The Surrogate, page 28
“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Cally, looking around for a tissue. “Here.” She slid a box to Ruth. They’d been sitting in the living room, and Cally had been staring at the baby nonstop since they’d arrived. “Can I . . . Would it be all right if I held her?”
Ruth nodded, still a bit weepy, and helped to unbuckle the child.
Cally slid her hands underneath and lifted the sleeping baby up out of the seat, amazed at her long legs. “She’s heavier,” she said.
“Not as heavy as she should be,” Ruth sobbed. “She’s not . . . eating as much and . . . not growing like . . . she should . . .”
“Really?” Cally found that hard to believe. In her arms, this child was bigger than she remembered, in the way that everything changes when you’ve been away from it.
Ruth placed a burp cloth on Cally’s shoulder so she could hold the baby up there and be protected just in case. “She’s been spitting up . . . so much,” said Ruth.
“Oh yeah?” said Cally to the baby, cooing sweetly. “What’s going on, my Little Pea?” Cally brought the baby down to her lap and the baby’s eyes opened. Cally smiled at her and touched her cheek.
“Oh dear, I’m not feeling so well.” Ruth got suddenly dizzy and nauseated. “Do you mind if I use the toilet?”
“Yeah, sure, it’s in there.” Cally pointed. “It’s a mess.”
Ruth stood and rubbed her stomach as she walked to the tiny bathroom. She glanced into Cally’s bedroom and was tempted to go in and look for index cards. But her stomach lurched, and she hurried to close the bathroom door before she vomited into the toilet. Any second now, the baby would start wailing, she thought.
Ruth washed her face, rinsed out her mouth, and dabbed at the puffy bags under her red eyes. “Get it together,” she said to her reflection.
Cally called out to Ruth, asking if she was okay. Ruth made a quip about perimenopause, then asked for a drink of water or tea and maybe a cracker, but said she could get it herself. She didn’t want to disturb the baby. And maybe she’d find some new index cards in the kitchen.
When Ruth returned to the living room, she froze at the sight: Cally was holding the baby and rocking side to side and singing something quietly. Tears rolled down Cally’s face. Ruth slipped into the side chair without a word.
The women exchanged glances.
Finally, Cally spoke. “She smells so good,” she said.
Ruth nodded, even though she hadn’t noticed the baby’s smell, and she yearned to understand what that meant. To her, this infant smelled of whatever Ruth had put on her, talcum powder, fresh cotton jammies, or Desitin. Or worse, of the baby’s own spit-up or urine.
“Cally,” said Ruth, gathering her courage. “What would you think about . . . having full custody of her? Of Nell.”
Cally’s face lit up. “What?” She inhaled. She looked confused, grateful, incredulous. “I would love it. Are you serious?”
Ruth nodded.
“But what about—”
“Hal, I know,” said Ruth, cutting her off before she had to hear that question one more time. “Here’s my idea . . .”
Ruth explained Hal’s distance and distraction. Her theory that this lawsuit was keeping him in a state of perpetual grief, like the coma had kept Jake in an unconscious state. That Ruth thought Hal was only doing it for her. And how Hal needed to be freed from this fight, for himself and for the sake of their marriage. She told Cally about her own trouble with the baby and asked if Cally had any interest in restarting nursing, if possible. Yes, she did.
Ruth went further and mentioned her idea about the article. Asked if Cally would agree to be interviewed. And about Ruth’s strategy for settling all of this legal business with a mutual agreement. She told her what Pat had said about the surrogacy contract and liability for harm done to Cally’s health. Cally said her lawyer was already exploring that, and Ruth said good. Do that.
And while Ruth talked about her exciting ideas, Cally was holding the baby, swaying and cuddling her, and Cally felt a rising lightness inside, a clarity and confidence. It was as if they were all in their right places in this moment. Buoyed by Ruth’s passion and earnestness, Cally gathered her own courage to visualize her life anew, a future as she might design it: with college, career, Sam, and Nell.
And now, with Nell in her arms, her baby’s soft skin as familiar to Cally as her own, she knew, in that deep place of knowing, the very place where Nell had lived inside her, that she would never let her go. And she could see that Ruth knew it, too.
Fifty-Six
Ruth
OCTOBER 2003
For all those months when Cally was pregnant with Nell, I’d been asking her to explain what it felt like. She couldn’t. Especially the birth. She couldn’t find words.
And now I understood why. Because you can’t really explain what it feels like to give birth. Oh, sure, everyone says it hurts. Everyone says it’s the best day of their life. But no one can explain how it feels inside. How the cramps and contractions get worse and worse, building up, maybe for hours, but you lose track of time as you toss and turn on scratchy sheets and nurses try to position you, and they say, “Are you comfortable?” and “Is this better?” and you’re just groaning because nothing feels better, and they feed you ice chips, check your blood pressure, the beeping fetal heartbeat, they stroke your forehead, and they constantly check you down below, then snap off the rubber gloves without really telling you anything that you understand. Centimeters?
And no one can explain that moment. When the beast rises up from the center of the earth and bursts through all the layers of the ground and up into your body. This terrifying thing like a giant fist grabs hold of you from inside and yanks at the womb like it wants to take you back down to the center of the earth, it yanks at the baby to get going, pushes and pulls at the two of you until it happens. And you have lost all control. There is nothing you can do about it. Nothing in the world. You are gone. And all the tubes and beeps and needles and wipes and ice chips and nurses and blue paper sheets, none of that matters. It all goes away, and there is only you and the beast, and you’d better let it go. Let go and help it, ride on it, let it be.
And then the heat arrives. As if a solar flare has landed between your legs, radiating in the very birth canal, to direct your attention (and your pushing) directly into that sun. And you’d better just join with it—don’t fight—just push and push into the hot center. The nurses will say, “Another one now,” and “One more,” and “A big one now,” and—! Out slides the slippery blob, the rubbery miniature human, wet and pasty blue, arms and legs folded, hair slick, squinty eyes, wrinkly cheeks, and the busy people will cut the thick and twisty purple cord and swoop the new thing away.
And all you want to do is stare at it, figure out what happened, what this is, this silky new life, this chalky blue angel with black eyes and red mouth, you want to stare at it, be near it, touch it, but you can’t because the people take it and urgently fuss with it, weighing, sponging, wiping, measuring, and suctioning it. And you can do nothing but watch them work. And wait.
They don’t talk to you, they just talk to each other. And you just lie there, still connected to the new person but also apart, helpless in this sacred moment, peeking around the equipment to catch a glimpse of your newborn darling, needing it near you.
For the rest of your life.
My baby was born on September 13, 2003. I’d had a high-risk pregnancy, but I hadn’t been worried. I felt this was meant to be. And I’d been having dreams where the baby would tell me to be confident, because the baby was strong and would come out fully gestated and ready to breathe. So the baby and I had made a pact, and we had made it happen.
Meanwhile, Hal and I made our own pact. When I told Hal I wanted to withdraw our lawsuit for custody and settle with Cally, including settling her medical claims against us, he said he was relieved. Letting go of this fight allowed him to devote himself entirely to his boys. He lightened in a way I hadn’t seen since before Elizabeth was born. Our settlement allowed Cally to go back to school and raise her daughter with modest support payments from Hal and friendly informal visitation for us.
Jake had been getting used to his wheelchair, and the doctors were always on to a new study, a new hope for regeneration and animation of his legs. He was looking for a college with a para sports program and eventually planned to compete in para snowboarding. When all was said and done, Hal was simply grateful that Jake was alive. The accident had thrust us all into a slow-motion shock, a gradual acceptance, and also a new clarity. We felt the need to cling to every bit of life and connection we had. We felt the need to appreciate our bodies.
And then I discovered I was four months pregnant. I’d noticed the symptoms but thought it was perimenopause or hyper-stress or both. Hal was thrilled. It was as if this was what he’d wanted all along but hadn’t known it. Or hadn’t felt able to say so. The idea of making a baby together, in my own womb, with my old egg, was a new—and unexpected—joy for us both.
When I was seven months pregnant, I received another surprise. I’d been nominated by the Society for Professional Journalism for their Excellence in Health Reporting Award for my surrogacy story, published in the Minneapolis Star. A great honor, for which I would embark on a quest to find a sufficiently festive maternity gown to wear at the awards dinner and gala. And on the night of the big event, in an amusing role reversal, Hal insisted on bringing my old camera bag so he could play the part of “sexy photographer,” as he put it. I couldn’t help smiling as I walked onstage to accept the prize, my belly like a basketball, and there he was in the front row, clicking shot after blurry shot of me, his award-winning, very pregnant wife. And as on the night we first met, the sparks were flying.
We were a team again. He’d acquiesced to my handling of the Cally matter. He’d said everything he needed to say; he’d been trying to make me happy. But we both saw how much happier the baby was in Cally’s arms. We would remain in the background, help her when needed, and it felt right to work together, not fight. And since Cally had full legal and physical custody, she had the prerogative to name the baby. I was deeply touched when Cally chose Nell Elizabeth.
Hal and I named our little boy Raymond August Olson, and he is as sweet as pie. I could have kept most of the nursery decor in place, because who doesn’t love an underwater ocean motif? But we decided to give baby Ray his own theme.
And start over.
Acknowledgments
This book started on the first day of the first writing class I ever took, and was inspired by a “postcard prompt” from our teacher, Laurel Ostrow. The postcard featured a snowy cabin in the woods, with the words “Welcome to Wisconsin” plastered across the image. Laurel gave us three minutes to write, and that’s when this story began to flow.
In that class, I met my first writing group, who have been my dear friends ever since. Bridgit Colleran Albrecht, Judie Mattison, and Romelle Adkins, thank you for your enduring support through many early chapters.
To Brier Miller, who encouraged me to write in the first place: thank you for your generous care.
To my fellow mentees in the 2013 Loft Mentor Series: I am fortunate to have met you and I treasure our connection. Thanks also to the mentors for bringing us together, teaching us about the craft, and showing us how to be a community.
To the Loft Literary Center, its staff, teachers, and students: thank you for the vibrant literary universe you continue to foster. I am lucky to live in a city with such a haven for writers and readers.
Speaking of which, I am forever grateful to my agent, Marly Rusoff, who started the Loft many years ago. Thank you for believing in me and in this book. In our early emails and phone calls, I felt an instant connection with you, which has only deepened. Your vision and tenacity are a wonder. I can’t believe how lucky I am to work with you. And to the uber-talented Julie Mosow: this work would not be what it is without your developmental engagement with these characters and their story.
To my wonderful editor, Sara Nelson at HarperCollins: thank you for taking a chance on me. Your deep knowledge and keen insights have been invaluable. From our first conversation, I knew I was in great hands. I am profoundly grateful for the way you understood these characters and expertly shepherded this book into the world. And thank you to Mary Gaule and the amazing members of the Harper team, for all the million things you do behind the scenes.
This novel would not have happened if not for my coconspirators in the Friday Morning Writing Group. Chapter by chapter, you lovingly critiqued it. Thank you for your outstanding feedback and limitless encouragement, Roxanne Sadovsky, Tom Schierholz, Heidi Schneider, Rachel Jensen, Margaret Peterson, Gretchen Van Hauer, Heather Awad, Dawn Hill, Gillian Brecker, Paula Shames, and Melanie Brening. I can’t wait to see those “Team Digger” T-shirts.
To Rosalie O’Brien, Mary Finley, Makenzie Krause, and Corissa Pennow: thank you for taking the time to carefully read and comment on an early version of the manuscript. Let me put it this way: you were right, and I am in your debt.
Other brave early readers include Rachel Awes, Sam Awes, and my dearly loved and recently departed uncle Mel and aunt Sue, who wrote me the most supportive email I have ever received. To my entire family, book club sisters, and sweet friends far and wide: thank you for your inspiration and love.
To my dad, Michael Halleen: you are the writer who taught me to appreciate words and story and grammar, and, most of all, to trust myself. I hear your wise and tender voice encouraging me when I have doubts.
Thank you, Milo Bunting, for reading my short stories when you were just a kid. I can’t wait to read your books someday.
Pearce Bunting: Remember the time we all took turns reading the manuscript while on vacation in Florida? I’ll never forget that morning when you finished it and showed up at my door, moved with emotion. Thank you for your fierce love and bounteous reading. Your energy could fuel a small nation.
Stephanie Halleen, my sister and longest friend: thank you for always being there, always helping, and always reading. I trust your eye and judgment, as does everyone else who has ever worked with you. What a gift to be able to collaborate with you.
Thank you, Barb Halleen, for your smart and tireless help with this book, including your excellent editing. Mom, I love how you write and think, and I cherish the memories of us reading every word aloud, again and again, making it real.
Larry Schaefer, you are the best reader and best everything in the world. I can’t do any of this without you and I don’t want to. Thank you for being my husband.
About the Author
TONI HALLEEN worked for many years as an employment law attorney. She was born and raised in the Midwest and earned a BA in women’s studies from Mount Holyoke College, and a JD from the University of Minnesota. Toni won a Mentor Prize in fiction from the Loft Literary Center, and her writing has appeared in Wigleaf, Structo, Gravel, and elsewhere. She lives in Minneapolis with her family.
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Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
THE SURROGATE. Copyright © 2021 by Toni Halleen. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
FIRST EDITION
Cover design by Kimberly Glyder
Cover images © Getty Images; © Shutterstock
Digital Edition NOVEMBER 2021 ISBN: 978-0-06-307009-7
Version 10012021
Print ISBN: 978-0-06-307007-3
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Toni Halleen, The Surrogate
