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Back The Surrogate
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

“I will, I will,” I promised, and we said goodbye. Before I dialed a taxi, I called Raymond to let him know.

This was my new priority, and I was on my way.

Forty-Four

Digger

MONDAY, DECEMBER 9, 2002

Morning

It’d been too late to leave for the Cities and return the kid on Sunday night, so Deena set me up in her guest room. I slept like a rock. Deena and Mrs. Z must have taken care of the baby. Or maybe she didn’t cry. Either way, I didn’t hear a thing all night. In the morning, I remembered all the shit I was in. I went downstairs. Deena was sitting at the kitchen table, reading the paper.

“Look who’s awake,” said Deena, eyes peeled on the horoscopes.

“Is there coffee?” I said.

“In the maker,” she said, pointing. “You might wanna warm it up.”

“Where is she?” I pulled down a mug and poured the cold coffee in.

“The baby? Mrs. Z has her.”

“Okay.” I stuck my coffee in the microwave and punched the buttons.

“That kid sure sleeps a lot,” said Deena.

“Thank God,” I said. I peeked into the living room. Mrs. Z had the thing asleep on her lap. Like it was a cat. She spied me and waved. Why did she always have to wave at me? Did that mean I was supposed to wave back? I waved back.

The microwave beeped, and I brought my coffee to the kitchen table. I sat across from Deena. When we both still lived at home, mornings at the kitchen table were the times we’d see each other most. And our mother. She loved to read the whole paper. And smoke her half a pack. And drink her Folgers coffee with almond-flavored creamer. And I think she liked seeing us before school, even though she never said anything like that.

“I’m about to head out to work,” said Deena.

“But I thought we were gonna go down to . . . ya know.” I nodded toward the living room. “Take her to Minneapolis.”

“I’ll be back at four,” she said. “We can go then.”

“Okay, I guess.” I didn’t have much choice.

“There’s eggs and cheese in the fridge. Or we got Cheerios. I know you like that.” Deena brought her dishes to the sink. “Plenty of chores to keep you busy while I’m gone.” She began loading the dishwasher. “Rake the roof, for one. I haven’t had a chance after that snow. The roof rake is in the shed. And you can take the dogs for a walk, if you like. But leave Baz. She has to go separately. And give ’em fresh water. You’ll see the buckets. And if you still need something to do, you can fix the drip in the bathroom sink upstairs.”

“Jesus,” I said. “Anything else?”