realize that he looked like my family?”

“We love him. We love him and he loves us.”

She didn't answer my question, confirming my suspicion that she must have known. Even if she'd told herself that the egg donor was dark-haired and brown-eyed, she must have noted the boy's resemblance to Marilee.

“I love him, too,” I told her, “just as I loved his father. I don't know what happened, but something went wrong and I lost your
embryos. I conceived and delivered my own baby, and because he's mine he needs to be with me, with his family.”

“Amanda—”

“I know this hurts”—I pressed on, talking over the rasps of her anguish—“because I've been suffering for two years. Something inside me died along with Gideon, and I've spent months trying to find my footing because I couldn't manage without him. But when I saw the picture of Julien I knew I had to get my life together. Julien is my son and he needs to grow up with me. I'll give your money back, I'll do anything you want, but I need my son
here.
”

“You are wrong.” Simone's voice lowered to a rough whisper, and I suspected that someone else had entered the room where she was. I held the phone closer to my ear, straining to pick up some clue—

A high, clear voice rattled off a few French words that ended with
maman
.

Mama.

Julien.

The realization was like a blow to the center of my chest. My little boy was at the other end of this telephone connection, probably arriving at Simone's side to ask for something. If he were here, I would give him whatever he wanted and more. I would introduce him to a sister who looked just like him, and cousins and aunts and uncles and doting grandparents . . .

“Julien!” The cry sprang from my lips, then I heard nothing but silence. I didn't dare disconnect the call because my son might say something else, might sing a note or run across the room, allowing me to hear his quick little footsteps.

But Simone's voice filled my ear, her rushing words leaving room for nothing else: “We did nothing wrong. We did not cheat you, we did not break the rules. We do not deserve this.”

I swallowed hard. “I know you didn't mean for things to work out this way. I'm sorry. None of us deserves this. Accidents happen.”

“You will destroy him if you continue with this claim. He loves his home here, he loves us. He does not even speak English.”

“Simone.” I drew a ragged breath and tried to be patient. “The boy is only two years old. He can learn a new language.”

“He has spent his entire life with us at Domaine de Amblour! He knows no other home.”

“But he has another home and it's here, with us. And, thank heaven, children are adaptable. He will accept his family because he's one of us. He's not French; he's Cuban-American.”

“You are asking for the impossible!”

“I am not.” I struggled to maintain an even, conciliatory tone. If I could make her understand, maybe I wouldn't have to spend months waiting for my son to come home.

“Simone,” I said, “the situation may be difficult, but the answer is really quite simple. I'm truly sorry this happened, and I'm sorry I have to hurt you. But Julien is my son, and he belongs with his American family. I think this is a hard truth, but there you have it. He's my son and I want him home with me. You would feel the same way if the situation were reversed.”

When she didn't respond, I lowered the phone and saw that the call had been disconnected.

Depleted from the adrenaline rush, I leaned on one of the plastered pillars of the front porch and struggled to arrange my face into a calm mask lest I alarm Jorge, Marilee, and Mama Isa. Knowing that the family was divided on the matter of Julien's situation, I had decided not to tell them about the positive DNA test until I knew my boy was on his way home. Then they would rejoice and welcome him, their reservations vanishing like morning mist.

But maybe it was time to give them the complete truth.

That night, as our family dinner drew to a close, I stood, rapped on the table, and told the Lisandras everything that had happened. Yes, Gideon had a son, and I was doing everything I could to bring him home. As I suspected, the family members who had discouraged me from thinking about the baby in France abruptly changed
their tune. Julien was no longer a stranger's child, he was
ours,
he was a Lisandra, and he was Gideon's son. As such, he must be brought into the family.

Though all the Lisandras wanted to help me, I didn't know what they could do until we knew if and when Julien would be coming to America. Jorge offered to teach the boy Spanish, but I gently reminded him that the child would need to learn English if he wanted to speak to his mother. Mama Isa volunteered to clean out her sewing room so the boy could have his own space, but I told her the time had come for me to move out and find my own place. If the court awarded me custody, I would have two children, a seven-year-old and a two-year-old, and they would need separate spaces. So I'd need at least a three-bedroom house or apartment, preferably something with a wide lawn and trees an active boy could climb when he was old enough.

I sat and smiled as my family buzzed with excited ideas about where I should live. If Simone and Damien chose to turn my situation into an international courtroom battle, I would need more than a lawyer. I would need allies, and this family could provide me with plenty.

Later that night, I knew they were all on my side when Mama Isa, Jorge, and Yanela stepped onto the front porch. While I watched from my bedroom window, Jorge unwound a roll of yellow plastic ribbon and Yanela snipped the end. Then Mama Isa stood on a stepstool and tied the ribbon around a pillar of her house. Like a silent team, they moved from pillar to pillar, until all six of them bore yellow ribbons that fluttered in the slight breeze.

I smiled through a soft veil of tears. Many American homes and trees bore yellow ribbons for servicemen and women, but these streamers, I knew, were for Julien.

A month later I found myself nervous and perspiring as I walked out of Joseph Pippen's office. The receptionist ushered me into a
conference room where an unfamiliar woman had set up a small machine at the head of a long table. In preparation for my deposition, Mr. Pippen had covered the right side of the table with folders and files.

“We've received a copy of your file from the Surrogacy Center,” Mr. Pippen said, motioning that I should sit in the empty chair next to his, “and I've read the notes Natasha Bray made after interviewing you and the Amblours.”

I took my seat. “They were interviewed, but I don't think they went through nearly as rigorous a screening process as I did.”

“Probably not, since they were the ones with the cash.” Mr. Pippen gave me a wry smile, then glanced at his watch. “We're waiting for Mr. Bouchard, the Amblours' attorney. I understand his flight arrived a couple of hours ago, so we'll give him time to find the office and get situated.”

I had prepared for this deposition with one of Mr. Pippen's associates the day before. That young man had given me pointers as he asked questions from a long list the lawyer had provided. Trouble was, I'd been so distracted by the gravity of the situation that most of his suggestions had gone right over my head.

Now I gripped the armrests of my chair and wondered if I could remember how to spell my name. “Anything I should know before we begin?”

“The procedure is straightforward.” Mr. Pippen sat on the edge of the table. “I'm going to ask you a few questions, then Mr. Bouchard will ask you questions. Mrs. Jones”—he nodded at the transcriptionist, who smiled at me—“will transcribe every word we exchange. Before we begin she's going to administer an oath, so you must tell the truth here just as you would if we were in a court of law.”

I nodded. “I understand.”

“Good. I would caution you to reply accurately, truthfully, and briefly. If you aren't sure of an answer, it's better to admit you're not certain than to guess.”

I nodded again and he smiled. “Remember that nods won't work for the court reporter—we need verbal answers. A simple yes or no will do.”

“Okay.”

“And also remember”—a muscle flicked at his jaw—“we need to give the court a reason to believe the child would be better off with you than with the Amblours. I understand you were once friendly with these people, but you must trust what I'm trying to do.”