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Back The Surrogate Save as PDF
Chapters (65)
  1. Cover
  2. Dedication
  3. Epigraph
  4. Part One
  5. One
  6. Two
  7. Three
  8. Four
  9. Five
  10. Six
  11. Seven
  12. Eight
  13. Nine
  14. Ten
  15. Eleven
  16. Twelve
  17. Thirteen
  18. Fourteen
  19. Fifteen
  20. Sixteen
  21. Seventeen
  22. Eighteen
  23. Nineteen
  24. Twenty
  25. Twenty-One
  26. Twenty-Two
  27. Twenty-Three
  28. Twenty-Four
  29. Twenty-Five
  30. Twenty-Six
  31. Twenty-Seven
  32. Twenty-Eight
  33. Twenty-Nine
  34. Thirty
  35. Thirty-One
  36. Thirty-Two
  37. Thirty-Three
  38. Part Two
  39. Thirty-Four
  40. Thirty-Five
  41. Thirty-Six
  42. Thirty-Seven
  43. Thirty-Eight
  44. Thirty-Nine
  45. Forty
  46. Forty-One
  47. Forty-Two
  48. Forty-Three
  49. Forty-Four
  50. Forty-Five
  51. Forty-Six
  52. Forty-Seven
  53. Forty-Eight
  54. Forty-Nine
  55. Fifty
  56. Fifty-One
  57. Part Three
  58. Fifty-Two
  59. Fifty-Three
  60. Fifty-Four
  61. Fifty-Five
  62. Fifty-Six
  63. Acknowledgments
  64. About the Author
  65. About the Publisher

“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.