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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

I leaned my head against the cold window and closed my eyes, listening to the soothing sound of the road. This was the hum I’d often fall asleep to when my father would bring me with him on his late shift in the tow truck. I’d try to stay awake, strapped in on the big bench seat beside him, promising to be good. But being up past my bedtime, I could never stay awake for long. I remembered the rattle of that old engine, the buzzing of the wheels, and the vibration from the center differential underneath the seat. Sometimes he’d turn on the ball game, if the Twins were playing late enough in a time zone two hours behind us, like in Oakland or L.A. Sometimes he’d put on the oldies and sing along to a sappy song. “I’m just an old cornball,” he’d say. Then we’d arrive at the broken-down car, and he’d pull over, hop out, and talk with the driver. I always stayed in the truck, as instructed, and watched as Dad jumped the battery or changed the tire or attached the tow, and whatever else needed to be done, before we’d go back to headquarters, sometimes with me squished in the middle between my dad and the grateful, stranded driver. Then Dad would clock out and take me home for bed.

A bump in the road jolted me awake, and I blinked and wiped my face. Had I been snoring? Had I dropped the baby? I checked my lap. She was still there. Was she still breathing? Yes.

I looked at Digger, staring ahead, lit by the glow of the dashboard, and I admired his profile. Rugged. He wore his ratty old DEKALB Corn cap backward, with a few curly locks poking out. He’d been wearing that cap the first time he kissed me, up against a tree behind school. I thought about that kiss as I watched him drive. I always liked his face best when he hadn’t shaved for a couple of days, and that’s how it was that night in the truck. Maybe he sensed me looking at him as he drove, or maybe he read my mind, because at that moment, he rubbed his chin and scratched his cheek like he was anxious to shave. He adjusted the rearview mirror. He glanced at me, and I blushed. He smiled and shook his head, and I looked down at the baby. Something about this felt nice.

Four

Ruth

NOVEMBER 2001

Morning