The Surrogate, page 15
“I am a lawyer, Ruth.”
“But you do real estate. I’m talking about a surrogacy lawyer. You’re always telling me that lawyers specialize and can’t be experts in all areas.”
These were fighting words and Ruth knew it. However, because I was driving, I maintained my composure until I could put the vehicle in park. As I approached Cally’s street, I was lucky to find a parking spot among the irregular piles of snow and the inadequate plowing. “Here’s a spot,” I said, pulling over to the curb a few buildings short of Cally’s. I shifted into park and switched off the ignition. The fan blower went silent. “I know the contract,” I said firmly. “I wrote it.”
We sat with that statement for a few moments. Then Ruth said what she’d apparently been thinking this whole time. “We should’ve had a real surrogacy lawyer write it.”
I took a deep breath. A distinct unease filled the car. I opened the door and cold rushed in, shaking us out of our battle positions. “Let’s go see what we can find,” I said as I climbed out over a snowbank and onto the sidewalk.
Ruth got out and followed in my footsteps. She motioned with her mitten and we trudged along the frozen, snowy path, careful not to slip or twist an ankle.
“Do you see her car anywhere?” I asked.
“Not yet,” said Ruth, but I couldn’t be certain how carefully she’d been looking.
“It’s red,” I added, but Ruth knew that. “A four-door Chevy Cavalier.” Maybe saying it would help us find it. We wandered up and down the snowy street, searching for sedans, but most of them were covered in snow, or the wrong color, or the wrong make.
“I’m going up,” Ruth said as we gravitated back to the apartment building entrance.
I pushed the button for 3F, and we waited, marching in place and seeing our breath. I jiggled the front door just in case. Ruth pressed her forehead up against the cold glass and peered in. There was a wall of mailboxes, with envelopes sticking out of the box marked 3F, which would make sense, because Cally had been in the hospital since Thursday.
“Her mail’s still there,” said Ruth.
“Didn’t you say she gave you a key to her apartment,” I asked, “in case she needed something?”
“Yes, but it’s at home, I think. Hang on.” Ruth checked her purse, and it appeared we were back in sync. “It must be at home.”
“Ruth.” I sighed, frustrated that Ruth hadn’t anticipated our need for the key. We could have stopped at our place first. We could have avoided this delay.
“Well, I’m sorry I wasn’t thinking about breaking into her apartment this morning at five a.m. when I found out our baby was gone.”
“Okay, okay, relax. Let’s just go look in the back for her car,” I said, trooping around the side of the apartment building. “It has to be here somewhere.”
“Yeah,” said Ruth, following me to the back parking lot. “I mean, where else could it be?” she added as we scanned the small row of cars by the alley. “I’m the one who drove her to the damn hospital.”
Twenty-Nine
Digger
SUNDAY, DECEMBER 8, 2002
Morning
Cally was in my way, standing in the kitchen area, chugging water from the jug. She was blocking the shelves I needed to get to.
“Move,” I said, bending down. “I gotta get in there.” I reached around her into the shelves. Nothing but pans and plates and cans of Dinty Moore.
“What are you looking for?”
“Gas can,” I said as I walked out the door.
Cally followed me and stood in the doorway. “You think it’s out of gas?” she said.
“What the fuck else would I need a gas can for?”
“Could be the battery,” she added, then closed the door.
“Won’t know unless I try,” I said, mimicking her voice, not caring whether or not she heard me.
I fished around in the shed and had to take out some shit: a shovel, some planks of plywood, a deflated, frozen inner tube, a cardboard box, and a coil of heavy-duty extension cord.
When I got back inside, the kettle was whistling.
“I’m making hot chocolate,” said Cally.
“Uh-huh,” I said, and I watched her pour hot water into a mug. “I found the gas can.” I held it up to show her, but she wasn’t impressed.
“I was thinking if you had a generator, you could charge the battery,” she said.
“I know, but I’m getting gas first.”
“Is there a leak? Because you put gas in Friday night.”
“In fucking Rush City or wherever, a hundred miles or so away,” I said. “And then we drove around a bunch yesterday.”
“I’m just saying,” said Cally.
“I need your credit card.”
“What for?”
“What does it look like?” I picked up the gas can and threw it down. It made a hollow bouncing noise. The baby cried.
“Thanks a lot,” said Cally. “Now the baby’s up, and the place smells like gas.”
“Just give me the card. Where is it?” I picked through her pile of clothes. Found her wallet and grabbed the Visa. “I’m going to the gas station.”
“Lemme come with you,” she said, pulling on her coat and grabbing the baby. “They might need my signature!”
I was out the door and halfway down the hill when I heard her yelling behind me. I turned around, and wouldn’t you know, she was following me, her coat hanging open, wearing the boots I’d loaned her, and stepping in each of my footsteps. She had the baby in the car carrier, covered with a blanket.
I stopped to wait at the bottom of the hill. The main road hadn’t been plowed. Finally, Cally caught up. Her face was red.
“You have ice on your face,” she said.
“So do you,” I said.
“Why’d you leave without us?”
“Because I didn’t want you to come.”
“Why not?” she said. We were standing next to the gate I’d opened two nights ago. Now it had drifted snow covering it.
“I wanted to make a phone call, okay?” I said. “Am I allowed to make a goddamn phone call?” I didn’t wait for her to ask me who I wanted to call. I took off on the shoulder of the highway.
Cally followed, trying to keep up. “I don’t care who you call, okay?” she said. “I thought since you had my credit card, they might want my signature!”
“You already said that.” A car flashed their brights at us, so we stopped and moved farther back. The car drove past, slowly. I took the car carrier from Cally. It was only about a quarter mile to the Mobil.
Inside the gas station, it felt like a hundred degrees. I set down the car carrier. Cally took the blanket off the baby and unzipped the baby coat. The guy behind the counter looked bored out of his mind, but we were some entertainment.
“I’m gonna take a couple gallons of unleaded,” I said, and he gave me a thumbs-up. I went out to the nearest pump and filled up the can. When I came back, Cally was looking for something in an aisle at the back. I waited by the front. There was a rack of Wisconsin maps, a small freezer with frozen candy bars, and a row of auto supplies. “Hey, if I need a jump, can you give me one?” I asked the guy behind the counter.
“Yeah, but I can’t leave until two,” he said. “When my replacement gets here.”
I looked at my watch. “That’s four hours from now.”
“Sorry. I can’t leave the shop unattended, ya know?”
The kid let out a screech like an animal and wiggled her arms and legs. Cally came over, picked up the carrier, and started swinging it.
“Fine,” I said. “If that’s the soonest you can come.”
“And do you have a new battery we could buy in case ours won’t take the charge?” asked Cally.
“Sure,” said the clerk, looking at me. “I can throw one in the truck just in case.”
Cally smiled because she always thought she knew more than me about cars. True, she could jump a battery practically with her eyes closed. And true, her dad had taught her about engines. So much that I’d given up on arguing about it with her. But I didn’t have to like it.
“Give me your name and address?”
“Dennis Wilkins,” I said, watching him write it on a scrap of paper. “Do you guys have a pay phone?”
“Yeah, it’s outside,” said the guy.
“What do I owe you for the gas?” I gave him the credit card.
“Wait,” said Cally, “add in these.” She placed a package of fucking maxi-pads on the counter.
“Sign here.” The clerk pushed a slip forward.
I got out of the way so Cally could sign it. But while she was at the counter, I saw the back of her. I pulled her aside and whispered, “Your sweatpants are bloody.”
“Fuck. Will you watch her?” Cally nodded at the baby carrier and then walked to the bathroom.
“Goddammit,” I said. I didn’t need this grief. When she was gone, I left the kid and went outside to the pay phone. I dialed my sister and she let it ring a bunch of times before she picked up.
“Why’d you wait so long to answer?”
“Digger?” she said.
“Yeah, and I’m standing outside in the goddamn freezing cold.”
“Well, I didn’t know that,” said Deena. “Jesus. Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” I said. “And uh . . . actually, I’m here. In Superior.”
Deena wheezed. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming up?”
“I’m telling you now,” I said. “It was a last-minute thing. I’m over at Charlie’s cabin.”
“Deer hunting?”
“No,” I said. “I’m here with Cally.” The fluorescent lights flickered above the gas pumps, and I could see my breath in the cold.
“Oh . . . so you two are back together?” said Deena, sounding skeptical, like my roommate. “I thought she dumped you.”
“No, it’s not like that. I mean, yeah, she dumped me. But we’re not together.” The pay phone meter clicked, reminding me to hurry up. “Look, I only have six minutes before I have to add money.”
“Oh, believe me, you can piss me off in six minutes. Easy.”
“Ha, funny.” I leaned over as far as the metal cord would reach, to see into the store. The clerk was eating a bag of chips. No sign of Cally.
“Digger, do you have something to say, because this is like pulling teeth, and my show is on.”
“I . . . um . . .” I couldn’t think of what to say.
“Oh, God,” said Deena, sounding concerned. “What did you do?” She’d helped me before when I’d done stupid shit. Nothing serious. Firecrackers, graffiti, a DUI.
“Nothing, nothing,” I said, shivering.
“It doesn’t sound like nothing.”
“Look, are you home tonight?” I said. “Can I just come over there?”
“Sure, I’m home all night.”
“Thanks.”
“Mrs. Z’s here, too,” she said. Mrs. Z was Deena’s ex-mother-in-law. “Hey, whatever it is, it can be dealt with, okay?”
I hung up and hustled back inside to get warm. The guy behind the counter was finishing a sandwich and a can of Coke. The baby was fussing. I picked up the carrier and gave it a swing, like Cally had done. It worked.
Cally came out of the bathroom. “I thought I heard the baby,” she said.
“She’s fine,” I said, setting the car seat down.
Cally put on her coat and covered up the baby.
“See you around two,” I said to the guy as we left. On the way back, I took the baby carrier and the gas can. Cally walked in front of me with her bag of maxi pads. “So, are you all right?” I said. “You got your period?”
“I don’t think it’s my period,” she said. “I think it’s just, you know, what happens after you have a baby.”
“Okay, I don’t wanna know,” I said.
We walked in silence. At the base of the hill, she stopped and turned to me. “So, who did you call?”
A car slowed down and flashed its lights. It made crunch sounds in the snow, then stopped. An older woman on the passenger side rolled down her window. The driver was an older man. The woman asked, “Do you two need a lift?”
Thirty
Ruth
SATURDAY, DECEMBER 7, 2002
Afternoon
Eventually, Hal and I found Cally’s car buried in snow in the parking lot behind her apartment building. With his wool-cloaked arm, Hal wiped off snow from the windshield and the driver’s window, and we peered inside for clues. Nothing but used tissues, an empty Arby’s cup and other trash, a Minnesota Gophers sweatshirt, a snow scraper, some papers that looked like junk mail. Nothing that indicated trouble or unusual circumstances.
“Look. There’s a brochure from the community college on the passenger seat,” I said.
“Okay, so we know she didn’t drive herself away from the hospital,” said Hal, like a lawyer.
“Couldn’t she have come here somehow and then left the car?” I said, like a journalist.
“Well, from the accumulation up top, compared with the others, it looks like this car has been here for the six inches we got last night.” Hal nodded at the perfectly formed meringue of snow on the Chevy’s roof, then pointed around the lot.
“And there’s no car seat,” I added after checking the backseat again.
“Why would she have a car seat? We’re the ones who need a car seat.”
“I’m just noting it for the record, Counselor.” I checked Hal’s face to see if he appreciated my teasing. He didn’t; he was too focused. I tried the door on the passenger side, and it opened. Snow fell into the car as I swung the door wide and leaned in, grabbing at the trash on the floor and in between the seats.
“What are you doing?” Hal stepped back from the car.
“Maybe she hid an extra key in here.” I opened the glove compartment, combed through the papers, and closed it again. When I found incriminating evidence in the form of an empty Starbucks cup, I pulled it out and stood next to Hal.
“Anything?” he asked.
“Look at this,” I said, holding the cup up to his face. “She was drinking coffee.”
“So?”
“Aaarrgghhh!” I threw the cup back into the car. “I knew she couldn’t stop with the caffeine.”
“It’s not a big deal, Ruth.”
“The National Institutes of Health would disagree with you, Hal.” We stood there thinking about Starbucks.
“How do you even know it’s her coffee cup?” asked Hal.
“Who else’s would it be?” I leaned into the car and pulled up the floor mat. No keys.
“Didn’t she have a boyfriend?” asked Hal.
“How would you know that?” I stood up straight to see Hal’s face.
“You told me. You said she broke up with her high school sweet-heart.” He shrugged.
“Okay, well, true. But they broke up a while ago, before she was even inseminated. Anyway, would her boyfriend wear lipstick?” I asked, turning the cup to show him that it had clearly been kissed with fuchsia lips.
“So what if she drank coffee? The baby’s healthy.”
“We put it in the contract, Hal. She blew it off.” I leaned into the car again, tried the ashtray in the backseat, and bingo! Keys.
“It wasn’t in the contract,” said Hal somewhat meekly.
“Yes, it was. I specifically remember that one.” I scooped up the keys and slid them into my pocket.
“It was, but then it wasn’t.”
I stood up slowly. “What?” I slammed the car door and turned to Hal. “You took it out?”
“She asked me to,” he said, shrugging.
“When? Why didn’t you tell me?” I spun around in place. I didn’t know what to do with my frustration, my hurt.
“I didn’t think it was a big deal,” said Hal, palms up.
“Yes, it certainly is,” I said. “And how, like, did she call you, or—?”
“Yeah, she called me. Or maybe it was an email. Anyway, I told her not to worry about it.”
I stormed away from Hal and headed straight to the apartment building. I pulled out the key and opened the door. Hal followed and almost didn’t make it into the building before the door slammed shut.
“Hey,” he shouted.
I stomped up the first of three flights of stairs.
“Wait for me,” he said, huffing behind me.
I unzipped my parka on the second floor. I wasn’t in the best shape for stair climbing. Our footsteps hit beats that were not together, not synchronized, making noise, not music. “At least she didn’t smoke,” I said, reaching the third floor, “unless you took that out, too.”
Hal stopped on the landing for a moment, taking that in before continuing up to join me. I knocked first, then unlocked the apartment and went in. The air smelled stale. We stood in the entryway and looked at the small living room. “What do you think?” Hal said, deferring to me.
“Doesn’t look like anyone’s been here in a while.”
“No, it doesn’t,” Hal said in his calm voice, the voice that let me know he was done fighting. That let me know he was sorry. We both exhaled simultaneously. Hal opened his arms, and I collapsed into them. He kissed my head and rested his chin on the spot he had kissed.
From his embrace, I saw myself in the entryway mirror. “Look at that,” I said.
“What?”
“That little sign over there.” I pointed to an index card that was taped to the mirror, in the bottom corner. It said: “College Student Lives Here.”
Hal raised his eyebrows. Was he puzzled or impressed?
“Look, there’s another one.” I moved into the living room. On the back of a closet door, a card said: “Move Forward So You Don’t Go Back.”
Hal followed me as we hunted for index cards, little signs all over her apartment, with affirmations and reminders. Some of them were relevant and useful, like the one on the refrigerator door, which said: “You are Cooking a Baby => Eat Better.” I liked that one. Others were more vague or aspirational.
On the bathroom mirror: “You Are Good at Math.”
In the bedroom: “Career Girls Are Sexy.”
“What do you make of this? All these note cards?” I said, wondering what I thought of them myself.
