The Surrogate
Denise Baron added up the figures and nearly cried when she saw the sum on the digital readout of her pocket calculator.
"How am I ever going to afford college?" she groaned.
Even though she had taken a year off after high school graduation to work full-time to get a running start on her tuition, she was still miles away from the finish line. When she factored in room and board, books and all the other ancillary expenses associated with getting an advanced education, the bottom line was staggering.
"I'll be paying off student loans until I'm eligible for social security," she said with a grim view of her future.
Not for the first time, she doubted her course of action. After college graduation, she would be burdened with loans, car payments, rent and all other manner of debt the average American must endure. Maybe she would be better off keeping her secretarial job at the insurance agency. Although the salary was not a generous one, at least she would not have the cost of her education hanging over her head like the sword of Damocles.
In the midst of her moment of indecision, Denise's gaze fell on the photograph of her mother that was sitting on top of the fireplace mantel in her grandmother's living room. It had been her mother's dying wish that her daughter go to college and get an education.
"Don't wind up like me," the cancer-ravaged woman had cried, wincing with pain. "I've worked hard all my life, and I've got nothing to show for it: no house, no car, not even a decent winter coat. Hell, I don't even have a good pair of shoes to my name. Worst of all, I haven't anything to leave you except unpaid medical bills."
The dying woman's face softened, and she weakly squeezed her daughter's hand.
"All I got in life is my precious baby girl. I guess that makes me rich, after all, doesn't it?"
Tears came to Denise's eyes as she remembered the final parting with her mother and the promise she had made her.
"I'll go to school, Mama," she renewed her pledge, "even if I'm up to my eyeballs in debt for the remainder of my life."
* * *
Three days later Denise reached inside her mailbox, and her heart fluttered when she saw the return address on the large manila envelope. There was no need for her to rip it open; she knew what was inside: an application for admission to college. She walked into her grandmother's kitchen where she placed the mail and The Puritan Falls Gazette on the table. Then she sat down and stared at the envelope, afraid to touch it, as though it might burn her fingers.
Not yet willing to commit herself to such a life-changing venture, she picked up the Gazette and thumbed through the pages. She bypassed the national and world news since she was in no mood to read about the upcoming election or the worsening economy. The local section was much more to her liking. She was delighted to learn that two friends from high school had announced their engagement; Officer Shawn McMurtry, an old friend of the family's, had received a citation for his work with the youngsters in the community; and The Quill and Dagger was sponsoring a murder mystery dinner at the Sons of Liberty Tavern.
This was her home, Denise thought wistfully. When she went off to college, she would have to leave it for four long years. Yet while she would miss Puritan Falls, she knew the town would be much the same when she returned.
Denise glanced at the college application, which was still sealed inside its envelope. Should she open it now and get it over with? No, she still had not worked up the courage yet. She quickly turned the page of the Gazette and read through the classified ads announcing garage sales, pet adoptions and cars for sale. At the bottom of the page was a discreet ad asking for egg donors. Apparently, an unmarried couple was willing to pay ten thousand dollars to harvest the eggs of a healthy young woman.
Denise clutched the newspaper in her hands. She could not believe the wonderful opportunity the ad presented. Since she met all the requirements—she was young, healthy, and a woman—she immediately phoned the number in the ad.
* * *
"The results of your physical examination and blood tests have come in," Dr. Suzanne Babington announced when Denise took the patient's chair opposite the physician's large mahogany desk. "You're in perfect health."
Denise's pulse quickened.
"Does that mean you'll buy my eggs?"
Suzanne, an exceptionally attractive woman in her late forties or early fifties, laughed softly.
"You sound like a vendor at a farmer's market."
"I'm sorry," the girl apologized.
"No need to be. I'm sure it's not every day you agree to become an egg donor."
"So, I am accepted?"
"Yes. Why don't we discuss the details over lunch? My treat."
On the drive to Chez Pierre, one of Puritan Falls' finest dining establishments, Suzanne asked Denise about her family, her future plans and her reason for becoming a donor. Her questions were met with honest, straightforward answers.
"How exactly will this work?" Denise asked after the two women placed their order.
"I'll extract the eggs from your ovary by means of an ultrasound-guided needle. The ova will then be separated from the surrounding cells and fertilized in vitro. Three days later, one or more embryos will be placed in the womb of a surrogate mother."
"Oh."
It was all Denise could think to say. As the doctor had remarked herself, it was not every day the young woman became an egg donor.
"What's wrong? Are you having second thoughts?"
"No, not at all."
"Good. To be honest, several young women responded to the advertisement. For one reason or another, they were all rejected. You are the best candidate I've come across. I'd hate for you to back out now."
"No need to worry about that. I really need the money to put toward school."
The server appeared with their bread and salad, and only after he left did Dr. Babington continue the conversation.
"How much money are you interested in making?"
"Why? Do you have more than one childless couple who's willing to pay for my eggs?"
Suzanne smiled and looked Denise in the eye as though offering a direct challenge.
"What if, in exchange for putting off school for another year, you could earn enough money to pay your entire tuition and living expenses for all four years?"
"It if would help me pay for my education, I'd become the next Sam Walton and open up an Eggmart."
"I'm not talking about donating any more of your eggs. I'm talking about becoming a surrogate mother."
"You mean I'd carry the child in my womb and then give birth to it?"
"Yes. You would be provided with a place to live, complete with all the comforts of home. I'll keep watch over you and give you the best prenatal care possible. Then, after the child is delivered, you'll receive one hundred and fifty thousand dollars—cash."
Denise's jaw dropped open with surprise. Was she hearing correctly? The money the unknown couple was offering was more than enough to pay her living and education expenses for the next four years. She would be able to get her degree without having the yoke of debt around her neck.
"You can take a few days to think about it."
"What's to think about?" Denise declared, jumping to an immediate decision. "I'll do it."
Three weeks later, Denise entered Dr. Babington's office to have her eggs extracted. Soon after that a fertilized embryo was implanted in her womb. Once the procedure was completed, the young woman moved into a one-story ranch house that the doctor provided for her in a rural community in New Hampshire.
"It's quiet here," Suzanne explained when Denise noted the remoteness of the area. "That means less stress for you and the baby. But don't worry; you won't get bored. This place is equipped with satellite TV, highspeed Internet access and a library stocked with a wide selection of books, music and movies."
"And I'm being paid for this?" Denise laughed. "It sounds like a vacation."
"Tell me that in another six months, after you've suffered through morning sickness and your waistline has begun to expand."
* * *
Despite the doctor's predictions, Denise sailed smoothly through her first trimester. Other than a few mornings with a queasy stomach, the pregnant woman never felt better in her life.
"You're one of the lucky ones," Suzanne concluded after examining her patient. "Pregnancy takes its toll on some women. Others, like you, flourish. Just look at you: you're absolutely radiant. I can only hope the little boy you're carrying will be in as good health as you."
As Denise neared the end of her second trimester, she began to miss her grandmother and friends in Puritan Falls. The ranch, although a comfortable place in which to live, was becoming too confining. She needed a change of scenery, even if it was only a day out shopping, a drive along the coast or a train ride to Boston.
"I'm afraid leaving the house is out of the question," Suzanne insisted when Denise suggested spending the day with her grandmother.
"But why? Pregnant women go about their lives all the time. They have jobs; they play sports; they go on vacation. They don't board themselves up in their homes for nine months."
"You're not like other pregnant women. You're a paid surrogate. Are you willing to risk the one hundred and fifty thousand dollars you'd lose if something happened to the fetus?"
"No. I suppose not."
"You only have another three months left. Surely you can stick it out that long."
Denise gave it her best effort, but when the holiday season arrived, she became even more homesick.
"Those people"—she had no idea of the identity of the childless couple who was paying for her services—"can't possibly expect me to spend Thanksgiving and Christmas alone in this house!"
"I'll tell you what," the doctor suggested. "I'll bring you to my home for the holidays. Would you like that? I can keep an eye on you there, just in case you go into labor early."
Although it was not the same as spending the time with her family and friends, it was better than being alone.
* * *
Only one word could adequately describe the building that Suzanne Babington called home: a mansion. In size and grandeur, it equaled the White House and was probably built around the same time.
"The house was designed by Charles Bulfinch, who also designed the State House in Boston and the Capitol in Washington. It's been in my husband's family for more than two centuries."
"How many people live here with you?"
"None, actually. My servants come in the morning and leave when their work is done."
"You must get lonesome living in this big house all by yourself."
"I don't own the house," Suzanne said, her eyes narrowing and her jaw hardening. "When my husband died, it passed on to the next male in line, which is my husband's nephew. He's allowing me to live here until a find a suitable place of my own."
Denise could tell by the bitterness in the other woman's voice that the doctor was not happy about having to move.
When Suzanne opened the front door, Denise entered a world she had previously only glimpsed in movies and television programs. The grand staircase rivaled that in Tara. The authentic period furnishings were worth a small fortune—or maybe not such a small one.
"I can't even imagine living in a place like this," Denise exclaimed. "I would get lost finding my way to the bathroom. I'd have to leave a trail of breadcrumbs behind."
Suzanne led her guest to a small first-floor bedroom just off the kitchen, one with its own bathroom.
"This used to be the cook's room, but, like I said, the servants no longer live on the premises. I'm sorry about the small size, but I'd rather you not go up and down that staircase."
Denise remembered Scarlett O'Hara tumbling down the stairs of her Atlanta home and losing Rhett's baby.
"I'll avoid the stairs," she promised.
Thanksgiving dinner was delicious. Suzanne's cook was certainly skillful at her job. When an uncomfortable lull developed in the conversation, Denise asked about the baby's future parents.
"I'm not at liberty to tell you about them. Doctor-patient confidentiality, you know."
"I don't want their names and address, just generalities. Are they young? Middle-aged?"
"Listen, this really isn't any of your business."
Denise had never seen Dr. Babington act so rudely or unprofessionally. Was this the way she behaved in her own environment?
"What do you mean it's none of my business?" she countered. "This child is half mine. I'm concerned about his wellbeing."
"Isn't it a little late for you to develop maternal instincts. You've already sold the child and have no legal right to it."
Denise had no desire to lay claim to the baby. She only wanted her hundred and fifty thousand dollars, and then she would go off to college. But she did not like the way the doctor was treating her, so she decided to retaliate.
"Don't be too sure of that. Judges tend to be sympathetic toward natural mothers. If I hired a good lawyer, I just might get at least partial custody of ...."
Suzanne jumped up from her seat, upsetting her wine glass.
"You'll never get your hands on my boy," she screamed.
"Your boy?"
"Yes, my boy. Like you, I made a deathbed promise to someone, and nothing will stop me from keeping it."
* * *
As Denise lay in her bed that night, she wondered why Dr. Babington had resorted to lies and subterfuge in order to acquire a baby. Why had she not simply told Denise from the start that she wanted the child for herself? Despite her intentions of not becoming emotionally attached to the life inside her, the pregnant woman could not help wanting what was best for him.
"As a Babington, he would no doubt have all the advantages my mother couldn't afford to give me."
But what Denise's mother had given her was priceless: unconditional, unequivocal love. Was Suzanne Babington capable of such devotion? Were material wealth and possessions a suitable replacement for a mother's love?
Denise slept fitfully that night, tortured by doubt and indecision. When morning came, she was anxious to leave, even if it was only to return to the small ranch. But when she dressed and went into the kitchen, Denise discovered she was alone in the house, and worse, she was locked inside.
"That does it!" she exclaimed angrily. "Dr. Babington has no right to keep me in this gilded cage. I'm getting the hell out of here and going back home to Puritan Falls."
Unfortunately, escaping her multimillion dollar prison would not be easy. All the doors and windows were secured. The phones were shut off, and even the Internet connection to the computer was down.
"Dr. Babington seems to have thought of everything."
Still, Denise kept searching for a way out. This search eventually led her to the cellar, a cavernous maze of halls and doors. She opened the first door and found a room full of mason jars containing fruits and vegetables. The wine cellar was behind the next door. As she made her way through the hallways, Denise found more food, canning supplies, bottles of wine and small garden tools.
As she reached the farthest end of the cellar, she had all but given up hope. Then she opened a door and found herself in near total darkness. She shivered at the frigid temperature of the air that escaped. Could this be a freezer where the cook stored freshly butchered meat? Denise's eyes adjusted to the darkness, and she could see tiny colored lights twinkling like stars. The lights, coupled with constant humming sounds, indicated electronic equipment of some kind. Perhaps there was a way she could contact someone on the outside. She walked into the cold room, her hands out in front of her, feeling her way. Denise screamed when her fingers touched the cold, clammy face of Suzanne Babington's husband.
After nearly ten minutes of running her hands along the walls of the room, the frightened young woman managed to find a light switch. When the darkness was dispelled, she found herself in a pseudo hospital room with an old man who was hooked up to some type of cryogenic device. She stared in horror at the body; its chest was not moving. Charles Babington was a corpse being kept from putrefaction by modern technology.
Denise's stomach turned, and the sour taste of vomit rose in her mouth. She felt like Mia Farrow in Rosemary's Baby, only she was not carrying the devil's progeny but rather the child of a dead man. The terrified pregnant woman raced through the cellar and up into the main level of the huge house where she collapsed on the floor in tears. Why would Dr. Babington go to such great lengths to keep her husband's body from decaying?
A snippet of the previous day's conversation replayed in her mind. Charles Babington's house passed on to the next male heir. If his widow could produce a son that carried her late husband's DNA, she would not have to hand over the family home to her husband's nephew. That was why Suzanne had to keep her husband's body frozen: in the event something happened to the child Denise carried, the doctor would need more of her husband's sperm.
And I've been a party in her fiendish plot to rob the rightful heir of his inheritance, she thought with disgust.
Denise was reminded of the promise she made to her mother. Would that warm, loving woman expect her daughter to abandon her principles in order to keep that promise? She thought not.
* * *
It was a fairly easy delivery. The mother was in labor for only twelve hours. When the baby was born, she lay back on the bed, exhausted from her exertions. She was not sure if the doctor exclaimed "he's all mine" or "it's all mine." Either way, the meaning was the same: the tiny infant boy was Charles Babington's son and rightful heir, and as his mother, Suzanne would gain control of the fortune that went with the Babington name.
The doctor, protectively clutching the baby to her breast, looked down at Denise.
"In a few days, after you've had the chance to recuperate, I'll drive you back to Puritan Falls where I've opened a bank account in your name. You've done well, and I'll always be grateful to you."
Denise did not want the money or the doctor's gratitude. She wanted to hold her child.
* * *
A late model Mercedes parked in the rear lot of the courthouse. The driver opened the door to allow Suzanne Babington to step out. The nanny, sitting on the other side of the seat, opened her own door and removed her charge from his infant car seat. There was no need to bring the child to the proceedings, but Suzanne thought his being there would add a touch of melodrama to the otherwise boring court case.
James Babington, her late husband's nephew, was contesting his uncle's will, as Suzanne knew he would. The doctor's attorney, though, assured her that James did not stand a chance of winning. The terms of the will were straightforward, and there was no doubt whatsoever that the baby was Charles's child.
As Suzanne walked into the courtroom, she turned and nodded a greeting to James. She could afford to be civil since her adversary was bound to lose. When the doctor took her place at the table opposite the one at which James and his lawyer sat, she wore an air of confidence and a smile of victory. When the curtain opened on the courtroom drama, however, things did not go as she had anticipated, and both her confidence and smile soon disappeared.
"We're not disputing that the boy is the biological child of Charles Babington," James's attorney told the presiding judge. "My client has no desire to keep his young cousin from inheriting what is rightfully his. He fully admits the boy is the legal heir to the estate."
The smile temporarily reappeared on Suzanne's face, only to vanish again as the lawyer continued.
"But the child is only an infant and as such cannot take possession of the property until he is of age."
Dr. Babington's attorney interrupted his opponent.
"Surely you're not suggesting your client be appointed the child's legal guardian. The boy has a mother."
"Yes, he does, and my client asks that the boy's mother—his biological mother—be given sole custody of the child."
The courtroom door opened on cue and in walked Denise Baron, who took the empty seat beside James Babington. Suzanne's face flushed with anger, and she turned to have a word with her lawyer.
"Your honor," her attorney protested, "this woman has no claim on the child. She was paid to act as a surrogate since my client is unable to have children."
It was at that point that things turned ugly. The nephew's attorney related the fact that Suzanne met Charles Babington while he was hospitalized, and they were married less than six months when the old man passed away. Denise was then asked to describe for the court the discovery of Charles's body in the cellar of his mansion. The young woman's testimony had the desired effect: the members of the court and the spectators looked at Suzanne as though she were a ghoul who had dug up her husband from his grave so that she could steal his sperm and use it to get her hands on his fortune.
The more macabre aspects of the case aside, the judge was bound by oath to uphold the laws of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. It was up to him to determine who the child legally belonged to.
"Dr. Babington, do you have a signed contract between you and Miss Baron, outlining the terms of the surrogacy agreement?"
Suzanne blanched.
"No, your honor. I never put the agreement in writing, but Denise and I had an understanding. I paid her one hundred and fifty thousand dollars to bear my child."
"The account was opened by Dr. Babington," the nephew's attorney clarified, "but Miss Baron hasn't touched a penny of that money. Your honor, the commonwealth realizes how difficult it is for a mother to give up her child. So in the case of adoption, the biological parent is always given an opportunity to change her mind. This young woman was assured that her baby would be placed in a loving home with its biological father and his wife. Such was not the case. Dr. Babington misrepresented the situation."
After all the arguments both for and against Suzanne's claim to the child were presented, the judge announced his decision.
"Since there was never a signed and notarized contract between the doctor and the child's mother, I must handle the situation as an illegal adoption. As such, you, Dr. Babington, have no claim on the child. With the baby's biological father unable to care for him, I am awarding sole custody to the child's natural mother."
James Babington then turned to Denise and congratulated her on their mutual victory. Suzanne was clearly crushed.
"Furthermore," the judge added, "I see no reason why the child should not inherit his father's estate. Miss Baron, I order you to return the one hundred and fifty thousand dollars to Dr. Babington."
"Gladly, hour honor."
* * *
"I don't know how to thank you," Denise told James as they were leaving the courthouse.
"There's no need to thank me," he replied with a dimpled smile. "I'm just glad to see that gold-digging body snatcher get what was coming to her."
"You know, the baby and I don't really need the house and all that money. If you ...."
James leaned forward and silenced her with a kiss, an action that took both of them by surprise.
"Don't worry about the house and money. Your son is the rightful heir. Uncle Charles would want him to have it. Besides, I've got a townhouse in Boston, a penthouse in New York and a beach house in the Hamptons, so I'm not in need of a place to hang my hat."
Denise's eyes lowered demurely, and James had the sudden urge to kiss her again.
"Still," he continued, as his arm went around her shoulders, "I intend to be a frequent guest at the old family homestead. After all, I'll need to keep close watch over my tiny cousin here."
Denise kissed James's cheek and sent a silent apology to her mother's spirit. She would not be going off to college after all, as she would be needed at home to care for her son. The deathbed promise would not be kept, but she was sure her mother would not only understand but would wholeheartedly approve of her decision.
I think the doctor put the wrong ingredients in the petri dish. This can't be Salem's surrogate child.
