The Surrogate Mother Page 15

  “You don’t think that’s at all suspicious?”

  “No, I don’t! And you can’t seem to keep track of any of your meetings. You mixed up the times for Monica’s appointments. Plus you’re constantly talking about how you think Monica is up to something…”

  “She almost got me fired!”

  “No.” He takes another step back. “You got yourself fired.”

  My stomach sinks. “Sam, I swear to you: I’m not taking meth.”

  He doesn’t say anything.

  “Please.” The tears spring to my eyes again. “You’ve got to believe me. You’re my husband. If you don’t believe me, then…”

  Sam blinks a few times. “I… I’ve got to get to work, Abby.”

  “Do you believe me?”

  He lets out a long sigh. “Yeah. I guess so.”

  I try to reach for him again, but he jerks away. It’s obvious that in spite of what he says, he doesn’t really believe me. My own husband thinks I’m a meth addict.

  Chapter 26

  I spend most of the day wandering the city aimlessly. I walk to all my favorite shops, looking at clothes and bedding and perfume, but I buy nothing. I don’t even eat lunch. Shelley texts me a bunch of times, but I don’t want to feed her gossip. I just want to be alone.

  Sam comes home after nine, which is unheard of for him. Usually he’s home by five, and if for any reason he’s later than that, he texts me. I texted him to ask where he was, but he never responded. He just shows up after the sun is already down, his hair disheveled, smelling slightly of alcohol. And—maybe this is my paranoia talking—he also smells like Monica’s lavender-scented perfume.

  “Do you want dinner?” I ask him when he walks through the door. “I got pizza.”

  “I already ate,” he mumbles.

  “Where?”

  He shrugs.

  “Monica’s apartment?” I say pointedly.

  He glares at me. Maybe I shouldn’t have said that, but what else am I supposed to say when my husband comes home late and smelling like another woman’s perfume? I didn’t do anything wrong. I don’t take meth, and he should know that.

  “I’m going to go to bed,” he says as he pulls off his tie, which is already hanging loose around his neck.

  “But it’s only nine-thirty.”

  “Yeah, well.”

  Except he doesn’t go straight to bed. He goes in the bathroom and I hear the shower running for about half an hour. I turn the television to the news because it’s about all I can focus on right now. This has been one of the worst days of my life. That day we lost the baby was bad, but this is right up there. At least when that happened, I had Sam’s support. I don’t know how he could possibly believe I’m a meth addict. I haven’t been acting that weird.

  Have I?

  Just as I’m about to get up to go to bed myself, Sam stomps out of the bedroom, his hair damp, dressed in boxers and an undershirt. He’s holding a plastic bag in his hand.

  “What the hell is this?” he says.

  I stare at the object in his hand. It’s a Ziploc bag which appears to be filled with small, white crystals. “Is it jewelry?”

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” He’s nearly shouting now. He shakes the bag in my face. “Are you honestly going to tell me you don’t know what this is?”

  I take the bag out of his hand. It looks like crystals. Like rock candy or something. I have no idea what this is. Except…

  “Oh my God, is this meth?” I breathe.

  “You tell me,” he snaps. “I found it in your drawer!”

  “You were snooping through my drawers?”

  “Yes, I was.” He glares at me. “You just failed a drug screen at work and you’ve been acting insane lately, so yes, I looked through your drawers. But I don’t think that’s the most important issue here.”

  “I swear to you, Sam,” I say. “I’ve never seen this before.”

  “Well, why was it in your drawer?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You and I are the only two people who live here. I didn’t put it there. So if it wasn’t you, who did?”

  “I… I don’t know.” I flinch at the anger on his face. “But you’ve got to believe me—it’s not mine.”

  “Right,” he snorts. “So it’s in your urine and in your drawer, but it’s not yours. You can see why this is a little hard for me to believe.”

  “Someone must have put it there.”

  “Who? Santa Claus?”

  I squeeze my fists together. “I don’t know. But I’ve never seen that bag before in my life.”

  Sam plucks the bag out of my hand and looks at it in disgust. “I’m flushing this down the toilet.”

  “Don’t do that!”

  He shakes his head. “Why not?”

  “Because it’s evidence. There might be fingerprints on it.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.” He rolls his eyes. “You know what will happen if you get caught with this? You’ll go to jail. I’m flushing it. Sorry—you’ll have to get your next high somewhere else.”

  I stare after him in disbelief. I look down at my hands, which are shaking badly. I don’t know what’s going on here. Is it possible I’m a meth addict and don’t know it? Maybe I have one of those conditions where I black out and have a whole other life on the side. Is that possible? Because he’s right—there’s only one logical explanation for all of this.

  And it doesn’t make me feel very good about myself.

  Chapter 27

  For the first time in a long time, I sleep like a rock. It’s surprising, given how anxious I was all day. I thought I’d be awake until two in the morning with thoughts racing through my head, which has become the norm lately. But instead, the second my head hits the pillow, I’m out like a light, even though I didn’t take a sleeping pill. I don’t even wake up during the night to pee, which is practically a miracle.

  When I get up, Sam isn’t in the bed anymore. He didn’t sleep on the couch or anything, but he slept as far on his side of the bed as possible without being in an entirely different bed. I’ve never fought like this with him in the entire decade we’ve known each other. It’s depressing.

  I stumble out of bed and hit the bathroom. When I see myself in the mirror over the sink, I almost gasp. I look awful. My hair has that Bride of Frankenstein look it always gets when I’ve slept too long, and there are a few new gray hairs that weren’t there the last time I looked at myself. There are deep purple circles under my eyes and my cheeks are hollowed out. Honestly, if someone held up a photo of a woman who looked like me and said she was a meth addict, I’d believe it. No wonder Sam was suspicious.

  I forgo a shower because I’m suddenly starving. I pad out to the kitchen to get some food… and stop short at the sight of the couple sitting on my couch.

  Sam and Monica.

  What is she doing here?

  “You’re awake,” Sam notes, a clearly forced smile on his lips.

  Sam is dressed for work, wearing a crisp white shirt with a tie, and he’s clean-shaven. Even though he might not be wearing Prada or Armani, he looks very good right now. This is the version of Dr. Adler that makes all the undergrad girls fall in love with him. Monica is wearing a blue maternity dress that shows off her substantial cleavage, and her hair looks luscious and silky. The two of them are a really attractive couple. I think of the reflection of myself in the bathroom mirror and wince. Also, I’m wearing pajama shorts and an oversized T-shirt, neither of which is doing me any favors.

  “Um, what’s going on?” I say.

  “Can you sit down for a minute, Abby?” Sam says.

  I finger the rat’s nest on my head. “Can I shower first?”

  “No, I’ve got to get to work, and we really need to talk to you.” His brown eyes meet mine, but the usual affection is absent. “This won’t take long.”

  I don’t know what they have to say to me, but it’s clearly nothing good. Still, I settle down in the armchair across from
them. Monica crosses her legs, smiling kindly at me. I want to punch her in the face.

  “Monica and I had a long discussion yesterday,” Sam begins. Ha, I knew he smelled like her perfume! What the hell was that woman doing with my husband the whole evening? “And she has some very valid concerns.”

  “Concerns?” I echo.

  He glances at Monica, then plows forward. “She’s worried about the adoption, given your recent problems with… you know, drugs.”

  “I don’t have a drug problem!” I burst out. “This is all just a huge mistake!”

  The two of them exchange looks. I really dislike these meaningful looks they’re giving each other. Monica barely knows him! I’m his wife!

  “I think Monica’s concerns are really valid,” he says. “And… well, we’ve come up with a compromise. We’d like you to attend an inpatient drug rehabilitation program.”

  My mouth falls open. “You want me to go to rehab?”

  He nods. “Yes. There are a lot of great programs. I called up a bunch of them yesterday and—”

  “I’m not going to rehab!” This is insane. I’m not going to rehab when I haven’t done drugs even once in my entire life!

  Monica puts her hand on Sam’s. I want to reach across the coffee table and strangle her with my bare hands. “I told you she wasn’t going to want to do it.”

  “This is not negotiable, Abby,” Sam says. “If you don’t do this, I’m going to allow Monica out of her contract.”

  I can’t believe this is happening. How could I be in this situation? I don’t do drugs. The only way it could be in my urine is if someone slipped it to me. But how could that happen? I can’t even think of a time when…

  Wait a minute…

  “My coffee!” I gasp, pointing at Monica. “You bring me coffee every morning. You must be slipping it in my coffee!”

  Monica’s eyes widen. Sam, on the other hand, turns bright red. “Abby, please, you’re embarrassing yourself,” he says.

  “Don’t you see?” I cry. “It’s the only explanation!” I glare at her. “And she probably grabbed my keys out of my purse and made a copy, then planted the meth in the drawer.”

  Sam drops his head into his hands. “Abby…”

  I stand up off the chair, my legs trembling underneath me. “Search her purse, Sam. I bet you’ll find a copy of my keys in there.”

  Sam stands up too. “Are you out of your mind, Abby? I’m not searching her purse!”

  “I don’t mind if you look through my purse,” Monica speaks up.

  “No.” Sam folds his arms across his chest. “You’re out of control, Abby. I mean it. I want you to think about what I said about going to rehab, because if you don’t… well, I just don’t know.”

  I stare at him. “What does that mean?”

  He’s quiet for a moment, the silence heavy between us. He finally looks down at Monica. “Mon, could you step outside? I need to talk to Abby alone.”

  “Of course, Sammy,” she says softly. “I’ll… um, see you later.”

  Mon. Sammy. Oh, and later. What does “later” mean?

  Monica leaves our apartment, closing the door quietly behind her. She doesn’t lock it though, although she could have, because I’m a hundred percent sure she’s got our keys in her damn bag. She knew Sam would never agree to search her. She’s smart, that one.

  It’s very quiet when we’re alone. Despite everything, Sam looks really good in his shirt and tie. I wish we could put all this drug business aside and he would kiss me. But I’m beginning to wonder if he’ll ever kiss me again.

  “Abby.” He takes one of my hands in his. That’s promising. “Monica is gone now. It’s just us. Please tell me the truth.”

  “Sam…”

  “Please.” He blinks a few times like he’s trying to hold back tears. “I won’t be angry with you. I want to help you, Abby. Just… be honest with me. I deserve that after all these years.”

  Wow. He’s almost making me wish I were a meth addict.

  “I’m telling you the truth,” I say. “Monica has been drugging me.”

  “Goddamn it,” he says under his breath. He drops his head. “You understand the position I’m in, Abby, right? This isn’t just a regular adoption. This is my kid.”

  “Our kid.”

  “No,” he says. “My kid. This is half my DNA. My son. If you decide you don’t want to do this or if Monica backs out, which she has every right to given the circumstances, I still have an obligation to be there for her. I’m not going to walk away from this.”

  I feel like I’m going to throw up. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying,” he says, “please think about this rehab program.”

  “Sam…”

  “Think about it,” he says again. He lets out a long sigh. “I’ve got to go to work. But we’ll talk more about it later. Okay?”

  I nod, not trusting myself to speak. I realize at this point I can’t convince my husband I don’t have a drug problem. I don’t see any way out of this.

  Chapter 28

  Nobody believes me about Monica. Nobody.

  Sam adores her. He believes everything she says unquestioningly.

  My ex-boss Denise thinks she’s a prodigy. She’s probably going to get my job soon.

  I have to figure out some way to prove Monica isn’t as great as she said she is. I need some sort of evidence of wrongdoing on her part. But what? Absolutely the only person she’s targeted is me. Well, except for…

  Gertie.

  When my former assistant came to visit, she mentioned she felt like she had been pushed down the stairs. She claimed she was joking, but I’m not so sure. What if Gertie really was pushed down the stairs? What if Monica wanted to get her out of the way so she could take the role of my new assistant?

  It’s a long shot, but then again, it’s not like I’ve got anything better to do today.

  I find Gertie’s home number in my cell phone. When I call her, the phone rings several times, and I start to get worried maybe Monica finished her off to eliminate any loose ends.

  Wow, maybe I really am getting paranoid.

  “Hello?” Gertie’s voice shouts into the phone. When Gertie is on her cell phone, she seems unable to modulate the volume of her voice. It was something that used to drive me crazy about her, but now I miss it desperately. I’d take Gertie’s shouting over Monica’s clipped efficiency any day. “Who is this?”

  “Hi, Gertie. It’s Abby.”

  “WHO?”

  That’s another thing. Gertie can’t seem to hear anything coming out of the phone. Which could explain why she shouts. “ABBY ADLER! FROM WORK! ABBY!”

  There’s a long pause. “Oh! Abby! It’s so good to hear from you, dear!”

  “Listen, Gertie,” I say, “I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions?”

  “WHAT?”

  I grit my teeth. “Can we meet somewhere Gertie? I’ll come to any restaurant you like.”

  “Oh, that’s so sweet, but I just ate lunch, dear!”

  “Gertie,” I say patiently. “I just need to talk to you. Coffee, maybe?”

  “Oh! Well, that would be lovely!”

  I breathe a sigh of relief. It’s a long shot, but maybe Gertie remembers seeing Monica in the stairwell that day. I don’t know if anyone at work will believe it, but maybe Sam will. I’m desperate to get him on my side. I’m not just being paranoid about Monica. I’m not.

  _____

  Gertie selects a small coffee shop just down the block from her apartment. I arrive before she does and order myself a black coffee, although what I really want is a stiff shot of whiskey. Probably better not to get drunk in the middle of the afternoon though. Also, I suspect this coffee shop doesn’t stock whiskey. They probably don’t even have a liquor license.

  I settle down at a small round table between a guy with a goatee typing furiously on his laptop, and an older woman who’s staring wistfully out the window. I take a long sip of my black coffee
, shuddering at the bitter taste.

  Gertie arrives at the coffee shop a few minutes later, leaning heavily on her four-pronged cane. She is limping so badly, it makes me want to burst into tears. Prior to her spill on the stairs, Gertie was always bustling around the office, a little ball of energy. Her injury clearly took a lot out of her. I wonder if she’ll ever be the same again.

  When she makes it to our table, I get to my feet and we hug. Probably for far too long. Long enough that Gertie feels a need to comment: “Is everything all right, Abby dear? You seem so sad.”

  I take a deep breath, struggling not to cry. These are the first kind words I’ve heard all day. “I’ll be fine. How are you doing?”

  “Oh, you know…” Gertie smiles and pats her puffy white hair. “Retirement has its benefits. I’ve been getting to spend more time with my little grandson. What a handful he is!”

  “That’s wonderful.”

  “We spent three hours yesterday playing with Legos!” she sighs. “I never thought I was capable of playing with Legos that long! They’re actually sort of fun though. What a great idea for a toy. Although I’m not entirely sure how they managed to make so many movies about them. I mean, they’re just blocks, aren’t they?”

  I force a smile. “Yes.”

  “Anyway, you’re going to have your hands full with that new baby, Abby! I’m so happy for you.”

  A lump rises in my throat. Don’t cry. Don’t cry, Abby.

  “And how’s your husband Samuel?” she asks. “He was such a sweet man. He must be very excited too.”

  I know she thinks she’s being polite, but I can’t do this anymore.

  “Listen,” I say, “there’s something I need to ask you.”

  “Of course, dear.” Gertie places her wrinkled hand on mine. “What it is?”

  I take a deep breath. “Do you remember the day you fell down the stairs at work?”

  She winces. “Of course I do. It’s hard to forget something like that.”