The Baby Merchant Page 2

  On any other day she would tell herself to get over it and go in, but she is not fit company for anybody right now. She turns away from the door.

  Too late. Suzy DeLoach shrieks, “Sasha, you came! Over here.”

  “No no, Sasha, it’s my turn.”

  Elsie-somebody mutters, “So Sasha, I’ve got this, problem?”

  “Sasha. Sasha!” Tubby Betty Jane Gudger waves Discman earphones, desperate to catch her eye. “Over here.”

  “Look, picnic pictures!” Redheaded Luellen is fanning snapshots like a card shark, sweet little pest with thick, pale eyelashes and that Smurfette squint. Kid adores Sasha, not sure why, maybe because Sasha got up and went to her when she woke up crying the other night; she drew a cartoon for Luellen and made her laugh and ever since she’s followed Sasha around with that gooshy smile. Crush, she supposes. Poor little kid.

  Sallie Bedloe begs, “Brownies, Sasha, then let’s do our eyes.”

  I would give a fortune to have a grown-up conversation. Faking a grin, she falls back on the old in-joke. “No thanks, I’m watching my weight.”

  Janice Ann-something squeals, to get her attention. “Sasha, Betty’s hurting me!”

  “Nobody’s hurting you,” she says, nailing Betty with a look. “They wouldn’t dare.” Never should have come in here. Got to get away before they find out that even grownups get depressed. She doesn’t know why, she just knows it’s her responsibility. As senior inmate, right, inmate, she owes it to these girls because against all indications, these pregnant children seem to look up to her. She knows exactly which tone to use to make them giggle and agree. “Right, guys? You wouldn’t dare.”

  “Sasha, look at my …”

  “Gotta go.” Swamped, she has to improvise. She lurches for the doorframe with a little gasp. “Braxton Hicks, guys. I think. Better go get it checked out. No no, keep on doing what you’re doing. Nurse hates it when a whole gang of people come.”

  Luellen jumps up as if to start CPR and two others flock to follow but Sasha is spun on her heels by plump, grim Viola Nagle, the supervisor on the third-trimester floor. “Egan, I need you.”

  Grateful for the rescue, she turns. “What?”

  “In the office. Phone.”

  “No way.”

  “They asked for you.”

  “No they didn’t.”

  “By name.”

  Sasha, why are you shaking? “Nobody knows I’m here.” Nobody knows my real name.

  “That’s what you think,” Viola’s fingers bite into her upper arm.

  “Egan. Egan isn’t your real name. It’s Sarah Donovan, according to the book.”

  “Not any more.” Never mind why she is estranged from her family. She is estranged from her family.

  “Is Egan your married name or what?”

  It was her father’s name. Sasha glares until Viola lets go. “What were you doing in my files?”

  “Is that the Philadelphia Donovans?”

  “Never heard of them.”

  “Construction, right?” They are in the glass breezeway leading to the main building with Viola in the lead. She spits, “They asked for you by name.”

  Who did? She snaps, “You’re supposed to play dumb. It’s in the contract!” Even though she had to present her driver’s license and her passport as proof of identity when she signed on here, Sasha’s real name is supposed to be safe in the vault. Right, Viola, Egan is not her real name. “What the fuck happened to confidentiality?”

  “They made certain threats.”

  When you’re hiding something, you can’t let down. “Like what?”

  Viola smirks. “They said get you to the phone or Mrs. Donovan’s lawyers would come down on us. With the FBI.”

  Grandmother! “You’ve got the wrong person.”

  “Sure I do.” Viola never liked Sasha; her grimace can’t disguise the triumphant smirk as she opens the office door and shoves her inside. “Lawyers, get it? I had to call the shot.”

  Sasha makes clear that she isn’t picking up the phone until Viola leaves. When the door clicks shut she shouts into the receiver. “Grand?”

  The other person listens just long enough to make sure it’s Sasha speaking and hangs up.

  “Who,” she shouts at the dead phone. “Who!”

  Telemarketer, Sasha tells herself crazily. Wrong number. Stupid mistake. Biting her knuckles, she bursts out into the hall with possibilities following like a swarm of hornets. She wants to grab Viola and grill her, but Viola is gone. Sasha paces on a loop, juggling contingencies until thought blurs like white sound and the compression sends her hurtling outside. She explodes into stunning noon light: harsh Florida sunlight strikes white buildings and white walks and ricochets off white sand. A shadow knifes across the blinding white cement.

  She throws her arm up, as if to shield herself. “No!”

  “No, hell. Yes. Don’t you know me? Sasha, it’s me!”

  For a minute she doesn’t recognize him, their night together was that short, but then she does. It’s Gary. Cargill, he told her, but that was afterward. She hardly knew him before that night. Hell, she doesn’t know him now. He’s supposed to be in Boston, where he belongs. He was supposed to forget her but Gary that she slept with exactly once back in Brookline, Massachusetts, is here on the grounds of the Newlife Institute in central Florida, baring freshly whitened teeth in a grim smile and running his fingers through that retro spike. It defies logic but here he is, the laughing dancer from the studio party, the cute guy she took home after her friend Myra’s opening at MassArt: regular features, pleasant expression, bland and, OK, out of shape— five more years and he’ll be running to fat. Nice and uncomplicated, she thought, and at the time she was grateful. Not too smart. But her thoughts fly ahead of the memory: We hardly know each other and here he is. What does he want?

  Clearly Gary’s smarter than she thought. After all, he’s here. He’s tracked her down and come a thousand miles. Nobody gets into the building without a visitor’s permit so Gary used his cell phone to yank her chain.

  “You.”

  Grinning, he pats the Nokia on his belt. “What kept you?”

  Stupid. I’m the stupid one. She assumed he was safely in her past, when he’s been out here waiting the whole time. Here is Gary Cargill standing in our courtyard, and he knows more about me than I thought. “That was you on the phone.” She does not ask: How did you get my real name?

  “And that’s you standing there, bigger than a house.”

  “You son of a bitch.”

  The grin just misses being engaging. “That’s not very nice.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Aren’t you glad I’m here?” The gesture he makes— that curve outlining her belly— is condescending. “Look at you!”

  “What’s it to you?”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Trapped here in strong sunlight, Sasha considers, but only for a second. A lock inside her clicks. “Nothing to tell.”

  “You’re going to have a baby …”

  “So?”

  “It’s mine.”

  No, my baby, she thinks, surprised. “You don’t know that!”

  “You know damn well it is.”

  Careful, Sasha. Keep it light. “What makes you think it’s your baby?”

  Gary has a pleasant face really, nice blue eyes, nice way he shakes his head at her, a little bit sad, a little bit sweet. Why does she hate him, then? Maybe it’s the smug way he says, “You’re not the kind of girl you think you are.”

  “You have no idea what I’m like.”

  “When you dropped out I did a little research.”

  “Research!”

  He laughs. “Call it my bio project for the term.” He thinks they are still kidding; when she doesn’t laugh he says, “So, everybody knows you’re a serial monogamist, Sash. You’re famous for it. Even when it’s a one night stand.”

  “OK Gary, what are you really doing here?”

&n
bsp; “I heard you were in trouble.”

  “This isn’t trouble, it’s something I chose.”

  “I came to help.”

  “You want to help? Then go away.”

  “Sasha, don’t be mad at me. I came as soon as I heard. Don’t be ashamed, you should have told me. Every baby needs a father.” Then he gives her a wise look that makes her want to kill him. “You should know.”

  She flinches. Direct hit, but Gary can’t know that. He can’t possibly know. Damn him, he won’t stop smiling even when her voice turns cold. “If I wanted a father, don’t you think I would have been in touch?”

  “I thought you were being brave.”

  “I was being realistic. Nice talking, Gary. Gotta go.”

  “Wait, OK?” His thought processes are grinding like heavy machinery. His face clots with the lie he is about to tell. “I love you, Sasha. I want to take care of you.”

  “No you don’t.”

  “And I want to take care of our baby.” Gary grabs her wrist; he is sweating with good will. Smiling, he repeats the lie. “I don’t know you very well but I do love you, OK?” Smiling.

  Like I’m supposed to be thrilled. Oh yes this is creepy. What does he want with her, really, or is it t&e baby he wants? God, what does he want with it? “You came all the way down here because …”

  “Dammit, it’s my baby too.” The gel in Gary’s hair has dissolved in sweat; in another minute his head will melt. He digs his front teeth into his lower lip and Sasha is surprised to see blood. “I want my baby and I want to do right by you, and besides …”

  “Gary, you hardly know me. Just don’t.”

  His eyes keep shifting from left to right and back again so that he is perpetually looking not at Sasha but over her shoulder, scoping the facade of the Newlife building with that terrible, unremitting smile. “Newlife. They do placement, right? So, what. Are you, giving my baby away?”

  “What I do is my business.”

  “Wait a minute, it’s my business too.” Raking her with that blind smile, Gary Cargill, who came all this distance, plods toward the conclusion he had in mind before he started on this trip. “Hey, if you don’t want the baby no problem, I’ll take it.”

  “The hell you will.”

  “It’s mine, OK?”

  Her anger is so sharp that they are both surprised. “No. It’s mine!”

  “Listen. No kid of mine gets handed off to some high roller just because they write the biggest check. Not when he has family out there and they want …” When she stiffens, he breaks off to refine his pitch.

  What family? His or mine? Sasha jerks away. Gary moves with her. Her wrist is slick under his fingers but she can’t get free. There’s the outside possibility that Gary means well, but her mind is running ahead to the Donovans— Grandmother— and if he hasn’t sold her out to Grandmother, what must his parents be like? Just like Gary: genial, passive-aggressive chunks of flesh with stupid minds and stupid, agreeable smiles. Which is it? Which is it anyway? She shucked her name and came all this distance to save her baby from Grandmother, but which is worse? Either way her beautiful firefly is trapped in a Mason jar, battering himself to death against the glass.

  Gary gives her wrist a little shake. “Are you listening to me?”

  “What do you want with a baby, Gary?”

  His face films over with earnestness. “I want to take care of him, and besides.”

  Grimly, she tries to loosen his fingers. She’d like to break them and pry them off, one by one. “Besides, what?”

  “Goddammit, he’s my blood.”

  What does he really want with this baby, quick sale to the highest bidder, or does he actually want a living shrine to his genetic set? Damn you, Gary. Go. “What if I tell you it isn’t a he?”

  “Work with me, Sasha. We were in love.”

  “We don’t even know each other!” She is revolted by the reddish fringe that passes for eyelashes. She wants to smash away that shiteating grin but he still has her wrist and nothing she’s tried here is working. “OK, Gary, what do you want?”

  “OK,” he says, and Sasha is treated to the sight of Gary Cargill thinking. “OK.” She can’t tell whether the machine in his head is turning up cherries or lemons but she can hear the tumblers click. In spite of the tremor of insincerity that won’t let his voice settle on one note, he’s trying to sound cool. “Tell you what. If you don’t want to come with me right now you don’t have to, I’m cool with that. If you don’t want to keep the baby, fine. Promise I get to pick him up when he’s ready; sign off on him and we’re done.”

  It’s a struggle but she lightens her tone. “How did you find out where I was?”

  “I told you,” he says, “I know a lot about you.”

  She studies him. What, Gary, did you hire detectives? Anger isn’t helping, Sasha. Play it cool. Try hard not to ask. It’s time to stop fighting. Instead she says mildly, “That’s interesting.”

  Encouraged, Gary presses, backing her into the cement flower-box outside the main entrance. She dodges this way. That. Like a guard in pro basketball, he thwarts her every move. He is so close now that her belly bumps him and the contact makes her shudder. “Come on Sasha. You know you want to get rid of it.”

  He is so close to the truth that it makes her flinch.

  “What difference does it make to you who takes him home?” Then, because he thinks he has her, he blows it. “You can’t be doing this for the money. Everybody knows your grandmother has pots.”

  Sasha’s jaw tightens. Yes he hired detectives. Or Grandmother did. Gary’s scheme unfolds like a slick travel brochure. He’ll go up to the big house holding her baby in front of him and Grandmother will get all sentimental and pay and pay and pay. Worse. Grand will want to bring him up. She will bring him up the way she did Sasha, wreaking her will on him. “OK,” Sasha says, scooping up sand from the cement planter. “OK.”

  Gary’s grin sprawls out of control as, surprised, he lets go. “OK really?”

  “What do you think?” She tosses it in his face. Then she swipes her card and is inside the building before he can rub the grit out of his eyes.

  She can hear him shouting, “Sasha, is it a girl or a boy?”

  On the worst day of her life so far, Sasha does what women do after a rape. She goes upstairs and gets into a shower turned on so hard that hot water pelts down on her head in a little hailstorm. No way, Gary, she thinks, shivering and scrubbing her hair with a bar of soap. No way.

  The knowledge rushes in on her like a runaway freight. I can’t stay here!

  In ordinary circumstances she’d be more resourceful, faster, strong enough to fight, But Sasha Egan is eight months pregnant. She’s huge and unwieldy and tired all the time now, and so short of breath that she can’t act fast and she certainly can’t run. She’d never even make it to the main gate. She doesn’t know how to get away but she has to go.

  Her issue, then, is how to disappear.

  2.

  Rumpled and engaging, Jake Zorn is a willful dynamo. With that smile he can get anything he wants, and he usually does. Maury’s gruff, grinning husband never gives up, which is why he, and not Maury, is in Atlanta today making the pitch. He’s in the offices of the Fayerweather Agency, pleading for something he didn’t necessarily want when this whole thing started. Jake always wanted a baby, but when he looked into its face he expected to see his own face, looking back. The perfect child to complete the perfect picture, but they are going to have to settle for less than perfect. Now that they’re at the end of the trail, he’s willing to adopt. In fact, he’s in Atlanta, trying to make it happen.

  Poised on the curb in front of Departures, he broke Maury’s heart with that brave, uneven grin. “I love you, babe. I’m going to get us a baby.”

  Ten years of trying and this is the last stop. Jake will do anything to make her happy. All their colleagues, everybody they care about has at least one, what’s the matter with them? They started out with such confiden
ce, and now look. They are reduced to begging.

  Nobody really wants to adopt, Maury thinks, not if they can have their own, but for too many women now, that’s getting harder and harder. Jake doesn’t, in spite of his gallant attempt to convince her that he’s fine with it. “Whoever he is,” he said, grinning, “We’re going to love him.”

  At this stage in their efforts, it’s their last chance. Jake is in Atlanta, pleading their case. He’s turning on the charm at the Fayerweather Agency, one of the best private adoption agencies and, face it, the last on their list. The others turned them down because they’re older than the usual. Maury and Jake are in their forties and— OK. The other thing. The deal breaker, she thinks, sagging.

  Maury ought to be down there arguing this, after all she’s the lawyer, but frankly, she’s too wrecked to argue anything. She’s holed up in an empty courtroom in the federal courthouse in downtown Boston. She doesn’t want people watching when Jake phones with the news. Good or bad. She has to be alone when she gets it.

  To look at Maury Bayless, you’d never guess that she is desperate. She looks young and confident: great profile, good hair and good jewelry, beautifully cut suit. Prada bag. Cell phone in a silver case. Cool boots. Bestseller in paperback, so she can pretend she is reading. Fresh sprouts in the sandwich, she could be any busy lawyer grabbing lunch between court dates. Nobody has to know that she can chew but not swallow and stare at a page and stare at it with no idea what she is seeing.

  For the last ten years Maury has zig-zagged between hope and despair, hostage to her own body, and now the next thirty—sixty?— years of her life are hanging on Jake’s phone call. The Fayerweather meeting began at eleven, which means that deep as they are in this last ditch effort, she can’t talk to the only person in her life she can really talk to. Her failure stands between them like a wall of ice.

  “You go,” Maury said at curbside check-in. “I’m too messed up to do this interview.”