Risking It All Page 2

  She couldn’t help smiling just a little thinking of the chaos she’d noticed the last time she’d visited their friends.

  Encouraged, he went on, “Their apartment is cramped. The couch is stained. There are toys all over—you can’t walk through the living room without crunching some plastic action figure underfoot. The kids can be cute, but they also scream and cry and have tantrums when they don’t get what they want. Nick says it’s almost impossible to work at home. It takes so long to put the kids to bed that Sarah says she usually just goes straight to sleep when they do. No more wine and cheese before dinner as they tell each other about their day. And that’s a couple with normal kids. What if there are problems?”

  Marcia seemed to be listening so he continued.

  “And think of Ben and Kathy. They decided not to have kids and they’re living an incredible life. They have money for anything they want. They have an amazing apartment filled with designer furniture and antiques. They have elegant dinner parties using their wedding silver and china, and the place always looks beautiful. She dresses like a fashion model. They do things together and fill their lives with activities and travel and fun.”

  Marcia gave a desultory shrug. “Their life just seems so empty and shallow and narcissistic,” she said. “I can’t believe they chose it. It makes me so mad that they had the ability to have a family and turned it down. Did you know she got pregnant?”

  Jeff frowned; she hadn’t been listening after all, he realized.

  “Well, she did. And she had an abortion,” Marcia said, ignoring Jeff’s expression. “And I, who want it so much, can’t get pregnant. It’s not fair.”

  He raised his voice in frustration. “I know. It’s not fair. But we’ve tried everything. Maybe it’s time to start accepting it.”

  “We haven’t tried everything. That’s my point.”

  “I’ve tried everything I’m going to try, Marcia. That’s my point.”

  There was no reason to continue. She got up and walked to their bedroom without saying another word. She slammed the door, just in case he hadn’t realized how mad she was. As she changed into her nightgown and brushed her teeth she resolved to do more research and convince him. This wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

  3

  The next day Marcia got to work early. She was surprised to see her assistant already at her computer.

  “Good morning,” Julie said brightly. “You’re early. Want some coffee?”

  “You know I do. Thank you. Have you already had some?”

  “Yes. I’ve been here for a while.”

  “Why so early, Julie? I feel like I’m overworking you.”

  “No. I just wanted to finish up my report on the manuscript you gave me before the day got too busy.”

  Marcia smiled. She remembered her days as an assistant editor and her own efforts to move up in the hierarchy.

  “There’s no rush on that. What do you think so far?”

  “I like it,” Julie said. “I’ll have the report finished soon.”

  Julie disappeared down the hallway and returned with a steaming cup of coffee. Marcia thanked her and asked her to do a search for titles of some books written about surrogacy. Then she spent several hours online looking up articles on the subject. She found a wealth of information. There was even a support group for surrogate parents called Organization of Parents Through Surrogacy on whose website she found inspiring success stories and many of the resource she needed. She read a first-person article in The New York Times on two kinds of surrogacy. There was the traditional type as was done with Mary Beth Whitehead, where the surrogate’s egg is fertilized by the prospective father, and gestational surrogacy, where the surrogate bears a baby who grew from the egg and sperm of the intended parents. As she’d told Jeff, it was clear from the article that many more people chose gestational surrogacy. She couldn’t find any mention of how many surrogates changed their minds, so she called one of the agencies for that information. A secretary assured her that was rarely a problem anymore and promised to e-mail her more information. Minutes later, a fact sheet arrived in her mailbox stating that the law was clear: in the case of gestational surrogacy, the genetic parents had precedence. The agency claimed that because of their excellent psychological profiling, they had never, in ten years, had a single case in which the birth mother had changed her mind.

  Marcia had closed her office door. An hour after lunch Julie knocked and, as was her habit, entered without waiting for a reply. Marcia looked up, slightly guiltily, since she’d done nothing but read about surrogacy since she had arrived at work.

  “Did you get a chance to look at the Olsen manuscript?” Julie asked.

  “Not yet. What did you think?”

  “Here’s my report,” she said, placing it on Marcia’s desk. “The text is a little rough, but I think it would work if it were edited. I think it shows a lot of potential.”

  Marcia knew that Julie was eager to bring in something that would be published.

  “Do you think we should buy it?”

  “I’d love to, Marcia. I think it could really be commercial.”

  Maria looked thoughtful. “Okay, then,” she said at last. “But don’t go higher than twenty thousand for the advance.”

  “You mean I can buy it even though you haven’t even read it yet?”

  Marcia smiled. She liked Julie. “You’ve been here for two years. You have a good eye. Go ahead. Good luck.”

  Julie thanked her profusely and rushed out the door.

  Marcia returned to her computer. She was looking up the cost for the surrogacy. The Times article was written eight years ago so prices were probably higher now, but even then they were shockingly expensive. She learned that surrogacy was unregulated federally and laws varied by state. There was a list of states where prospective parents were advised to proceed with caution or not at all, and New York, where it was explicitly illegal, was one of them. She’d have to look elsewhere. California seemed to be one of the most liberal states in terms of its surrogacy policies and had the advantage of being far enough away so it would discourage any long-term relationship with the birth mother. She made a note to specify California when she asked the agency for surrogate candidates.

  Even though she was prepared, the price was a shock—more than $100,000 by the time fees were added for lawyers, insurance, psychologists, labs, hospitals, and agencies charged with finding the appropriate birth mother. It wasn’t clear how much went directly to the birth mother, but Marcia feared the sum wouldn’t be enough to balance the enormity of her contribution. The price seemed to eliminate the option of surrogacy. But she couldn’t stop thinking about it and she knew that if everything else felt right, she and Jeff would find the money somehow. They had savings, though not enough. But they both had good jobs—they could borrow the balance. It was comforting to learn that there was an entire surrogacy support system, an industry, really, engaged in steering people through the laws and complications and problems. She still felt uncertain about the moral implications. The niggling feeling remained that it was wrong, that however she looked at it she would feel as though she were buying a baby and exploiting a less fortunate woman. The idea of paying someone to go through pregnancy and delivery for her remained distasteful, and if she still felt that way, she couldn’t imagine how she could ever convince Jeff. She continued reading. She was hoping to find someone with the same reservations who had navigated these moral shoals and was rewarded with a child.

  Julie walked in again. “I’m really sorry to bother you, Marcia, but they’re all in the conference room waiting for you. What should I tell them?”

  Marcia had been so absorbed she’d forgotten the afternoon conference. It was her job to fire up the sales force about the books she had commissioned so they would be able to sell them to the bookstores and, especially, the online distributors like Amazon. She turned off her computer, riffled through her papers for her notes and rushed to the conference room. She knew she could
n’t keep doing this. She was arriving late and ill-prepared to an important meeting. She didn’t get to be a senior editor in a major publishing house with that kind of behavior, and she knew too how fragile the business was these days, and how easy it would be to replace her.

  She muddled her way through the meeting, neither disgracing nor distinguishing herself, and returned to her office. This time she locked the door. She went back online and found the Times article again. She wanted to know what came next. Let’s say she contacted the agency or a lawyer and said she was interested; how would they find the surrogate? She read that the client would receive profiles of surrogates in different states. She would be presented with statements from each candidate detailing her life, her ambitions and her reasons for wanting the job. The reporter who had written the story had gone through the process herself and chronicled what she experienced. Marcia was surprised to learn how many applicants there were to be surrogates, and how much they seemed to want to do it. They came from all over the country and many walks of life. They had to be in good health and agree to being monitored during their pregnancy and to maintain good nutrition. While most were struggling economically, none was impoverished. All said they were applying for altruistic reasons, though of course several admitted that the extra money would help. It made Marcia wonder.

  Maybe it was condescending to assume the surrogates were being exploited. Maybe it really was a bargain struck by two families that benefited each of them. She wanted to believe that, and the article made a good case for it. Her impulse was to rush home and share everything she’d learned with Jeff but she held back. She knew he thought the matter was settled and she was quietly dealing with it. But she told herself she was just trying to educate herself. She didn’t quite admit, even to herself, that she was determined to go ahead. It was now a question of conquering his objections, and keeping her own reservations at bay.

  4

  A week passed and Marcia continued to read about surrogacy. She had contacted several agencies trying to decide which was best and had even been put in touch with a few past clients who were happy to talk about their experience. She kept her activity from Jeff, but her unusual restraint and secrecy erected a barrier between them, and their conversation felt strained and formal. Now they were in the car, driving north to their country house in Woodstock. It was a glorious Saturday morning. The dogwood and cherry blossoms were all in bloom and the oaks and aspens were just pushing forth their tiny pale green buds. Here and there the canary-yellow forsythia bushes leapt out from the surrounding green. If ever there was a season of hope, she thought, it was this.

  “Look at that beautiful tree,” she said. “I think it’s a magnolia. I love them, even though they bloom for such a short time.”

  He didn’t respond directly, but said, “I was thinking we should take a few days off and take a trip. Maybe we should drive to Montreal. We could stay in a great hotel and see the sights. You could practice your French.”

  “Thanks. I really do appreciate that offer,” she said quickly. “But I can’t. There’s a lot going on at work.”

  They were both silent for a few miles. Jeff turned on the radio.

  “Classical or rock?” he asked.

  “I don’t care. Whatever you want.”

  He switched it off. “Marcia, you have to try.”

  “I am trying,” she said.

  They pulled off the highway and headed toward their house, stopping at the outdoor market for supplies. They were expecting guests for dinner, a woman Marcia had met in this same market a few years back while both were squeezing avocados to test their ripeness. They had started talking, and it turned out the woman, Grace Zilman, worked in publicity for Random House and her husband, Mike, was a doctor with a practice on the Upper East Side. Their apartment was just across the park from Marcia and Jeff’s. The women had indulged in the obligatory jokes about the difference between East Siders and West Siders, Marcia asking if she would need a passport to visit them. They both laughed, even though they’d heard that same joke dozens of times. Marcia liked her immediately and had invited the Zilmans to dinner the following weekend. At that point, she and Jeff had been spending weekends in Woodstock for almost seven years, yet knew few people in the area. Because they both had demanding full-time jobs, they tended to leave the city late Friday and return Sunday, departing early enough to avoid the mad Sunday traffic jam as other weekenders headed home. They often invited friends from the city to come with them, almost always a welcome invitation for those without a refuge in the countryside. But she and Jeff had also wanted to get to know more people in the community.

  Grace and Marcia found they had a lot in common. They both worked in publishing, both cared about theater, good food and good books, and were both avid readers of The New York Times. Luckily their husbands seemed to like each other too, and the couples began to make occasional dates in the city as well as share dinners together in Woodstock. They particularly liked to find out-of-the-way restaurants in the different ethnic neighborhoods New York City was so rich in, enjoying both the food and the cultural diversity. They had even joined a couples book group in the city that met once a month and saw each other most weekends in the country. But all that had come to an abrupt halt almost three years ago when Grace gave birth. Busy, sleep-deprived, overwhelmed, Grace and Mike had dropped first out of the book club, then stopped dinner and theater dates, and had only recently resumed regular trips to the country. Having learned they were coming this weekend, Marcia had invited them for dinner and was delighted when Grace accepted.

  Dinner was planned for seven with drinks on the back porch at six. Grace and Mike arrived at seven-thirty, flustered and apologetic. Stephie, their nearly three-year-old, had apparently objected to the babysitter. She started crying just as they were leaving and threw herself on the ground screaming and kicking as they closed the door. Mike thought they should keep going, teach her that such behavior wasn’t profitable. But Grace simply couldn’t bring herself to do it, much to the relief of the twenty-year-old babysitter, who looked nearly as upset as Grace. It took about half an hour to calm her down, finally accomplished by relenting on the no-more-television rule and allowing her to watch Dora the Explorer as her parents quietly crept out.

  Marcia and Jeff reassured them that it didn’t matter what time they arrived and the group settled down on the back porch. The sun was low in the sky, surrounded by a spreading aura of pink and fuchsia. Jeff served drinks and they all gazed appreciatively at the view. “What a beautiful spot,” Grace said, visibly relaxing.

  “It definitely is,” Mike agreed. “We had an exhausting day. Stephie woke up at two and couldn’t go back to sleep in her own room so she crawled in between us.”

  Grace shook her head and laughed. “Her feet were on my side,” she said. “You know how these kids are. They can’t sleep in a straight line. It’s kind of equal-opportunity discomfort—that way none of us can sleep.

  “But eventually we got a few hours and first thing this morning, we all went to a petting zoo so she could touch the sheep and the rabbits,” Grace added. “Then there was a birthday party and then home and her dinner and bath and then the tantrum before we left. She is having some serious separation issues, but the doctors say it’s all age appropriate.” She drained her glass. “Anyway, you can imagine how much we are enjoying this.”

  “I’m so glad,” Marcia said. “Can I get you another?”

  “No, I’d better not,” Grace said reluctantly. “I may be up again tonight and I don’t want to be hungover.” Jeff held up his empty glass. “I wouldn’t mind more,” he said, “if you’re going in.” Marcia left to refill his glass and Grace followed her.

  Jeff turned to Mike. “How’s it going? We miss you guys.”

  “I know. We feel the same. But it’s been tough to make time.” He took a long swig of his drink. “It’s been a tough transition all around. You know, kids all day in my practice and then making sure I have some time with Stephi
e when I get home, there’s just not much time for … well, you know.” He shrugged. A slight, uncomfortable pause followed. “How’s the law business?” he asked.

  “The same. We never run out of business.”

  “I heard a quote about lawyers the other day and I thought of you.”

  “You never run out of lawyer jokes either.”

  “You don’t mind, do you?”

  “Nah. Shoot.”

  “Well, this one was something like, ‘In every legal transaction there is a moment when money hangs in the air, suspended between two parties. It is that moment that the clever lawyer makes his own.’ I think it was Shakespeare.”

  Jeff smiled. “I doubt it. But it’s pretty good.”

  In the kitchen, Marcia asked Grace how her job was going.

  “It’s fine. I like the hours. I don’t do book readings or interviews anymore. I specialize in online publicity. I work while I’m there but I’m free when I go home and I can leave every day at six. That gives me more time with Stephie. And actually, I’ll probably be going on leave soon. I’m expecting another baby in the fall.”

  Marcia tried hard to smile. “Congratulations.”

  “I love those months at home after the baby is born. And this time, I’ll have a better idea how to handle things. Last time, I was pretty nervous. But Mike took paternity leave for two weeks and that helped.”

  Marcia couldn’t think of anything to say.

  “What about you, Marcia? Do you two have any plans for kids?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  Marcia picked up a knife and busied herself slicing vegetables for the coq au vin. She poured another vodka for Jeff and handed it to Grace. “Would you mind taking this out? I need to get this going. I’ll be out in a minute.”