me if you have any problems?”
“Okay,” I answer, my heart full. “I hope you’re doing well too, Lucy.”
“Bye.”
“Bye.”
I get off, with a smile stamped on my face. I hug the tablet to my chest for a moment and then I practically skip back the rest of the way home. I walk upstairs, drop the tablet on the bed and go into the closet and stand in front of the full-length mirror.
I turn around and study myself, head to toe, from every angle.
I haven’t changed much, besides the enormous belly. I’m still the same squat, thick-thighed girl I’ve always been. But my skin glows more because its sun kissed and I have more muscle, and I guess my long hair is shinier? But, I have to admit I really like how I look now. This body is able to grow another being. My mind and my creativity are able to fix up this house. My voice is able to sing and talk and chat about the subjects I love. My heart can lead me to help others.
I guess the only other real change is my attitude about myself and my brighter, more form fitting clothes?
I look at myself—six months pregnant—and I say out loud “I’m pretty.”
And then I realize I’ve been pretty all along; I just didn’t know it.
Soon I’ll be giving birth to a baby that isn’t be mine. And I really think I’m handling this well, like a real, professional gestational surrogate. I can do this.
But then something happens that cracks it all wide open.
Bergelmir’s mother and I are walking together down the hallway one day and she says: “You should pick out a room as a nursery. You’re getting close to your time. Don’t you need to get ready for the baby?”
“Bestla…” It’s like she’s shoving her fingers right into my open wound and wiggling her fingers around in the blood and gore.
“I mean, there’s plenty of rooms in this house,” she says absently. “Maybe just choose the room that’s closest to your room? I can help you with—”
“Bestla,” I repeat, this time with a sharper tone than I intended.
She turns to look at me, “What? Chloe, it’s just that you know you’re having a boy now, so this is easier to plan out and the baby needs…”
“Bestla,” I yell as I completely lose my composure, “this isn’t my baby, stop talking like that. Berg will return in time and he can ready the nursery for his son.”
Her face falls and I can see the moment she realizes what she’s done.
And then I turn and waddle down the hall and into my bedroom and slam the door behind me, tears streaming down my face.
I can’t keep it all inside anymore. I’ve tried to hide my feelings in this matter, pretending that everything is fine, but it’s hard.
I managed to remodel this entire house, but I can’t work on that nursery. It will break my heart into a million tiny pieces. How can I plan for the arrival of a baby that isn’t mine? I guess this would be fine if I’d really had my head on straight about what I was doing here. If I were a real, actual gestational surrogate, like the other females in my support group, this wouldn’t be an issue. They’d be happy to help out and ready the nursery for the baby they’re carrying. Except… now my dirty little secret is out, isn’t it?
I’ve always wanted this baby to be mine.
I want this house to be mine.
And most of all, I want Berg to be mine too.
Later, I suck up my tears, Bestla and I exchange apologies and we hug it out. And I move on with life. What else is there to do?
But then a few days later, as I’m walking to my room with my normal nighttime snack and drink, about to ready for bed, I notice the door to the room right next to mine is cracked open. That’s weird. I pause and set down my food and drink in my room, and then I go back out into the hall.
I tentatively step into the other room, the room that I’ve secretly always wanted to be the baby’s nursery and I turn on the light.
“Oh my gods,” I gasp.
I find it filled with all the baby items I’ve ever dreamed of purchasing. I step inside and turn around, staring at everything in wonder and amazement. It’s beautiful. A perfectly decorated nursery for a baby boy.
The room is painted a soft