The Photographer, Mary Carter [the best novels to read .TXT] 📗

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