In mid-April, two Polish men with thick accents knocked on my door. My father was Polish, so I recognized the movers’ accents as being similar to my two uncles’. The men wrapped my couch in plastic wrap, then blankets, like they were swaddling a baby, then walked it out the door. I’d never hired professional movers. I’d never owned decent enough furniture to make it worthwhile.
Eliza hissed at the men when they entered, and clawed one of them on his pants. I had a feeling she understood our future home to be precarious. She knew that we were undergoing a sea change. And she also sensed my anxiety. I locked her in the bedroom again.
I had invested a lot of my artistic self in the apartment over the last several years: painting the walls, hanging the drapes. And over the last few months, I’d hung photos of Jasper everywhere. The home in which my son and I had lived would soon be vacated. I was giving up all that I had for something uncertain.
Since moving to New York, I’d lived in several different apartments, most of them dumps. I shared my first apartment with Lana and one other roommate. Lana got me my first job in New York as a photographer’s assistant, working for Emily Miller, who was considered the grande dame of event planning at the time. (I’d done similar work in Florida, on occasion, so I already had many of the necessary skills.)
One day Emily’s lead photographer had a family emergency. I flew to Puerto Vallarta and shot a wedding that night. The pictures were remarkable, especially the ones of the children. Within a year, her clients were calling me to photograph their kids.
In the end, she and I had a falling-out. She mistakenly thought I was going to give her a cut of my business. She viewed me as being indebted to her and thought I ought to be grateful. I suppose she’d always considered herself superior to me, but I’d chosen not to see it.
I quit my job waiting tables. After two years I had a regular roster of clients and I’d doubled my rates, so I moved into my present apartment, which wasn’t gorgeous, but it was respectable and more my home than any other place had ever been.
“Cute kid,” one of the movers said when he removed a photo of Jasper that had been hanging on the wall in order to wrap it.
“Thanks.”
“Where is he now?”
“With his dad.”
He nodded knowingly and covered the picture in bubble wrap.
“I got a kid,” he said. “Two years old. Man, what a lot of work. How old’s your kid?”
“Five.”
“Ohh.”
“He’s hearing impaired. He goes to a special school.” Why did I say that?
“Too bad.”
“Right now he’s at school.”
A minute earlier I’d said he was with his father. I was angry with myself for such an unnecessary stumble. And angry with myself for caring what the man thought of me.
When the men left, I opened the door of the bedroom and my cat raced out. Sitting on the floor of the kitchen, I leaned my back against the cabinets. Eliza ran in circles through the apartment. As she passed me, she hissed. I pushed her away. Then she lifted one paw and scratched me across my chest, above the neckline of my shirt. Red raised lines appeared on my skin, along with a drop of blood. For a minute I thought about throwing her out the window. She must have seen the hatred in my eyes. She hissed at me again.
“What is it?”
She stood completely still.
“What the fuck’s your problem?”
She made a mental calculation and must have decided that she was better off appealing to my vanity rather than alienating me. She knew it was in her interest to remain docile and subservient to me—to give me love, whether or not it was genuine. How would I ever know if Eliza was just pretending to love me because she needed food and shelter? I suddenly had disdain for her. She was a whore, willing to sell her emotions to the highest bidder. She was willing to be the cat I needed her to be, if it meant that she would retain her position. If it meant her life wouldn’t be threatened and she’d have a roof over her head.
I opened the door to her kennel. She walked in without missing a beat. I closed it. I could just leave her. I didn’t need to bring her with me to my new home, and she knew it. She was completely at my mercy.
Before leaving, I walked through each room one last time, kissing each wall goodbye. In this apartment, I’d secured a measure of safety. I tried to hold on to that feeling, in case I never experienced it again.
The movers deposited my furniture, dishes, linens, clothing, cameras, and computers in the designated locations of my new apartment. My exquisite apartment. The Straubs could have charged six thousand a month, but they were renting it to me for two thousand.
I brought the rosewood coffee table, the leather chairs, and the dining table and chairs. (I sold the rest. I couldn’t bear for the Straubs to see that I owned any mediocre furniture.) I never could have dreamed of living in an apartment with this level of luxury—a luxury of exquisite design and exquisite execution of the design. It was a magazine life.
A whole world was opening up to me. I was now physically connected to the Straubs’ lives in a variety of different ways. I was living in their building, in close proximity to them at all times. I was also the caregiver, tutor, and confidante for Natalie. More and more, I was inextricably linked to them. Natalie was going to come to me for help with her homework even more often because now I was readily accessible. Amelia was going to rely on me more and more as a babysitter. And soon I would be carrying their child.
Ever since our agreement, Amelia had assumed an intense intimacy with me, along with a kind of proprietary manner. She had chosen me and my womb, and I belonged to her. Amelia now felt justified in keeping tabs on me. I can’t say that I minded. It had been so long since anyone cared what I did or where I went. Her attention, almost oppressive in its concentration, was a wild departure from what I was used to.
The Straubs gave me a key to the main house and told me to come and go as I liked. It was a feeling of welcome and inclusion unlike any that I’d had before. I was no longer hovering on the edge of something. I had reached the center. I had arrived.
On my second day in my new apartment, I spent several hours unpacking. I decided to borrow some garbage bags from the Straubs and was jittery with excitement at the thought of using my personal key to their house for the first time. I felt a surge of energy as I unlocked their front door.
Standing in the entry, I overheard Amelia’s voice. “Delta can fend for herself.”
I was surprised to hear Ian’s voice: “She’s derailing her life. You don’t see that?”
I resented Ian’s interference and was about to tell him so, when I turned and saw Itzhak several feet away from me. The dog’s body was tense and low to the ground, and his tail was stiff. Itzhak lunged toward me, jaw open, and his teeth closed on my ankle. I screamed.
Amelia and Ian appeared in the stair hall, both of them stunned. “Noooo!” Amelia yelled at the dog, and yanked his collar. “Get away from her!”
Itzhak crouched, growling.
“Delta, are you OK?” Ian looked shaken. He put his hand on my arm.
My heart was pounding in my chest. I was trembling. I sat on the hall bench, and Ian sat next to me. I pulled my sock down to reveal bite marks. The dog’s teeth had broken the skin, but barely.
“This is crazy.” Amelia’s voice was strident. She was extremely agitated. “He never bites anyone.” Pulling him by the collar, Amelia led Itzhak away to the home office. I heard her close the door.
I was ashamed that the dog had bitten me. I feared the incident would undermine Amelia’s belief that I was part of the family.
She reappeared a few moments later with antiseptic and a bandage.
“It’s not a big deal.” I was trying to speak in a calm voice. “I had a tetanus shot last year.” I didn’t want to reveal how much the dog had frightened me.
“I’m so sorry, Delta.” She looked stricken.
I must have caught Itzhak by surprise. That’s what I told myself repeatedly. His eyesight was poor and he was confused about who I was. Even so, it took several days for me to shake off the episode and return to my former feeling of optimism.
A week later Amelia and Fritz accompanied me to the Manhattan fertility clinic they’d chosen. The reception area, with its marble floors, high-vaulted ceilings, and enormous windows resembled a ballroom. I wondered how much the fertility doctors charged, in order to pay for all the marble. We each filled out our respective questionnaire and waited before Dr. Krasnov called us into his office. I saw him assess Amelia when she entered the office. She was wearing a peach-colored dress, a peach scarf, and matching lipstick. On someone else, the outfit might have appeared cloying, but her acute sense of style overrode any such possibility. Her silky hair fell toward her face.
The doctor probably smelled Amelia’s money and her desperation. That was his job—to monetize her desperation. He fed off people’s deficits. He wasn’t invested in her happiness. But I was. Truly, I was.
I admired Krasnov’s skill and emotional intelligence in navigating the charged situation. He knew not to offend anyone, even with his subtle nods or tone of voice, or turn of the head, or gesture of the hand. He understood the power dynamics. Amelia and Fritz had one kind of power. I had another kind. I had the power to bear a child. I had something Amelia yearned for. She and Fritz had money and a superior socioeconomic status.
He most likely dealt with many people who had some explicit or implicit financial gain at stake. I felt certain he had never seen a surrogate with my level of apparent breeding. I say apparent because I’ve had to play catch-up. It was only after graduating from college that I had opportunities to improve my lot in life. And frankly, most surrogates are similar to my own parents in their socioeconomic status. He had seen women who were struggling, but savvy enough to make it appear that they were not struggling too much. Those women wanted to avoid the impression that they had ever taken drugs or entered into high-risk situations with abusive boyfriends or spouses. That they had ever drank alcohol to excess or smoked cigarettes at all. They wanted to give the impression that they lived moderate, wholesome, and health-conscious lives. Because any really trashy genes, they might soak into the baby in undefined and inarticulable ways.
The doctor had already reviewed our questionnaires, looking for discrepancies in terms of our expectations. The only question I’d hesitated to answer was the question about my access to the child after it was born. My desire was to be a presence in the child’s life forever. But at the same time, I didn’t want to give the Straubs cause to question my agenda. Not at this stage.
On a scale of 1 to 5, on the question of how much time I’d like to spend with the child once he or she was born, I circled 3.
Amelia suggested that I circle 4. “It takes a village.” She laughed.
I changed my answer, then studied her face afterward, trying to determine if I detected any discomfort.
I had agreed to consult with the Straubs on all medical decisions along the way and to allow them to take the lead on where the baby would be delivered. They would have input on my diet and lifestyle during the pregnancy. If the child had birth defects, it would be terminated. If I had more than two embryos, one would be terminated. We weren’t working with a surrogacy agency because Amelia said she feared an agency would slow the process down. But I thought she really feared that someone’s mind would change—maybe Fritz’s, maybe mine. I hypothesized that she wanted to rush the surrogacy through. She needn’t have worried that my mind was going to change. I wanted the baby as much as she did.
Across from the doctor, I was seated between Amelia and Fritz, as if I were their child. Periodically, Amelia patted my shoulder or my hand.
“Why does surrogacy interest you, Delta?” the doctor asked. “Why do you want to be a surrogate?” He leaned back in his chair and crossed his ankles.
I’d been hoping that he’d direct most of his questions to Amelia and Fritz. “I love Amelia. I love Fritz.”
“But why do you want to be their surrogate?” He crossed his arms over his chest. His sleeve hiked up slightly, revealing his Patek Philippe watch.
“We were discussing that yesterday.” I looked to Amelia for assistance.
“We’re like family,” Amelia said. “Delta, Fritz, Natalie, and I … we feel like we’re family.”
She beamed at me throughout the entire interview, as if she were so proud of me. And I recognized that, because I was going to bear her child, she saw me as her child too. And it was one of the most wonderful experiences I’d ever had. Feeling like I mattered to that degree. Amelia couldn’t lavish her attention on the baby yet. But she could lavish her attention on me. The moment I met Amelia, I had longed to be her child. This was the closest I would ever come.
“But you’re not family.” The doctor tilted his head down and peered at us over the top of his glasses in an accusatory fashion.
“How do you define family?” Amelia’s tone had some defiance.
The doctor turned his body away from us and toward his monitor. I sensed he was irritated by Amelia’s question and her attitude, though he did well disguising it.
Fritz looked up at the plaques on the doctor’s walls—announcing the awards he’d won and the degrees conferred upon him.
The doctor appeared to be searching for something on his computer. “You’ve known each other less than a year?”
“I will feel fulfilled if I’m able to help Amelia and Fritz.” I made an effort to speak at a normal volume and at a normal pace.
“How does it benefit you?” The doctor peered over his glasses again.
“Bringing a child into the world.” I pressed the heel of one of my shoes deep into my other foot, hoping the pain would distract me from my self-consciousness.
“You have a son?” The doctor pursed his lips.
“Yes.” My heart rate quickened. I felt perspiration under my clothing.
“How old is he?” He smiled benignly.
“Five.”
The doctor sighed and placed his fingertips together, making the shape of a roof in front of his chin. “Your personal situation, it’s not the typical profile I see.”
I looked down and noticed the hem of my pants was loose.
“So I have to be cautious.” He sighed. “And I expect Amelia and Fritz to be especially cautious. Why don’t you want to have another child of your own?”
“I might one day.”
“Yes?” He collapsed the roof of his fingers down, then brought them back up.
“I loved how my body felt when I was pregnant.” I placed my hand on my abdomen.
“Where did you deliver?”
“Hmmm?” I feared that sweat stains were showing under my arms.
“Where did you deliver your son?”
Breathing in my core, low in my center. I’d practiced my answers. “California.”
“The hospital and doctor?”
“A natural birth center. It was … a midwife.”
The doctor smiled and squinted. “Vaginal?”
“Mm-hmm.” Could he prove that I had or had not given birth before?
“Epidural?” He tapped his fingertips together lightly.
I shook my head. Low breathing in my core. I thought that Amelia might prefer that I have a C-section and be put under so that I’d have no opportunity to bond with the baby.
“Any issues or complications with the prior pregnancy?”
“No.”
He looked down at the paperwork in front of him on the desk. “Did you breastfeed?”
Why was that any of his business?
“I hardly think it’s relevant.” Amelia sniffed. “The baby will have formula just like Natalie did.”
“OK.” The doctor raised his eyes to meet mine. “OK.” He didn’t trust me, but so far he wasn’t standing in my way.