The Surrogate, page 19
“Okay, when did this happen?” she asked.
“This afternoon. I’d say three o’clock? Maybe four.”
She asked for Digger’s name and where I thought they might be. I said I didn’t know, that was why I was calling. She said that without an address, all they could do was put her in their missing child database. She asked for a physical description and the birth certificate. I said I didn’t have it because she was only three days old.
“Okay, the officers will need proof that she is your child and that you are the authorized custodial parent. Usually, there is a court order or at least a birth certificate.”
“Well, I don’t know what to tell you,” I said, annoyed.
“You might want to apply for the birth certificate and expedite it. Do you have an attorney?”
“No, I mean . . . no,” I said. Hal was the only attorney I knew.
“I’ll give you the number for Legal Aid, and they can get you a volunteer lawyer, okay?”
“Okay.”
“You’ll need a court order from Douglas County Court, okay? Because once we locate your daughter, we’ll need documentation before the child can be released from temporary placement or foster care.”
“Foster care? Are you serious?”
“Yes, miss. That’s why it’s usually more successful, if a parent can convince their partner, boyfriend, whomever is involved in the domestic dispute, to voluntarily hand over the child. That way, you can gain immediate custody.”
“Yeah,” I said. Obviously.
“So I have made a record of this report, and I have placed your information into our database,” said the woman. “We’ll contact you if we have anything, and please call back if you have more details, okay?”
After I hung up, I turned around and saw that Amanda must have heard every word I said. She looked at me with raised eyebrows, a combination of pity and fascination.
“So do you need a ride?” she asked.
“I need to get to the Blue Anchor Grill,” I said. “Can you take me?”
“No, I’m working, but my grandma can. She has a local ride service.” Amanda swooped over to the desk, picked up the phone I’d been using, and started dialing.
“Your grandma? How old is she?” I needed a young person, someone who could drive fast. In the snow.
“She’s like sixty, why?” said Amanda. “Hi, Gram.” She smiled at me and carried on her phone conversation. Then to me she said, “We only live about a mile and a half away.”
“Okay,” I said. I grabbed the White Pages and looked up Wilkins. No listings.
“She’s on her way,” said Amanda, hanging up and grinning.
“Have you heard of the Wilkins Farm? Or Deena Wilkins?” I said.
“No, why?”
“I think my boyfriend is there, and I need to find him.”
“Where is it? Near here?” asked Amanda.
“I don’t know. That’s why I have to go to the Blue Anchor Grill,” I said. “I think somebody who works there might know.”
Thirty-Seven
Ruth
SUNDAY, DECEMBER 8, 2002
Afternoon
Cally had been missing for thirty-six hours, and our daughter was three days old when my brother, Raymond, arrived in Minneapolis from San Francisco. He wouldn’t let me pick him up at the airport; he rented a car, and I was ready to go. I’d packed my overnight bag and gathered the credit card information. I cued up our copy of the hospital video, made coffee, and waited.
I sat in my favorite blue chair, a wingback, the one that has a view to the front walk. Squirrels hopped over snow and disappeared up into the trees. Cars whizzed by, too fast through narrow neighborhood roads. The man across the street shoveled his driveway and sprinkled salt over the whole thing. He didn’t miss an inch. In the light wind, a pink balloon bobbed weakly as if discouraged. It had been tied to a skinny tree in our modest front yard, next to a small sign that said, “It’s a Girl.” I wondered if our neighbors had been watching me, like I sometimes watched them, and whether they wondered where our baby was. Or why I didn’t look pregnant. An icicle fell from the gutter and vanished in the snow below. And finally, a silver Honda Accord appeared, slowing down as it approached our address, then pulled over to park at the curb. Raymond.
I stood up, close to the window. Raymond had never been to our new place. He saw me and waved. I pressed my hand to the glass and mouthed, “Hi.” And as he trudged along the sidewalk, hunching forward against the cold, a rush of heat flushed my neck. Big brother who loves me. The expert come to help.
“Raymond!” I scurried to the front door and opened it before he had a chance to ring the bell. He smiled and stepped inside, carefully wiping his feet on the mat and allowing me to hug him. I took his coat and he bent over to remove the rubbers from his shoes. “Thank you for coming.”
“Anything for my baby sister.” Raymond was seven years older, and Mother had always said that when I was little, Raymond treated me like a doll. “How are you, Ru?”
“So happy to see you.” I squeezed his arms and examined his lined face. “How was the flight?”
“What goes up must come down,” he said, shrugging. Raymond was never one for small talk.
“Come in, I have banana bread,” I said. “People keep bringing us food.”
“Don’t fight it,” he said, surveying the place. “Nice joint you got here. Living room’s big.”
“Yeah, Hal calls it a double-wide because it’s two condos remodeled into one.” I peeled the cellophane off the banana bread and reached for a knife.
“Is he here?”
“No, he had to meet a client at the office.” I sliced the banana bread.
“On a Sunday?”
“That’s how it goes.” I put the slice of bread on a napkin. “He’s sorry he couldn’t be here, but he’ll see you when we get back.”
Raymond nodded and half smiled, taking in the information. “Can I see the video?” He took a bite.
“Yes, it’s all cued up.” I dashed to the VCR in the living room, and he followed at his own pace. As we watched, I sat on the floor next to the screen, pointing and explaining what I knew, what we’d been told, and what my hunches were.
Raymond watched carefully but didn’t say anything. He just nodded and asked to watch it one more time, and we did. At the end, he said, “All right. Ready to go?” and he popped in one last bite of banana bread.
“Absolutely.”
“I’ll throw this away.” He collected our dirty napkins and looked for a bin.
“It’s here.” I pulled open the trash drawer for him. His hair looked healthy and thick, almost all silver now, and his hairline had receded slightly since the last time I saw him.
“Oh, hang on, lemme use the biffy,” he said, zooming toward the front hall. “Grab what you need for a couple of nights,” he called out.
I wasn’t sure how many nights we’d be gone. The plan was for Hal to stay home in case news came that Cally was in town or the hospital needed us or any other leads developed down here. I’d already packed two shirts, two sweaters, two pairs of pants, vitamins, necessities, my Day-Timer, and my journal. “Should I look for my map of Minnesota?” I yelled back.
“No,” he said calmly as he emerged from the bathroom. “I’ve already got that taken care of.”
I switched off the lights and glanced out the window. The sky had cleared; the roads should be good by now.
In Raymond’s rental car, he had set up his own galaxy. A car phone, a GPS system, a portable laptop computer, a full-size spiral-bound AAA TripTik, organized in sections, highlighted, and circled in color-coded symbols.
“Whoa,” I said, surveying the landscape.
“You’ll navigate, okay?” He smiled and put the car in gear.
We headed north on I-35, the familiar artery traveled so often by city dwellers escaping north on weekends. Hal and I had been this way many times for romantic getaways at Lutsen or Naniboujou Lodge. I’d gone up north to follow stories and interview sources. Our news group had done team building in Duluth, and a good friend had been married in Grand Marais. Everyone in Minnesota knew about the tradition of stopping for cinnamon rolls at Tobie’s restaurant, located halfway between Minneapolis and Duluth.
But this time, with Raymond, the road looked new and foreign. The car was a fortress, and we were warriors in a strange land. Information was our weapon, our nourishment, our fuel.
“What’s this mean?” I pointed to a light blue triangle on the map.
Raymond had made an investigative guide, a trail of locations of interest and notes of names or purchases he said he’d like to check out. He glanced over and looked at the map.
“That’s a bread crumb,” he said, and returned his focus to the road. “I thought we’d take them in order. Follow the crumbs.”
According to the chart of bread crumbs, the most recent credit card purchase was at a restaurant in Superior, Wisconsin. Superior was twenty minutes past Duluth, and Duluth was three hours north. I wanted to go straight to the restaurant, but Raymond wanted to stop at the places in the same order that the credit card had been used: first a mini-mart, then a Target, and finally, the restaurant, with each clue leading to the next.
After an hour or so, the traffic thinned out and the billboards began to change, became more specific, more revealing. Advertising for deer stands and filtered water systems. The casino and local politicians. Facts about a fetus’s beating heart, with a photo of an adorable baby.
“Pro-life up here, eh?” Raymond said, not really a question.
“Pretty much,” I said. Tension rose in the car as the billboards with pro-life statistics cast a spotlight on the secret between us. Raymond was the only person in the world who knew. He was the one I’d called, and he was the one who’d helped me. At seventeen. I’d been on the pill, but it gave me migraines and made my breasts hurt. So I stopped the pill and instead insisted on condoms. But still I got pregnant. I couldn’t believe it, and I couldn’t tell anyone. Raymond drove me to the clinic, waited, then drove me home. We never spoke about it after that. I wouldn’t dare bring it up now.
I wondered what his stance was on surrogacy. I’d told him the entire story, everything I knew about Cally, the insemination, the pregnancy and birth, and the first couple of days in the hospital. He didn’t react one way or the other. He had a perfect poker face, a true professional. And he wasn’t judgmental. He had a calmness that made you feel like confessing. A good quality in a detective.
“I hope you don’t own a gun,” he joked, breaking the silence in the car and nodding toward another hunting-related billboard.
“Ha-ha, no,” I said, but it occurred to me that Raymond might be carrying a handgun. I glanced at his waistline but couldn’t see.
“Probably for the best.” He smiled.
I smiled in agreement and looked down at my hands in my lap. I folded them one way, then the other. We’d talked about everything that we could talk about. We had our game plan. I closed my eyes and let my torso rock with the bumps in the road. I felt myself falling asleep, so I reminded Raymond of our exit number and let myself nap. I’d been feeling extra-tired all week, and I was sure the stress was wearing me down. I rested until I felt the car slow down and heard the ticking turn signal.
“Okay, here’s our first stop,” said Raymond, pulling off the highway. “Bread crumb number one: the mini-mart.” He switched off the ignition. “Cally spent seventy-eight dollars here, and we’re gonna talk to that cashier.”
Thirty-Eight
Cally
SUNDAY, DECEMBER 8, 2002
Evening
While we waited for Amanda’s grandmother to get there, I ate another sandwich and put a water bottle in my backpack. Amanda seemed relieved when I pulled out my credit card. Like I was gonna steal all that stuff.
“What time is it?” I asked, looking around for a clock.
“Like six-fifteen.”
“Has anyone used the pay phone since your shift started?”
“I don’t remember seeing anyone, no.”
“Hang on,” I said, leaving my stuff by the counter and running out to the pay phone. It was dark outside, and I could see Amanda in the light of the store, watching me. I dialed *69 and wrote down the number, then returned to the warmth of the little store.
“There’s my gram,” said Amanda, pointing out the window at the car that had pulled in.
I saw only headlights and snow against a purple-blue background. The overhead lights shining down on the gas pumps made us like a bright oasis in a winter desert. When the car stopped in front of the gas station building, I got a better look at it. “Oh,” I said, realizing this was the same sedan that had pulled over to help me and Digger earlier today.
The driver got out and slapped her woolly gloves together, then waved. I stood squinting, waiting for some sign that this was the right step. Would this eager old lady be of any use to me? “I’m Vera.” She stuck out her hand and walked around the car toward me.
“Cally.” I shook her hand.
“You look familiar.” Vera opened the door for me. “Have I given you a ride before?”
“No.”
“Well, it’ll come to me, I never forget a face.” She marched to her side of the car and got in. The car smelled like pine air freshener.
“Breath mint?” She offered me a piece of candy, red and white, wrapped in cellophane.
“No, thanks.” I didn’t care if my breath was bad.
“Where are we headed today?” She turned on the ignition and the wipers came alive, along with the heat, which was cranked too high for her to hear me. I waited for her to turn it down before I answered.
“Blue Anch—”
“Blue Anchor Grill it is,” Vera said. She pulled the gearshift into drive and took her foot off the brake. She inched toward the driveway, and the car gently rocked over the lumpy snow. “My granddaughter told me,” she said.
“Great.” I looked back at the gas station, and Amanda was waving goodbye.
“What’s at the Blue Anchor Grill? Because there are a few other local dives serving better food, unless you had a hankering for a greasy hamburger.”
“My boyfriend and our baby went out a while ago and haven’t come back, and I’m worried about them.”
“That’s it!” She slapped the dashboard, remembering. “You’re the couple walking on the shoulder with the baby. Earlier today?”
“Yeah,” I said.
“I knew you looked familiar,” she said. “Stan and I pulled over to ask if you needed any help. Remember?”
“Yeah, of course,” I said, flashing a smile. “Thank you.”
We got on the two-lane highway and Vera turned up the heat fan. “Is this good? Are you warm enough?”
“Actually, could we turn left here?” I pointed to the road that led to our cabin. “I want to see if they might have come back.”
“Sure thing.” The car fishtailed and the rear wheels couldn’t grab. “Oh dear. Hang on,” she said. She maneuvered the car in reverse, put her arm on the seat rest behind my head, and looked out the back window. I’d seen my father do this so many times, and it always made me feel like he was holding me and not just the back of my seat. While Vera focused past me and out the rear window, I studied her face. Wrinkles, droopy lids, small and tired-looking eyes. “Just lemme get a good run-up to it.”
“Does this have front-wheel drive?” I asked, looking at the automatic gearshift. Her choices were D, 1, and 2. I remembered Digger saying this car wouldn’t make it up the hill.
“Yes, it does, don’t you worry.” Vera smiled and shifted into 2, her lowest gear. She drove confidently, like she had experience in snow. We bolted up the hill, skidding and slipping, but stopped at the top, next to the cabin. Her car sat in the spot where Digger’s truck had been. A couple of deer perked up, spooked, and ran away into the woods, their white tails flashing a warning. “How long have your baby and your beau been gone?” asked Vera.
“Like three or four hours, I think,” I said. It was obvious they weren’t in the cabin.
“Oh, I’m sure they’re fine,” said Vera. “We women don’t give men enough credit with babies. I know daddies can be clumsy, but they can handle it. Sometimes we just have to get out of their way. Give ’em a chance.”
“We can go now,” I said, feeling stupid for thinking they might be in that freezing cabin. And I felt stupid when we got to the Blue Anchor Grill, because there was no sign of anyone or anything helpful. The blond waitress wasn’t working that night, but the bartender said she’d be in the next day.
Vera said she’d be happy to drive me there again in the morning, and she offered to let me stay at her place overnight. I said okay. I didn’t know what else to do. My stomach hurt. My head hurt. It would be nice to take a hot shower. On the ride back to Vera’s, I leaned back and stared out my window, counting the passing telephone poles and green mile markers like I had done as a kid when I’d ride with my dad on long highways that seemed to go nowhere. I’d gaze up at the never-ending black night and ask him how much longer, how much longer, and he’d make up games for me. I hoped Vera was right: I hoped Digger could handle this.
When we pulled up to Vera’s, she helped me through their front door and into their warm home. Her husband got up from his chair. “Who do we have here?” he said, as if Vera often brought home stray strangers.
“This is Cally,” said Vera. “A friend of Amanda’s. She’s going to stay the night.”
We walked through the kitchen and upstairs to the guest room. She switched on an antique lamp. The walls were covered in yellow pineapples and the bedspread in pastel pink. A NordicTrack sat in the corner next to some boxes and piles of books.
“Never mind the junk,” she said.
I sat on the bed and immediately lay down. The pillowcase smelled like laundry soap, and lacy trim scratched my face.
“I’ll get you some towels and point you in the direction of the shower,” she said, reading my mind.
