Lost You Read online

  “Okay, I guess.”

  Anna hoped short answers would lead to a short conversation, but she had a feeling she’d be disappointed.

  “This part’s the worst,” Jocelyn said. “I mean, just waiting around for D-day, and you can’t get comfortable, you can’t stand up, you can’t sit down, and when you do, you need a winch to get up again, right?”

  Anna smiled in spite of herself. “Right.”

  “And I don’t know what yours is like, but this one, God, I swear she’s trying out for soccer. That or she’s break-dancing in there.”

  “You know it’s a girl?” Anna asked.

  “Yeah. Last one was a boy. He was much calmer. This one never lets up, so I know it’s a girl.”

  “Last one?”

  “This is my second. I mean, I have two kids of my own, but this is the second surrogacy.”

  Anna sat forward in her seat. “You mean you’ve done this before?”

  “Yeah. It’s a good thing to do, you know? All those couples just desperate for a baby, and I can help them out and get paid for it. And, you know what? I like being pregnant.”

  Anna snorted. “Are you serious? Being pregnant sucks.”

  “First one’s always the worst. I mean, I’m assuming this is your first, right?”

  “Yeah. I don’t think I could do it again. Not like this. Not for someone else.”

  Jocelyn touched Anna’s forearm and tilted her head toward Sarah in the far corner. “Well, it’s not for everyone, that’s for sure. And this isn’t the usual deal. Last time I did it, it was way different than this. The money wasn’t as good, but it wasn’t run like a military operation. And that Mr. Kovak, he gives me the creeps.”

  Anna wanted to say she was scared of him. That she was afraid he might do violence upon her if she displeased him.

  Instead, she said, “Me too.”

  Jocelyn went to stand, but Anna said, “Wait.”

  She sat back down and asked, “Yeah?”

  “When it came time,” Anna said, “when you were due, how was…could you…”

  “You’re asking me, could I give up the baby?” Jocelyn said, leaning close, her voice little more than a whisper.

  “Yeah,” Anna said.

  “It wasn’t a problem because it was never my baby. If you see it any other way, then you shouldn’t be here.”

  Anna said nothing. Jocelyn took her hand.

  “Look, you and me, we’re walking incubators. If you let yourself think anything different, then you’re setting yourself up for nothing but heartache. Don’t tell me you’re having doubts, are you?”

  “No,” Anna said too quickly, too forcefully. “I mean, not really.”

  Jocelyn leaned closer still, touched Anna’s belly. “Listen, this is not your baby. You will never be its mother. You have to understand that.”

  “I do,” Anna said. “Honestly.”

  And that was the truth, wasn’t it?

  * * *

  —

  SHE AWOKE AT four the next morning and knew she couldn’t do it.

  There was no gradient of change, no thinking it through, only a certain and solid clarity that settled in her mind the very moment it rose into consciousness. She lay awake for the next thirty minutes, staring at the wall as Little Butterfly danced within her, singing I am yours and you are mine, together till the end of time.

  “Oh no,” she said in the dimness.

  The certainty of it didn’t change its impossibility. She had to keep this child but she could not. Two hard and immovable truths, neither of which could bear the existence of the other. And there was a further contradiction: the parallel terror of choosing this path, and the calm of knowing it had been chosen.

  She got out of bed, used the bathroom—Little Butterfly was using her bladder for a trampoline—and burrowed straight back under the covers, still warm and welcoming. Tiredness dried her eyes, but she knew sleep would not come with so many things to think about.

  Could she raise a child on her own?

  Why not? The country was full of single mothers. Lesser women than she did it all the time. She could be a good mother. Money wouldn’t be a problem at first, seeing as she still had most of the initial payments. Except she’d have to give that back, wouldn’t she? And there was a contract. Could they take the baby from her? Surely not. If she gave the money back, or what was left of it, wouldn’t they have to leave her alone?

  Then she thought of Mr. Kovak and felt suddenly cold. She pulled the comforter up to her chin, tried to keep the fear of him out. There was no escaping the reality that she would have to tell him. And she knew as soon as he hung up the phone he would be on the very next flight out here and she would have to face him.

  But she didn’t have to do it alone.

  At ten minutes to five, Anna lifted her cell phone from the nightstand and chose the first number in the recent-calls list.

  “Hello?” Betsy said, her voice thick and coarse with sleep.

  “It’s me,” Anna said.

  “What’s wrong?” Betsy asked, her voice sharpening.

  “I’m going to keep my baby,” Anna said.

  31

  MR. KOVAK MAINTAINED HIS COMPOSURE as he made slow progress along the jetway at La Guardia. Right now, he should have been up in the air, on his way to Boston Logan. Instead, he was boarding yet another flight to Pittsburgh, the city he’d flown out of just the evening before. All because a foolish girl couldn’t keep her promises.

  His cell had vibrated on the nightstand a few minutes before eight that morning. He had been dressing in front of his full-length mirror, admiring the new tailored shirt he’d bought online, delivered from Italy. A sales rep had queried the order, checking to make sure the measurements were correct. Mr. Kovak had confirmed that, yes, his chest was really that deep, his waist that slender in comparison. Three weeks later, the shirt had arrived, and he had taken pleasure in opening the stiff box and folding back the diaphanous paper to reveal the pin-striped silk beneath. The interruption of the phone call as he fastened the collar button had irked him. More so when he saw who was calling.

  “Yes, Anna, what can I do for you?”

  “Mr. Kovak?”

  Her voice sounded very small and very far away.

  “Yes, it’s me, what do you need?”

  “Mr. Kovak…”

  He knew then. The fear in her voice, the hesitation, the unwillingness to say what needed to be said. He knew she had made that grave mistake of forgetting her purpose.

  “Yes, Anna,” he said, not letting his calm slip.

  “Mr. Kovak…I…I need to talk to you about something.”

  He wetted his lips and said, “Go ahead.”

  “I wanted to ask you…I mean, I need to know, what happens if I change my mind?”

  “What do you mean, change your mind, exactly?”

  “I’m going to keep my baby,” she said, followed by an exhalation, and he knew the effort it had taken her to say it.

  “Anna, it is not your baby.”

  “No, but it is, it really is, it—”

  “Anna?”

  “—is mine, it’s been in me all these months, and I know this baby, and it knows me, and—”

  “Anna.”

  “—I’m his mother, yes it’s a he, I know it is, and I can feel his feet with my hand, and—”

  “Anna, stop.”

  “—I can feel him move inside me, I can feel him there, and I can’t—”

  “Anna, stop talking.”

  “—just give him away, like he’s nothing, because he’s a part of me, and I can’t give—”

  “Shut your fucking mouth!”

  The casing of the phone creaked under the pressure of his grasp, his throat burned with the force of his anger. Silence, then. He i
nhaled through his nose and exhaled through his mouth. Twice.

  Rage, be still, he thought.

  “Anna, please don’t say anything, just listen. You signed a contract. You have no moral or legal right to that baby. There is no question of your keeping it. That simply will not happen. Do you understand me?”

  “You can’t enforce the contract,” she said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “It’s illegal in New York State. I looked it up on the Internet. You can’t enforce it.”

  He began to pace in his bedroom, clenching and unclenching his fist.

  “You signed the contract in Pennsylvania.”

  “Yeah, but you’re taking the baby to New York. All I have to do is show up at the door of whoever bought my baby and take him back.”

  “That’s not how it works, Anna, you’re being ridiculous. You can’t just snatch a baby. You’d have to go to court, and believe me, our clients can afford better lawyers than—”

  “No. I’m right, and you know it. You think I’m just some rube, that I know nothing, but you’re wrong, Mr. Kovak. I won’t give up my baby and you can’t make me.”

  He paused for a few moments, searching for his calm center, being in the moment, just like his counselor had instructed him. Then he spoke.

  “Anna, I’m coming out to see you. I’m not sure what time, but I expect you to be there when I arrive. If you’re not, if I have to look for you, then…just be there.”

  He ended the call and stood quite still for a time, at the middle of the room, his arms hanging loose by his sides. Find the center, find the center and find balance. This was not the time for rage because rage blinded and deafened the unwary, could make a man do things he shouldn’t. Now was the time for reason, for calm, for rational thought. Once he felt the world even out, he went to his laptop and set about finding the next flight to Pittsburgh.

  Now he stood in the doorway of the Embraer ERJ-145, waiting for the passenger in front to quit arguing with the flight attendant about where to stow his bag. A businessman with a bad haircut and a cheap suit, he seemed displeased that there was no space in the overhead bin above his own seat.

  “There’s plenty of room to the rear,” the flight attendant said, the polite smile nailed to her face.

  “I told you, I don’t want to put it back there,” he said. “I need to make a connecting flight, that’s why I booked near the front, so I could get off quick, and if I put it in the back I have to wait for everyone else to get off before I can go get it.”

  Her smile widened, showing the lipstick on her teeth. “Sir, I understand that, but all the same, there is no room toward the front of the cabin. Now, if you could just stow your bag in the first available space, then I’ll be able to get these other passengers seated.”

  “But I have a connecting flight, I need to—”

  “Sir, the quicker you stow your bag, the quicker we can be on our way.”

  “Now, listen, I booked a seat up front so—”

  “Sir,” Mr. Kovak said, taking a firm hold of the man’s upper arm. “Stow your damn bag and let this lady get on with her work.”

  The man looked around at Mr. Kovak’s chest, which was at his eye level, then let his gaze crawl upward to his face. What he saw there made him reconsider his position, and he took his bag down to the rear of the cabin without another word.

  Mr. Kovak found his own seat halfway down. He’d have preferred one on the other side of the aisle, in the single row, but at least he didn’t have to squeeze his frame up against the window. Had he the choice, he wouldn’t have booked this flight, because he hated these tiny jets with their narrow seats and nonexistent knee room, but he had no time to be fussy.

  Two hours later, he trapped a scream in his throat as the plane’s wheels bumped on the runway at Pittsburgh. He had fallen asleep and dreamed of blood and sand, of the sound bullets made as they passed above his head. The smell of dying men, odors of meat and feces thickening the air. The chaos and the raw terror of coming under attack.

  As the jet taxied to the terminal, and he brought his breathing under control, the elderly gentleman seated next to him asked, “Scared of flying?”

  “Something like that,” Mr. Kovak said.

  He presented his company Amex to the assistant at the rental-car desk, and thirty minutes after that he approached the town of Superior, a glowing ball of anger contained within him. He parked across the street from Anna’s building and saw the other woman’s Jetta nose-to-bumper with Anna’s Civic.

  Of course she was there. He shouldn’t have thought otherwise. Not that it mattered. He climbed out of the rental, and it rocked on its suspension at the relief of his weight’s lifting. The gate to the communal entrance had a keypad lock, but he had a PIN. He entered it, went to the stairs, and up to Anna’s floor. There, without knocking, he inserted his key into the lock and opened the door to the apartment.

  It stopped after three inches, held by a security chain that had not been fitted the last time he was here. Through the gap, Betsy stared back at him.

  “Undo the chain, please,” he said.

  “You want to speak with Anna,” Betsy said.

  “That’s none of your concern,” he said.

  “No, it’s very much my concern.”

  “Regardless, please remove the chain.”

  “If you want to speak with Anna, it’ll be with a lawyer present. You can call to arrange a time and place. Goodbye.”

  She went to push the door closed, but he blocked it with his foot.

  “Ma’am, this apartment belongs to my employer, and I am authorized to enter whenever I—”

  “You aren’t authorized to do shit,” she said. “Now, get out of here before I call the cops.”

  Mr. Kovak put his shoulder to the wood, and the chain gave way as if it were made of candy. The door slammed against the wall. He caught it with his left hand as it rebounded. The woman gave a cry and stepped back. He turned to see the damage to the doorframe where the chain had pulled the slide away. A chunk of wood torn out. No big deal. He closed the door and took three steps inside, reminding himself to hold his temper.

  Betsy retreated, but kept herself between him and where Anna sat on the couch. He looked around her.

  “Anna, please ask your friend to leave.”

  Betsy stepped between them once more. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “I wasn’t speaking to you,” he said. “Anna, tell her to leave. Now.”

  “Listen, I don’t know who you think you are breaking in here and harassing a pregnant woman, but I bet your company wouldn’t want it in the—”

  Mr. Kovak seized her throat in his right hand, forced her back toward the window, her toes skittering across the floor. The back of her head slammed against the double-glazed pane, a ringing, hollow boom. Her eyes rolled back in her head before focusing again on him. Somewhere, Anna screamed at him to stop, but he chose not to hear.

  “Your name is Elizabeth McKean, born in New Haven, Connecticut. Divorced, your twenty-two-year-old daughter lives with your ex-husband in Philadelphia, your twenty-five-year-old son lives with you on Kalkirk Road. Do you want me to go on?”

  Wide-eyed, she mouthed the word, No.

  He felt Anna’s hands clawing at his shoulder, heard her say something that did not matter.

  “Now, I need to speak with Anna, alone. If you won’t allow me to do that, then I will happily speak with your son, alone. Do you understand me?”

  She mouthed the word, Yes.

  “Good,” he said, and released her.

  Betsy dropped to the floor, coughing, gasping, hands going to her throat. Anna lowered herself down to her side, struggling with the bulk of her belly. She wrapped her arms around her friend, tears dropping from her cheeks to the floor.

  Two women cowering and crying at his
feet. Mr. Kovak supposed he should have felt something about that, whether a surge of power or regret, but he felt nothing but a mild annoyance.

  “Tell her to get out,” he said.

  “Just go,” Anna said to Betsy. “I’ll be fine. He can’t hurt me. Not when I’m like this.”

  She was correct in that. He would not cause harm to her while she carried the child.

  Betsy got to her feet, wiped the heel of her hand across her eyes. “Goddamn you to hell, you son of a bitch.”

  As she went to the door, Mr. Kovak said, “I don’t need to tell you not to talk to anyone about this. Do I?”

  “Goddamn you,” she said as she opened the door. She slammed it closed behind her.

  Mr. Kovak stood still for a time, once again seeking the center to all things, and the balance to be found there. He ignored Anna’s weeping until, finally, there it was. Inhale, exhale, and again. Then he turned to her, reached out his hand. She stared at it as if it were some alien thing.

  “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get you up off that floor. It can’t be comfortable.”

  “Fuck you,” she said, the words hot with hate.

  “Come on,” he said.

  She crawled past him, planted her hands on the coffee table, and pushed herself up onto the couch. A grimace creased her face and she circled her arms around her belly.

  “Are you feeling all right?” he asked. “Would you like some water?”

  She shook her head, would not look at him.

  He went to the armchair closest to her and sat down. “Let’s talk,” he said.

  Anna turned her gaze away from him, toward the window.

  “You know you can’t keep the baby,” he said. No point dancing around it.

  “I’ll give the money back,” Anna said. “Betsy said she’d give it to me out of her savings. The advance and the allowance, all of it.”

  “It’s not as simple as that. You made a promise, you have an obligation. There’s a couple right now decorating a nursery, buying clothes, planning a life with this child. You can’t just take that away from them because you changed your mind.”