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I was three miles from the address when I got a phone call. Bob Ethier. The name made me want to throw my phone out the window, but I took three deep breaths and answered it.
“Are you calling to beg me to come back?” I demanded. “Because I’m not helping you figure out anything unless you give me what you owe me.”
Bob snorted on the line. “We are doing quite fine on our own, thank you very much. I’m calling to remind you that you need to come down to the office to pick up your belongings.”
I had been fired over the phone without notice. I hadn’t been in the office since then. “Bob said he would ship everything to my home address.”
“Yes, well, we have not gotten around to that. We have been busy, of course. Your replacement begins tomorrow, so we need you to collect your things. Today.”
I felt my jaw tighten again. “You know what, Bob? I don’t think men get called cunts enough. Because right now, you’re being a real cunt, you know that?”
“Let’s not get emotional—”
“Firing me a week before my company equity vested? Cunty,” I said. “Telling me you’ll ship my belongings home and then changing your mind two weeks later? Cunty, to a lesser degree. But cunty nonetheless.”
“You have until the end of the day,” Bob said curtly, “or we’ll place your box out on the street for someone else to collect.”
“Throwing my stuff on the street? SUPER ULTRA MEGA CUNTY!” I shouted into my phone.
He had already hung up.
By then, I was nearing my destination. I looked around; I was on the south side of Providence, in an industrial park alongside the Providence River. Did I have the right address? It was deserted here.
No, not deserted. There was a black sedan parked in the middle of an empty lot. A man in a suit was standing outside the car with his hands clasped in front of him. I parked a few spaces over, turned off the car, and waited.
I had been told this was an introductory meeting, but I had pictured it at a nice couple’s house. I expected there to be a white picket fence and a Golden Retriever with a chewed up tennis ball in its mouth. This felt more like…
Like a sex trafficking operation, my mother’s voice reiterated in my head.
Next to the black sedan, the suited man raised his hand in greeting.
“I’m too fucking adult to be afraid of this sort of thing,” I said to myself. “Put on your big-girl pants and get out of the car, Melinda.”
I did just that.
“Melinda,” the man said, as if he knew me already. “I’m Andrew, Mr. Benning’s valet.”
He was American, but pronounced valet with a hard T sound, like the word mallet.
“Don’t you mean valet?” I asked, pronouncing it like ballet.
Andrew chuckled. “Uh, no. Our ride is this way.” He gestured toward the river.
Do they live on a houseboat? I wondered. And what the hell is a valet?
I followed Andrew, but there was a tingle of concern at the back of my neck. Like something wasn’t normal about all of this.
He must have sensed my worry, because he smiled and said, “I know this feels unusual, but I can assure you there’s nothing to worry about.”
“That’s what serial killers say before shoving their victims into windowless vans,” I muttered.
Andrew chuckled some more. He seemed like an easy-going guy, and I wanted to like him despite the strange circumstances.
“The surrogacy agency verifies all clients thoroughly,” he explained. “I’m sure they explained this at great length.”
“Maybe you’re not with the agency. Maybe you got my number, pretended to be the agency, and sent me here.”
Andrew stopped and turned to face me directly. The wind off the river blew his wavy chestnut hair across his face. “You signed up with the agency eleven days ago. You’re surrogate number 36423, and Pierce Benning is client number 1442. You’re welcome to call the agency and verify all of this information before we proceed any further.” He held out his phone.
