Chapter 2
Tessa
Being in the waiting room at the fertility clinic feels like being under a magnifying glass.
I’m a surrogate for a wealthy couple who have very firm ideas on how they want the pregnancy to happen.
We’re all here today to see if the first round of IVF was successful.
An awkward silence has spun out between the three of us.
We have the first appointment of the day, so we’ve got the waiting room to ourselves.
It’s too early to be awake for a girl like me who enjoys sleeping in.
The scent of coffee is making my mouth water.
Caffeine is one of the things I agreed to give up during the full term of the pregnancy, so I haven’t had any in the last thirty days or so.
I’d almost gotten over the craving, until I caught a whiff of the delicious brew just now.
Although I’m sitting two chairs away from Mrs. Whitmore, she’s close enough to be overbearing.
She’s leaning forward with her legs crossed so tightly that I’m not sure how the blood’s still circulating.
She has her phone clutched in one manicured hand, scrolling through lists of I don’t even know what.
Her husband, Mr. Whitmore, sits directly across from me, taking turns between looking down at his hands and sneaking glances at me. I don’t care for the way he looks at me. I wouldn’t say he’s creepy but he’s definitely a bit odd.
“I just want to reiterate,” Mrs. Whitmore says, breaking the silence with that brittle, overly polite tone I’ve come to dread, “that the prenatal vitamin schedule I sent over is non-negotiable. You may experience some mild nausea at first, but studies show it’s worth it for the neural development benefits. ”
I nod, even though I’ve read the email. All seven pages of it. “Of course,” I say. “We both want what’s best for your child.”
She rewards my compliance with a pinched smile. “Good. I’m glad we both agree.”
My fingers tighten around the strap of my purse.
My back is straight, my knees together and my spine is stiff.
There’s something so uncomfortable about the whole situation.
When I agreed to be a surrogate I was just thinking about the baby and the end result.
I hadn’t realized my entire life would be under such rigid control.
But I guess I understand where they’re coming from, this baby is precious to them.
And I desperately need the money, so I’ll do whatever’s needed.
“I’ve arranged for groceries to be delivered to your house this afternoon,” she says. “Everything pre-approved by the nutritionist. All organic and local. I included some bone broth. I know it’s not everyone’s favorite, but it really does help with uterine lining support.”
“Thank you,” I murmur, already calculating how I’ll freeze what I can’t stomach and take the rest to my gran when I visit her at the facility.
“And we’ve picked an OB/GYN,” she continues. “Dr. Krauss at Monarch Medical. She specializes in surrogacy pregnancies and has a reputation for providing quality care. You’ll be transferring to her immediately.”
That takes me a second to process her abrupt words. “Oh, I thought the clinic had someone on staff.”
“We don’t want to rely on in-house staff for anything more than implantation and confirmation,” she says. “Monarch is private, discrete, and has on-call access.”
It’s not really a suggestion. It’s a done deal. My stomach knots, because I’m getting virtually no say so in anything and it’s my body. But I nod politely. “Right. Of course.”
She doesn’t hear my discomfort. I don’t think she cares about me at all.
I’m just a rented uterus. I remind myself, once again that this isn’t personal.
This is a transaction. A service that is supposed to be undertaken for the purpose of helping a childless couple create the family of their dreams. That’s one of the reasons I wanted to be a surrogate.
But I also needed to do it for the money.
For my gran. That’s the biggest reason I’m here.
Gran’s medical bills are stacked to the ceiling.
Her insurance covers most but not all of what she needs.
The experimental treatments she’s a candidate for are wildly expensive and booked out six months in advance.
The specialist in San Diego says she needs scans, tests, and daily meds just to give her a fighting chance.
And I’m all she’s got. So, I signed the contract, passed the psych eval and nodded through the information sessions.
I agreed to let a stranger’s embryo be placed in my body in the hopes it would stick.
“Did you receive the update from the meditation app I sent?” Mrs. Whitmore asks suddenly.
I blink, squinting my eyes as I try to remember. “I… think so?”
“It syncs with your cycle tracking. If you don’t sync the accounts, the hormonal recommendations won’t optimize.”
“I’ll double check it.”
“I’d prefer if you did it now.” Her tone leaves no room for argument.
I fish my phone out of my purse with fingers that barely want to move.
Mrs. Whitmore watches me closely. If she weren’t wearing Dior and diamonds, she’d remind me of a prison warden.
This is just for nine months, I remind myself.
After that, they get what they want. And I get what I need—my gran’s medical issues resolved.
Unfortunately, we’ve barely started with the surrogacy process, and it already feels longer than nine months.
When Mrs. Whitmore barks orders, I feel like the walls are closing in on me.
I can already tell that I chose the wrong couple.
Maybe if the IVF wasn’t successful, I can back out and choose another couple.
A notification pops up on my phone. It’s an alert from the clinic:
Please remain in the waiting area. Your appointment will begin shortly.
My eyes flick up towards the nurse’s station just as a woman in lavender scrubs opens the door.
“Ms. Grant?” she says.
I nearly sag with relief. It’s stupid, but I feel as though I’ve been rescued from being pecked to death by Mrs. Whitmore. I jump to my feet saying, “That’s me.”
The Whitmores stand with dignity and grace, falling into step behind me as I walk through the door.
The hallway is bright, quiet, and sterile. Mrs. Whitmore’s high heels click against the tile. The nurse leads us into a consultation room with taupe walls and soft lighting. There’s a low couch, a couple of modern chairs, and a potted plant in the corner that might or might not be real.
I quickly grab a seat on the couch. Mrs. Whitmore sits beside me. She’s not too close, once again, close enough to keep me on edge. Her husband takes the chair opposite us, looking around the room like it’s the strangest thing he’s ever seen.
“I brought a printout,” Mrs. Whitmore says, reaching into her oversized handbag. She pulls out a manila folder, glossy tabs poking out. “This is the full prenatal schedule. Vitamins, nutrition, sleep tracking, hydration, screen time guidelines, and the scent list.”
“Scent list?” I say before I can stop myself.
She nods sharply. “Certain chemical perfumes and household cleaners can disrupt fetal neurological development. I included an approved cleaning product list, and a diffuser blend you can use instead. I had it formulated by a doula in Marin.”
“Oh. Okay.” I’ve decided that no matter how absurd she gets, I’m just going to nod and agree.
She has a stern, overpowering personality.
And if she wants me to use organic cleaning products handcrafted by artisans, then I’ll do it.
Though I’m guessing her scent rules don’t apply to her husband, who insists on wearing an eye-watering cologne which is giving me a headache.
She flips open the folder and shows it to me. “We also need to lock down the birthing plan. Natural, of course. No epidural unless there’s risk to the fetus. I’ve already spoken with Dr. Krauss’s office.”
“We haven’t even verified the…” I stop myself. Force myself to breathe and start over. “Shouldn’t we wait until we’re sure it worked?”
“We are sure. I have a very good feeling this time.” She says it like it’s a fact, not a bold prediction.
Her hand reaches into the folder again, and I brace. My God, what is she going to pull out next? I can’t imagine. Oh, it’s more documents, color-coded this time. There’s even a chart.
“Now, for food,” she says, smoothing the paper with long, perfectly manicured fingers. “We’ve eliminated dairy, soy, caffeine, wheat, corn, processed sugar, artificial colorings, and anything genetically modified.”
“That’s almost everything I eat.”
“It’s nine months,” she says, without a trace of sympathy. “Surely your grandmother can manage the groceries?”
I blink. Clearly, she doesn’t know that Gran is in a personal care home at the moment. “What?”
“The delivery orders,” she clarifies. “I’ve arranged for weekly deliveries, but it would be helpful if someone could accept them and ensure proper refrigeration. Or perhaps you could provide a key to your house?”
My jaw goes tight. “I don’t feel comfortable with that.”
“You signed the contract,” she interrupts. “There’s a clause regarding dietary compliance.”
“I signed a medical agreement, not a lease on my privacy.”
Mrs. Whitmore doesn’t blink. “Do you want to be paid?”
Her tone is soft, but it’s clear that if this IVF was successful, I’m in for nine months of hell.
Next to her, Mr. Whitmore just looks from one to the other of us, like he’s engrossed in every facet of our conversation.
I want Gran to live, I remind myself. I want her to walk again. Laugh again. I want her to stop forgetting who I am. So, I do what I always do, I agree. “I’ll find a way,” I say. “No need for a key.”
She seems satisfied for now, and that’s the best I can hope for in this moment.
“Excellent,” she purrs.