I took a bite of my turkey sandwich and swallowed.

“I guess … he was overwhelmed or agitated,” she said, “especially anxious regarding his mother’s health.”

“I’m sure he’s grateful.” I chewed on a piece of ice in an effort to quell my nausea.

“Well … we’ll miss him.” From her tone of voice, it sounded as though she were speaking of someone from the distant past.

I noticed that I was extremely warm. I removed my sweater so that I was only wearing a tank top. No one would have known that I was pregnant. My stomach was still practically flat. Amelia studied my body. I could tell she was in love with it, in an odd, objectifying way.

There were times when I thought Amelia might view me as being in service to her—as her inferior. Surrogacy isn’t entirely dissimilar from prostitution. I have no ethical problem with prostitution. It’s a class problem. I’d slept with a guy for money twice, in a hotel room in Florida. He was a loser. So fucking him for money made me into a double loser. Then I left Florida and came to New York.

Amelia probably felt as though she were paying me indirectly—with her love and attention, with the time I spent with Natalie, and with the under-market apartment. But she might not have realized that I no longer needed payment.

She moved down to the end of the sofa next to my feet. She removed my socks and pressed her thumbs into pressure points on the arches of my feet, my heels, and my toes. At first, I was surprised that she would debase herself so. But then it dawned on me that she believed her actions were in service of her child. So there was an element of ego and self-preservation in her behavior. “Some pressure points really support the body’s immune system and strengthen it,” she said, “allowing the baby to receive all the nutrients and vitamins that it needs.”

Her fingers were resting on the faint scar from Itzhak’s bite. She didn’t seem to notice it.

Natalie appeared in the doorway with her camera in hand and snapped a photo of us. “Is Delta sick?”

“No, I’m fine.” I sat up on the sofa.

“Natalie, the baby’s healthy so far.” Amelia looked from Natalie to me. She clasped my hands. “What a mitzvah.”

“Mitzvah means ‘good deed,’” Natalie explained to me.

“What’s your favorite boy’s name?” Amelia asked Natalie.

“BoBo.” Natalie opened the refrigerator door and looked for a snack.

Amelia frowned. “Sweetheart…”

I wanted Amelia to drop the subject. It was obvious that Natalie was not going to engage.

“Do you know if it’s a boy?” Natalie opened a kitchen cabinet and rummaged through it.

“A sixth sense,” Amelia said. “I like the name Emilio.”

“Did you forget about the ‘evil eye’?” Natalie asked.