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“Oh, go on. I could use some good news,” Molly says, getting into the swing of things.
“Jane sold my book!” I shout the news. Even saying it aloud does not make it seem real. Jane is my agent, and since I signed up with her a few months ago, she’s become a friend. I’ve dreamed of this moment for so long that now it feels unreal. I’ve played it out in my head for years. My agent calling me and excitedly telling me that she had sold my book.
A year later, I am holding the book in my hands with my name written across the cover. Ivy Martin. I am now one step closer to reality.
“Congratulations,” Molly cries and then goes still. “Wait. There’s something I don’t understand. How can she sell a book that you have not written yet?”
I giggle at her confused expression. “I’ve written three chapters, and they are enough to get a publisher to sign me up. They want me to write three books in total.”
Molly stares at me in amazement, as if I’ve just discovered anti-aging, making me giggle again.
“What?” I say.
“You’re awesome, sis! Have I told you that lately?”
“Thank you, but I haven’t finished the book yet, and they are only going to pay me a small advance until I finish the first book.”
Pressure mounts inside me. It feels odd to be paid for work not yet done. What if I can’t do it? What if I’ve sold an empty promise? I inhale deeply and scold myself to stop being silly. I’m a professional writer. I’ve written hundreds of pieces and writing a novel has been the one big ambition of my life. I have a chance to do it now, without any distractions. I’m going to go for it with everything I’ve got.
“I’m proud of you.” Molly drapes an arm around me and side hugs me. She draws back after a moment. “Does that mean that all this was for nothing?” She looks pointedly at my belly.
I had the same thought myself when Jane called to tell me the news, but I quickly readjusted my thinking. “No. I’m helping wonderful people get the baby they desperately want.”
“Yeah,” Molly says unenthusiastically.
“It’s fine,” I tell her. “Besides, the extra money will mean that I’ll have a nest egg.”
“You’re right,” she says, plastering a fake smile on her face. I know Molly like the back of my hand, and I know she’s trying her hardest not to show her real feelings.
It’s hard not to see my plan as a big fat waste of time. If I’d already gotten an advance from the publishing company, would I have agreed to surrogate for the Clarks? The answer makes me feel ashamed of myself.
***
I jolt awake to the sound of my cell phone ringing. I’d told Molly last night that nothing had changed since I became pregnant. Not quite true. Sleep has become sweeter and waking up has become harder. I’m grateful that I work from home. I can’t imagine feeling as sleepy and as tired as I feel and having to go into the office. Without opening my eyes, I reach for my cell phone and hit answer.
An official-sounding voice responds to my hello.
“Is this Ivy Martin?”
“Yes.” I sound as though I have frogs stuck in my throat.
“This is The Anderson fertility clinic,” the woman says. “You tested positive for pregnancy a week ago.”
Her words bring a memory into the forefront of my consciousness. I’d called the Clarks as soon as the pregnancy had been confirmed. I can still remember the utter silence that followed my news and then the shout of joy as Susan yelled to her husband.
It had brought tears to my eyes and made it all worthwhile, especially considering that I’d had a few moments of rethinking my decision.
“Yes, that’s me.” I stifle a yawn.
She clears her throat before continuing, “We have a slight problem, Miss Martin.”
My eyes pop open.
“What problem?” I’m already pregnant, so what problem could there possibly be?
“I’m sorry to tell you this, but a major mistake happened, and you were given the wrong sperm.”
I scramble to sit up in bed. “What? What the heck does that mean? Whose sperm?”
