The Offering (29 page)

I reached for the chair to steady myself. With every ultrasound and measurement, the doctor had made some sort of comment about the baby's small size. I ignored those comments because I'd heard the egg donor was petite. But what if the donor's size didn't matter? What if the baby had appeared small because he was conceived not in March, but in April?

Tears blurred my vision as I walked over and flung open my closet door. The journal I kept during the pregnancy lay in a box buried beneath a stack of containers I hadn't yet unpacked. I yanked on boxes, pulled them out, and spilled their contents. I found the journal in a box with our tax returns, and thanked heaven for my packrat tendencies.

I hugged the slender volume to my chest, crawled over to the desk, and climbed into the chair. In a small cone of lamplight, I opened the book and flipped to the early pages.

I read about the embryo transfer . . . Amelia's decision to adopt . . . the beta pregnancy test . . . and the first email from Simone. I turned more pages and read about the day I began spotting . . . and the canceled ultrasound appointment.

I closed my eyes. Spotting can be insignificant, but it can also be a sign of miscarriage. Later I assumed the bleeding occurred because
the first twin didn't implant, but I might have miscarried both babies and remained completely unaware of what had happened. Then my hormone-charged body, prepared and ready to nourish a baby, welcomed a fertilized egg resulting from my union with my husband. The embryo implanted and the baby began to grow.

My baby. Mine and Gideon's.

With my heart in my throat, I flipped more pages in the journal. On May eighth I missed an ultrasound because the doctor's machine was down, but we heard a heartbeat. More proof that I was indeed pregnant, so I assumed everything was fine with the surrogate pregnancy.

Another of Gideon's maxims came back to me:
Never assume.

By the time I made it into Dr. Hawthorn's office, she'd heard a heartbeat, all right—she could have heard
my
baby's beating heart. And what did she tell me later? I flipped through my journal to find her words:
This baby might be a bit of a slow starter.

All those nights Gideon and I fell asleep with his hand protectively thrown across my belly, he might have been guarding his own child.

The son he had always wanted.

Tears began to flow as fresh horror overwhelmed me.
How
it happened no longer mattered; all I wanted was the truth. I had to tell Natasha Bray about my suspicions, and she would have to tell the Amblours that they might not have any right to the child in their home. Julien could be my child, my blood and bone.

Gideon had selflessly given his life in the service of his country, but he would never willingly surrender his son to strangers.

If those people had my boy, I would move heaven and earth to get him back.

Because blood trumped everything.

Amelia looked tired when she stopped by to deliver the day's receipts to Mama Isa.

“Mama,” she called, coming through the front door.
“¿Donde está?”

I didn't want her to talk to Mama Isa, at least not yet. I had to show her what I'd discovered.

“Amelia.” I found her in the den, caught her arm, and dragged her into the living room.

“What?” A frown creased her forehead as she followed me. “Is something wrong?”

I pulled two photos—Julien's and Marilee's—from my pocket and pressed them into her palm. “I got a card today; the Amblours sent it. Now look at those two photos and tell me what you see.”

She stared at the pictures, then blinked. “I see two kids. This is Marilee, and I presume this is the French boy.”

“Julien. My baby.”

She smiled and looked again. “My, he's getting big. What is he now, three?”

“He'll be two years old tomorrow. And Marilee's two in that picture.”

“So?”

“So what do you see? Look carefully—don't you see a resemblance?”

She glanced at the photos again, then she studied me. “Are you okay? You look flushed.”

“I'm fine. But these pictures—”

“I see two photos. Two shots of two-year-olds.”

“But they look alike, don't you see? Except for the hair.”

Amelia studied them again. “I guess they do look a little bit alike—once you realize that they both have two eyes, a nose, and a mouth. Oh, and they both have brown hair.”

I inhaled a deep breath, annoyed by her refusal to acknowledge the obvious. “It's more than that and you know it. Look closely—their mouths have the same shape, their noses are practically identical, and their eyes are exactly the same shade of brown.”

“Anyone would have brown eyes in that kind of lighting.”

I stared at the picture again, wondering if I had missed something. “Are you sure?”

Amelia crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes. “I know what you're thinking, but this kid is not Marilee's brother. I know you'd like that to be the case, but it's not possible. You miss Gideon, so you're pinning your hopes on this kid—”

Ignoring her, I began to pace again. “The thing I can't figure out is why they'd send me a picture now. Unless maybe
they've
noticed the resemblance. They've seen Marilee, they know what she looks like, so maybe they're trying to figure out how this could have happened.”

Amelia sighed and lifted her gaze to the ceiling, then seemed to come to a decision. “Wait here,” she said. I watched, puzzled, as she left the living room and stepped into the study.

Unwilling to wait, I followed. I found Amelia sitting at Jorge's desk, shuffling through the contents of a drawer. Finally she pulled out a manila envelope. She opened it and removed another vellum envelope, identical to the one I'd opened earlier.

“They didn't
just
send a card,” Amelia said, her voice flat. “Tomorrow is the kid's birthday, right? They kept their promise and sent one last year, too. But when we found this one in the mail, Mama and I thought you didn't need a reminder of that awful time. When you didn't ask about the Amblours or mention the baby's birthday, we put the card away.”

I stared at the other envelope, trying to make sense of what she'd said. “You kept personal mail from me?”

“We thought you'd ask about them if you really wanted to know how the kid was getting along.”

“You kept a personal letter from me,” I repeated. “I think that's illegal.”

“So take us to jail. Mama and I only did it because we didn't want you to be upset. Getting through the anniversary of Gideon's death was hard enough for you. This would have made it worse.”

I knew I ought to be furious with her, but curiosity overpowered every other emotion. I yanked a letter opener from a mug
on the desk, then ripped the envelope from side to side. Within a minute I had opened the card and pulled out another photo, this one of Julien at twelve months. The photo could have been a shot of Marilee at the same age.

On the accompanying card, Simone had written a variation of the message I'd read earlier: she and Damien were thinking of me at this special time in their lives, they sent their love, they would always be grateful. And Simone had again enclosed a memento. This morning's card had contained thick little curls, but this envelope held wisps of baby-fine hair.

I pressed my hand over my mouth as a burst of anger tore through me. If I had seen this card earlier, I might not have spent the last year of my life idling in neutral. If a wrong had been committed, I might have had a year to make things right.

“Mandy?” Amelia looked at me, her eyes filled with helpless appeal. “Don't be upset with us. We only did what we thought was best for you.”

“How can you know what's best for me?” I drew a long, quivering breath, barely mastering the anger quivering at my core. “I don't know what's best for me, so how can you know anything?”

Amelia's face rippled with anguish, but for once I didn't care.

Between my discovery of Amelia's secret and Mama Isa's call to dinner, I managed to bridle my anger toward my interfering relatives. I knew they hadn't meant to hurt me, and I
had
lived in a dark place during those first months after Gideon's death. If Simone had sent a photo of a blond, round-faced, pale-skinned French boy, their decision to hide the first letter wouldn't have felt like a dagger in my heart.

But the child in those pictures looked nothing like Damien Amblour and quite a bit like Gideon. And that resemblance spurred me to action.

Marilee was attending a Christmas party at a friend's house,
so at dinner I commandeered the conversation and made everyone pass around my collection of assorted photographs. Opinion at the table, however, was far from unanimous. While Mama Isa and Jorge admitted that the two children did favor one another, they seemed unwilling to concede that a mistake could have been made under “such scientific conditions.” Amelia and Mario flatly stated that the kids didn't look at all alike, while Yanela and Gordon tended to waver, asking confused questions in Spanish and siding with whoever was speaking at the time.

I watched with special interest when Gideon's mother picked up the picture of Julien. Elaine stiffened for an instant, cast a quick glance at Tumelo, and studied the photo again.

Then she snapped the picture on the table like a card shark playing four aces. “
Estoy segura.
I don't need to compare this with Marilee's picture. That is Gideon's son. I would know my grandchild anywhere.”

“Elaine,” Amelia said, a pleading note in her voice, “surely you're mistaken. This cannot be Gideon's child. These medical people take precautions, they employ sophisticated technologies and safeguards and tests—”

“I don't know much about technology.” Elaine folded her hands in her lap. “But a mother knows her son's face, and I see it in this child.
Este es el hijo de Gideón.
”

She looked directly at me, and for the first time in my life I saw respect glowing in her eyes. “You were right to show us the truth, Amanda. Now . . . what do we do about it?”

I stared, surprised by her confidence and her challenge. What were we to do? What
could
we do?

“I—I don't know,” I admitted. “I'm not sure what the steps are, but there has to be some kind of procedure for correcting a mistake like this. I suppose I should start at the Surrogacy Center.”

“I never thought you should get involved with that place”—Elaine's eyes narrowed—“but if it is what God uses to bring me a grandson, I will trust
el Dios.
He knows what he is doing.”
Something like a smile lifted the corners of her eyes as she turned toward her husband. “Imagine, Tumelo—after all this time and so much sadness, God has blessed us with a grandson.”

He lifted his glass to her, they smiled, and he drank.

When Natasha Bray appeared delighted to see me, I realized she had no idea why I'd made an appointment at her office.

“Mandy!” She beamed as she stepped out from behind her desk. “I've thought about you so many times over the past few months. How are you and your darling daughter?”

I smiled and said Marilee was fine and we were doing as well as could be expected, considering our loss. Natasha's smile vanished at this reference to Gideon's death, but she perched on the edge of her desk and gestured toward an empty chair. “What brings you to see me? Are you thinking about volunteering for another couple? Experienced surrogates are in demand, you know. They earn quite a bit more.”

I sat and gripped the arms of the chair. “Actually, Natasha, I'm here because—well, let me begin by showing you something.” I slipped the photos of two-year-old Marilee and Julien from my purse and handed them to her. “Notice anything unusual?”

Her lips pursed in a rosette as she scanned the images. “I know Marilee, of course, but”—she flashed the picture of Julien toward me—“who is this sweet lad? One of her cousins?”

“That is Julien Amblour,” I replied. “And you see the resemblance, don't you? Looking at these pictures, I can't help but wonder if Julien is my son.”

Confusion flickered over her face. “You can't possibly think—”

“I've considered it carefully, and I believe the baby I carried was mine and Gideon's. He was unusually small throughout the pregnancy, I missed a crucial early ultrasound, and we never did any genetic testing.”

“We had no need for it. You were healthy, the baby was healthy—”

I waved her words away. “I want to consult with my doctor, and I want the Amblours to do some kind of paternity test to settle the matter. After all, Damien was determined to have a biological child, right? If Julien isn't Damien's son, the Amblours shouldn't want him. And if he's my son”—my voice broke—“I
do
want him. I need to get him home where he belongs, the sooner, the better. He ought to know his real family.”

A flicker of shock widened Natasha's eyes and something that looked like panic tightened her mouth. “Get a grip on your emotions, Amanda; we need to think this through. You can't come in here and demand an investigation simply because you believe these two children look alike. I don't see any resemblance.”

“You thought they were related.”

“I didn't know what they were. I was hazarding a guess.”

“Maybe you don't
want
to see how much they look alike.”

“Maybe you
do.
Maybe you're so desperate to see similarities that your mind is playing tricks on you. After all, you've just come through a period of mourning . . . and I'm beginning to wonder if you aren't still grieving.”

I bit my lower lip, barely managing to rein in my restless emotions. My heart stirred with a dozen feelings, but irritation led the pack. “I will always miss Gideon,” I told her, “but I haven't lost my mind.”