Would he feel awkward about bringing home a baby that wasn’t actually ours? Was he willing to invite another woman into our lives—us using her for her genetic material, her using us for our willingness to hand over tens of thousands of dollars?
Was I prepared for all that, as well?
Suddenly the idea felt all wrong. Too many variables crowded my thoughts. There were so many ways this could go wrong, and only one way it could work out.
But if it worked, I would have a baby.
My phone buzzed, and I looked down to see a new text had arrived. My stomach lurched when I saw it was from Lyla.
So nice meeting you today. Forgot to ask, do you have a picture of you and Ben? I’d love to show Jason. Can’t wait to get started! Chat soon—Lyla
For a moment I did nothing. I read the text a half dozen times, then, fingers shaking, found a great photo of Ben and me, from our last vacation a year earlier in Jamaica for his annual family reunion. When that picture was taken we had been waiting to hear if our latest procedure had worked, distracting ourselves with family dinners on the beach, massages at the spa and long afternoon naps in lounge chairs shaded by palm trees. We weren’t pregnant as it turned out, but at the time—sun shining and ocean warm—it felt as if anything was possible.
With a quick note saying it was lovely to meet Lyla, as well, and a promise to be in touch soon to sort out details, I attached the photo and hit Send.
It started to rain just as the cab approached the restaurant, and I grumbled about forgetting to bring an umbrella. The cabdriver kindly offered to walk me to the restaurant door, pulling out a large umbrella from the trunk and giving me his arm. I took it as a sign that my luck was changing. That Ben would be thrilled at my news, once he got over his surprise. I could spin this. He would forgive me for not telling him first.
Inside the restaurant it was dim and heady with scents of roasting meat and the hostess’s sharp perfume. I quickly scanned the tables, looking for Ben, and saw him in a booth in the corner. With a smile and a point, I told the hostess I saw my husband, and she walked me over to the table. Ben was facing me and looked up as I walked past the few tables to get to where he sat. He smiled, eyes lighting up as they took me in. I thanked the hostess, then stood in front of Ben.
“What do you think?” I asked, turning one foot out and placing a hand on my hip. I winked and smiled, and he nodded slowly.
“That dress was made for you.”
I flushed, suddenly wishing we were home and wearing a lot less. After I sat down—still imagining Ben unzipping my dress and running his hands all over my body—he leaned toward me and kissed me firmly on the mouth. “Those shoes are going to get you in trouble later,” he whispered. I smiled, taking my foot out of my red patent leather heel and running it up the inside of his leg under the table.
“Well, look at you.” Ben leaned back and grabbed my foot under the table. He rubbed my arch and my calf, and shivers ran up and down my body. I was transported back to the early days of our relationship, when the feel of his fingertips on my bare skin made my stomach wiggly and my cheeks hot, much like now.
“I need a drink,” I said, slightly breathless. Ben pouted as my foot slipped from his hand, and I laughed. The waiter was there a moment later and I ordered a gin and tonic with extra lime. Ben caught me up on his day and the project he was working on with his dad, and I told him about my latest recipe—spicy chocolate torte for our February issue—not mentioning anything about Lyla. I had no clue how to bring it up. So, Ben, today I had coffee with a surrogate who said she’d like to carry a baby for us. You should really try this olive tapenade, it’s amazing.
Ben was ordering our appetizers and main courses and I was trying to figure out how to open up the Lyla conversation when my phone buzzed again. I nibbled the crostini our server placed in front of me, topped with grilled octopus and spiced mango marmalade, and glanced at my phone under the table. Lyla. But an email this time. I quickly opened it and tried to read it discreetly.
“Medium rare?”
“Sorry?” I asked, looking up to find Ben and the server watching me.
“Your steak. Medium rare?” Ben asked.
“Sure. Yes, that’s perfect.” I hadn’t had a steak rare in a while, always eating everything fully cooked just in case I was pregnant.
While Ben and our server debated if he should have the flatiron steak or the paella, I scanned the email.
Sorry to tell you this... Jason and I agree that we’re better suited to a Christian, more traditional couple... I’m sorry to get your hopes up... I’ll be praying you find your perfect match...
I felt dizzy and hot, my face surely going fiery red in the candlelight. The half-eaten crostini dropped from my hand, hitting the table and leaving an oily splotch on the tablecloth.
“Hannah? You okay?”
My mouth open, I looked at Ben and tried to get the words out. No, I am not okay.
“What’s up? Is something wrong?” He gestured to my phone resting limply in my hand.
I looked back at the screen, which had since faded to black and tried to reconcile what I’d just read. Only half an hour ago Lyla had written she was looking forward to getting started. What changed? I racked my brain, thinking of our conversations. Everything was fine until I sent the photo. What happened?
I couldn’t hear Ben but could see his lips moving. The whooshing in my head grew louder; then everything focused on Ben’s face. On the errant eyebrow hair that grew longer than the others, the one he made me pluck out monthly. On his crystal-blue eyes, which were perhaps the slightest bit too far apart and were now filled with worry. On his beautiful brown skin—much darker from a week in the sun in the picture I’d sent to Lyla. Jason and I agree that we’re better suited to a Christian, more traditional couple...
More traditional couple. In a flash I knew what had happened, why Lyla changed her mind, and that I could never, ever explain any of it to Ben.
“I’ll be right back,” I sputtered, getting up so fast my napkin and purse fell to the floor. Ben stood quickly, too, looking unsure about what to do. I asked a passing server where the washroom was and practically ran there, grateful for the individual stalls. Once inside a stall, I locked the door, then sat down when I thought my legs wouldn’t hold me up anymore.
I read the email again and then once more, tears coming fast. I heard the bathroom door open and a woman’s voice calling my name, identifying herself as the hostess.
“In here,” I said, mentally willing the young woman to leave. “I’m okay. I’ll be right out.”
The door squeaked shut and I heard her exchanging words with Ben, who was obviously right outside the women’s restroom.
Shit. I couldn’t tell him now. I had fucked up big-time, not to mention the promise I made all those years ago to always tell him the truth—especially about the big stuff. Why had I even sent that first email to Lyla? I was being punished—for lying to Ben, for being so desperate to have a child I didn’t see the warning signs right in front of me, for that time, long ago, when I’d wished motherhood away.
Pulling myself together, I flushed the toilet even though I hadn’t used it and splashed water on my face.
