The Surrogate, page 20
“Thank you,” I mumbled, and I hoped she heard me. She was already out in the hallway.
The shower was heaven. I hadn’t been clean in days. The warm water on my head, the feel of clean hair, the smell of shampoo, it was like a new start. Afterward, I crawled into bed with wet hair and let myself drift off. I dreamed of sleeping. I dreamed of holding Nell, finding her there beside me, in a wide white bed. I touched her face, and she smiled her first smile. I put my finger under her matchstick fingers and thumb, and she squeezed. I watched her rosy lips open wide in a miniature yawn. I inhaled her flowery, soapy scent. But when I rolled over, she was gone, and I was alone in the bed, which had grown to fill the room. I tried to get up but couldn’t walk on the mushy surface. I kept falling down, and with each step I took, my foot sank deeper and deeper until I disappeared into the mattress.
The next morning, I woke up to voices and laughter. It was light outside, so I must have slept more than twelve hours. Amanda was bellowing in the kitchen; I could hear her all the way upstairs. I stood up slowly, just in case. My clothes were in a pile on the dresser. Had Vera washed and neatly folded them? How embarrassing! It felt amazing to slip my legs into clean pants, clean socks. I quickly dressed and tiptoed down to see what was going on.
I didn’t want to stay. I needed to get to the Blue Anchor, but I also didn’t want to seem ungrateful. From the bottom of the stairs, I saw the living room in the light of day. A grandfather clock, a cabinet of china figurines and fancy glasses. A painting of a loon. A crocheted blanket draped over the armchair. Stacks of newspapers and a basket of yarn.
Amanda peeked around the corner and saw me. “You’re alive,” she said, smiling.
“Yeah, I was really tired,” I said.
“Your hair looks good,” said Amanda. “I wish mine was thick and wavy like that.”
“I always wanted it straight, like yours,” I said, smoothing my hair.
“I washed your things,” said Vera as she came around the corner with a dish towel. “I hope that’s all right.”
“You didn’t have to, but thank you,” I said. Vera smiled.
“I’m going to work,” said Amanda. “I hope you find your people.”
“Bye, dear,” said Vera from the kitchen.
“I should get going, too,” I said.
“Not so fast,” said Vera. “The Blue Anchor doesn’t open until eleven, so you’ve got time.”
“Oh,” I said, looking down. She could have told me that last night.
“And just how did you think you were gonna get there? I’m your driver today,” she said, looking at her tiny gold wristwatch. “How about some oatmeal, or would you prefer scrambled eggs?”
“You don’t have to cook for me.”
“It’s throwing eggs in a pan.” She’d already opened the fridge and the egg carton. “Just sit, stay where you are. Do you want some tea?”
It was frustrating to be stuck like this. “Can I call my voicemail?” I said, and she pointed to the cordless phone hanging on the wall. I’d been checking, but there was nothing new.
As Vera set down a plate of eggs in front of me, I dialed the number for Legal Aid. “I need a lawyer,” I said to the person who answered.
Thirty-Nine
Digger
SUNDAY, DECEMBER 8, 2002
Night
Deena dug around in the blue bag to find a clean diaper while Mrs. Z placed the baby on some kitchen towels she’d spread out on the table. The kid wiggled and Mrs. Z held her still. She called, “Come watch this, Dennis.”
Deena laughed at me. I took off my coat and rubbed my eyes. This was the last thing I wanted to do.
Mrs. Z unsnapped the baby clothes. “Cute little jammies,” she said, pointing to the moons-and-cows pattern.
“Yeah, real cute,” I said, leaning on a kitchen chair.
Mrs. Z gave me a lecture: first you do this, then you do that. She opened the dirty diaper.
“Holy hell.” I turned away. “Jesus, Eunice!”
Mrs. Z handed the dirty one to Deena. She balled it up and tossed it in the trash. They stuck a fresh one under the kid. “Got any wipes?” said Mrs. Z.
Deena handed her what she’d found in the bag. They cleaned her up, put the new thing on. Got her all back together and snapped her up. Wrapped her in the blanket.
“Glad that’s over.” I grabbed a beer from the fridge and looked for a bottle opener.
“Dennis,” said Mrs. Z, and I got the feeling I was in trouble. “I want to show you something.”
“But isn’t it your bedtime, Mrs. Z?” I looked at my watch. “Almost nine.”
“I’ll be quick.”
“Okay,” I said, taking a swig.
“Come here,” said Mrs. Z, nodding. The baby was still on the kitchen table, wrapped up like a burrito. Mrs. Z took away my beer and set it down.
“Hey!” I said.
Mrs. Z yanked at my arms like I was a damn mannequin. “Like this,” she said, positioning my arms and hands. “Now,” she said, “I’m going to show you how to hold a newborn.”
“Oh, God,” I said, rolling my eyes. But I had a weakness for Mrs. Z. There was something about her that made me obey, made me just go along with whatever stupid-ass thing she wanted to do, or wanted to say, or whatever. So there I stood with my arms out, like an idiot. And Deena was loving it.
Mrs. Z stood close to me. Put the thing in my stiff arms as slowly as she could. Talked about how to support the head and neck. Adjusted my fingers. “There,” she said, like she’d just finished frosting a cake. Proud of her work.
“Okay,” I said, with the Slinky in my arms.
“Now. Just give her a little bounce, bend your knees a bit,” said Mrs. Z.
I bounced. Deena was really enjoying this. I was afraid she was gonna take a picture and torture me with it for the rest of my life.
“All right,” said Mrs. Z. “I’m off to bed.”
“Hey!” I said, feeling duped. She left me there with the baby like a cheap magician’s trick.
When we heard Mrs. Z make it to the top of the stairs, Deena turned to me and said, “Go sit in the living room. I’m gonna make up a little bed for her. And I’ll get another bottle ready.”
“Fine,” I moaned. Still holding the bundle, I walked into the living room and sat in the chair Mrs. Z had been sitting in.
“We’ll see if we can get her to sleep,” said Deena, putting a pan of water on the stove. “And then you’ll tell me what the hell is going on.”
Deena disappeared to the basement, then came back up with an empty dresser drawer. She put it on the floor and wiped it out. Then she dashed upstairs. She came back with a bath towel and a blanket and sat on the floor, folding the blanket this way and that. Then she positioned them in the drawer, but she wasn’t happy. She took them out and put them in another way. She stood up and ran to the kitchen. Was she singing? She came back to the living room with a bottle, shook a drop onto her wrist, and handed it to me.
“Nuh-uh. You do it,” I said.
“All right,” she said, taking the baby, and we switched places. “But only so you can do the talking.”
“Okay,” I said as I paced the living room, back and forth.
“Just start at the beginning,” she said. I told Deena the whole story, all the stuff Cally had told me about college, the sperm donor, everything. “Fifty grand?” she said when I told her about the rich-ass lawyer and the contract, the credit card. Deena put the baby on her shoulder to make her burp. I could see the wheels turning in Deena’s head.
“So we broke up, and I went down to Missouri with Uncle Joey—”
“Yeah.”
“—because he had all that construction work. And I made like thirty-five grand, just between March and October.”
“Uh-huh.” Deena stood up and bounced with the baby.
“When I got back to town, I moved in with Danno over in St. Paul. You remember Danno?”
“The line cook or the one with the tattoo of the pope?” She looked at me, eyebrows up, bouncing.
“Tattoo of the pope.”
“Okay.” Deena took the kid over to the empty dresser drawer she’d just finished fixing up. She lowered the sleeping thing, the size of a football, and set it in the drawer so carefully you’d think it was a bundle of dynamite.
“And out of the blue, Cally called,” I said. “Long story short, she had the baby, but she wanted more time. Asked me to help.”
“So you brought her up here,” Deena said, standing up and wiping her shirt.
“To the hunting cabin, yeah.”
“And what’s in it for you?” Deena crossed her arms.
“Five grand,” I said.
Deena made a face like she was impressed. “So what’s the plan?” she said, moving to the kitchen.
“What do you mean?” I said, following her.
“For getting your money? When do you get your five grand?” She handed me my beer and opened the fridge to get one for herself.
“Oh, um . . .” I took a swig.
“And why isn’t Cally with you?”
“Um . . .” I swallowed and cleared my throat, trying to think of what to say.
“I don’t like the sound of that.” Deena opened her beer, keeping her eyes on me the whole time.
“She’s back at the cabin,” I said.
Deena swallowed. “Why?” she said.
“Because I left her there.”
“What the hell, Digger?” Deena rolled her eyes. “Does she know you’re here?”
I shook my head.
Deena put her beer down. “Then why are you here?”
“I panicked,” I said, shrugging.
“Oh, Jesus.” Deena turned away. We’d been leaning against the counters, but Deena picked up her beer and walked over to the kitchen table and sat down. She pulled out a cigarette and lit up.
I followed her and sat across the table. “Cally’s been acting like she wasn’t gonna go through with it,” I said. “And saying things.”
“Like what?” Deena took a drag.
“Like she wants to keep the baby.”
Deena exhaled. “Shoulda got the money in advance.”
“No shit,” I said.
Deena just shrugged and took another swig of beer. “So you thought it’d be a good idea if you kidnapped the baby instead?”
“What the hell? I didn’t kidnap shit.”
“Yeah, you did.” Deena pointed her cigarette in the direction of the living room.
“No,” I said. I felt my teeth clench. “I’m returning the fucking thing.”
“And who do you think is gonna pay you?” said Deena, but she didn’t wait for me to answer. “Because it sure isn’t gonna be Cally now that you’ve taken the kid. Without telling her.”
“Maybe we just went for a drive?” I said. My beer was warm.
Deena shook her head and looked down. She’d pulled her feet up onto the chair and was hugging her knees, cigarette in one hand. The smoke rose up and mixed with the light from the fixture that hung over the kitchen table, just like when we were kids and our mother sat and chain-smoked all day. “Don’t be stupid,” she said.
In one motion, I stood up and shook the table. I hated when Deena—or anyone—called me stupid.
Deena didn’t flinch. Just grabbed our beers so they wouldn’t tip over. The baby fussed. “Now you woke her up,” said Deena, taking a sip.
I paced around the kitchen, trying to calm down. “There’s probably a reward or some shit. More than five grand.”
“Is there or isn’t there? Or are you just guessing?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “But I bet that lawyer and his wife would pay dearly. They were gonna pay Cally, so why not?”
“Okay, so take it to them.” Deena put out her cigarette as she stood up. The baby was crying. Deena put a pan of water on. Started another bottle. “You can’t leave her here with me, that’s for damn sure.”
“I know,” I said. “My plan is to bring the kid to them.”
“Then go do it. What are you waiting for?” She finished her beer. The baby’s cries were getting louder.
“What are you waiting for?” I mocked her voice. So annoying. “I’ll tell you what I’m waiting for: I don’t know who they are or where they live.”
“Oh my Lord,” said Deena, walking out of the kitchen and into the living room, toward the baby. “You’re stupider than I thought.”
“God DAMN it, Deena.” I slammed my palm on the table.
The baby stopped crying for a second. Everything was still.
Deena came back. She stood in the doorway, holding the baby. Finally, she said, “So you want me to help you?”
I took a deep breath and exhaled.
“That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” I said finally. “Yes, goddammit.”
The baby wailed. Like she’d forgotten and then remembered what she was mad about. Then cried harder, to make up for it.
“If I do this,” said Deena, pointing at me, “I get half the money.”
Forty
Cally
MONDAY, DECEMBER 9, 2002
Afternoon
On the drive to the Blue Anchor Grill, I wanted to believe I was wrong. Maybe Digger would come back to the cabin. Maybe he’d gone for a very good reason. Maybe he wanted to let me sleep or just went to get some beer. But I knew he wasn’t coming back. He’d taken too much with him.
The police weren’t very helpful. Since I didn’t have the birth certificate. Or a court order. At least I was being matched with a lawyer from Legal Aid, but that would take a day or two, they said. So I had to find her on my own. I had to stop Digger if he was going to do something stupid. Like bring the baby to Hal and Ruth? But he wouldn’t know how to find them. Would he take the baby somewhere else and do what? Leave her on the firehouse steps? He wouldn’t get his money that way.
I should have known better. He’d been so strongly against this. I wished I hadn’t called him. I wished I hadn’t fallen asleep. And I shouldn’t have helped him diagnose his dead battery. I didn’t say any of this to Vera, of course. I just kept it in my head. But she’d been listening to my call with Legal Aid. And I was sure Amanda had told her about my call to the police last night. I was shifting in my seat and not in the mood to talk as we made our way to the Blue Anchor.
“Where do you live in Minneapolis?” Vera asked as she drove, occasionally glancing at me.
“Cedar Park.”
“That’s nice. My niece lives near the art museum.”
No answer. I had a lot to think about.
“Are you a student down there,” said Vera, “because Amanda was undecided about college, and I told her you’re never too old to get an education.”
“Yeah.” I couldn’t focus on conversation. I stared at the shoulder and the passing woods, wondering what might be out there, hiding.
Once, when I was out driving with my dad, his truck hit a deer that jumped out from nowhere, and I fell to the floor. Hit my head on the glove compartment. My dad yelled, and I thought it was my fault. I stayed in the hospital for a week with a concussion. He visited me every day and brought me dolls and chocolate. There was a Santa Claus in the lobby, and kids in wheelchairs with bald heads. I was the only kid without a mother. I thought everyone was looking at me. I wanted to go home. After that, I was always skittish, like something could jump out at any moment.
So I watched the sides of the highway for any signs of deer. I didn’t tell Vera what I was looking for. She was happy to take what she could get. When we got to the Blue Anchor, the place was getting busy for the lunch rush. Several cars and trucks in the parking lot. I didn’t see Digger’s, but I was hoping Bailey was working.
“Will you wait for me here?” I asked Vera.
“No, ma’am, I will not,” she said. “I am coming in there with you.” Vera put the car in park and pulled the keys out of the ignition. I tumbled out of the car, and she followed me.
Inside was warm and dim. It took a few seconds for my eyes to adjust, and the noise gave me a headache. Loud conversation. Overhead music. I scanned the guys sitting at the bar. A good-looking bartender was drying glasses and stacking them. He smiled at me when we made eye contact.
Then the booths. Tall wooden booths lined the edges of the place, and I grabbed hold of each one to brace myself as I walked down the aisle.
“I’ll be right with you,” said a waitress, squeezing past me and carrying a tray of beers. It wasn’t Bailey.
Neon lights and televisions flashed red and blue. The dark-paneled walls were covered in framed newspaper clippings and black-and-white photos. The floor was sticky. The women’s bathroom was occupied. I went into the men’s and locked it. The outside sounds were immediately muffled, and I leaned against the porcelain sink.
Someone knocked and jiggled the doorknob.
“Busy,” I yelled.
“Cally?” said the voice. It was Vera. “Are you all right? Let me in.”
“No.”
“There’s a baby out here.” She jiggled the doorknob again. “There’s a baby!” she yelled.
My thighs tightened. My tummy seized, and I leaned over. I wobbled to the door and unlocked it. “I’m cramping,” I said.
Vera came in and closed the door behind her. She held on to one side of me to keep me from falling. “Okay, move over here, sit down.” She walked me to the toilet. She was so strong for a grandma. The toilet lid was up, and the bowl was covered in urine. Vera lowered the lid and wiped it off. “There, it’s okay.”
I sat and leaned over in pain.
“Take a deep breath.” She leaned down and tried to see my eyes. “Do you feel faint?” She put her hand on my forehead. “You’re sweaty.”
“No, I’ll be okay,” I said. “I just need to . . . change my pad.”
“All right.” She glanced at my backpack, dropped on the floor. “I’ll wait outside the door.”
I’d been changing my pads every hour, but this time I changed it, and it immediately filled up again. I put on another clean one and stuffed my pants with paper towels as extra backup.
