Susan Mallery - California Girls

Zennie was both thrilled and sympathetic. Bernie’s cancer treatment had included surgery that had taken her uterus and her ovaries. There was no way she could carry a child or even use her own egg. Because of her cancer diagnosis, some pregnant women looking at adoption might not want to consider her and Hayes.

“What’s the plan for that?” Zennie asked, doing her best to sound upbeat. “Adoption?”

“Surrogacy. We’d use a donor egg and Hayes’s sperm. We’ve been doing a lot of research and it’s a relatively simple procedure.”

Zennie smiled at her. “So basically artificial insemination. That would be easy enough. I think they use a turkey baster to insert the sperm.”

Bertie rolled her eyes. “There’s no turkey baster, but the process is similar. We find a surrogate, wait for her to ovulate and ta-da, pregnancy.”

“That sounds a lot easier and faster than adoption. And it’s legal, right? You wouldn’t have to worry about the surrogate changing her mind?”

“It can always be a concern, but California is ahead of the curve when it comes to surrogacy.” Bernie gripped her smoothie. “Zennie, I want to say something. Just listen and then speak from the heart. No matter what, you’re my best friend and I’ll always love you. Please, please feel free to say no.”

Zennie stared at her friend. She half knew what Bernie was going to say, but was still surprised to hear, “Hayes and I would like you to consider being our surrogate and egg donor.”

It made sense, Zennie thought. She was young, healthy and strong. She wasn’t in a relationship, she had good insurance, and it wasn’t as if she was using her girl parts for anything else. But carrying a baby was a big deal, wasn’t it? Honestly, she didn’t know much about pregnancy beyond her nursing school rotation in delivery and pediatrics.

“We’d cover all your expenses,” Bernie went on. “Co-pays and your maternity clothes and any special food you needed. You would be entitled to maternity leave when you had the baby and we’d cover an extra month at home so you could fully recover.”

She paused and shrugged. “I want to say more, but I’m going to stop now. If you need to say no, then do it. I’ll totally understand.”

Zennie reached across the picnic table and squeezed Bernie’s hand. “Stop. I’m not going to say no this second. I’m surprised, but I also think I’ve totally been expecting this. I mean, I never thought about it, but who else? I’m your best friend, Bernie. I love you and Hayes and I want you to be happy. I know you’d be great mom. It’s just big and I need to mull for a bit.”

Bernie’s eyes filled with tears. “Of course. Take as much mulling time as you’d like. Take a year. You have to be sure. You have to know what you’re getting into.”

“I will think and investigate and I won’t take a year.”

Bernie brushed away her tears. “Thanks for even considering this.”

“Thank you for asking. It’s an honor. Now we need to get going. You have to go home to your handsome husband and I need to do a little research.”

They stood and hugged.

“I’ll be in touch,” Zennie promised.

“Thanks.”

As she got in her car, Zennie knew she had a lot to consider and think about. While her first instinct was to immediately say of course she would be their surrogate, she understood that this was possibly the biggest decision of her life and not one to be made lightly. Still, it was Bernie and she had no idea if it would be possible for her to ever say no.

Finola had a little trouble reading the digital clock on the nightstand. The numbers were big enough and even projected onto the ceiling. The problem wasn’t the size of the display or the brightness—it was that they wouldn’t stop moving.

Back and forth, they jumped like numerical fleas doing a dance that made her head spin. Dang numbers, she thought, wondering if the concept was funny enough to make her smile because nothing else had.

She was pretty sure she was still drunk. She’d been chugging vodka steadily since, oh, sometime Friday night, and now it was Sunday. She still hurt all over and she constantly felt sick and inside her chest, where her heart was supposed to be, was just a hole.

She looked back at the clock and saw it was maybe nine forty. At night, she told herself, looking out the window just to be sure.

Yup, it was dark, so nighttime. Nine forty on Sunday night. A day she’d spent entirely alone because, despite his promise, Nigel had never stopped by.

She’d known he wouldn’t, she admitted, but only to herself. There was no way he would want to talk to her after what he’d done. Nigel loved pointing out her flaws but didn’t like hearing about his own. There was no way to put this on her, no matter how he tried, so of course he was avoiding her. It was just a character flaw.

She’d been telling herself that for hours and hoping that, at some point, she would believe it. Only now, lying on their bed, in their bedroom, in their house, knowing he was probably fucking Treasure right this second, she was finding it harder and harder to believe that was all it was. Her spinning head and muddled mind weren’t enough to distract her from a horrific truth. That Nigel hadn’t failed to come by because he was ashamed or because he was busy having sex. He hadn’t come by because he wasn’t here anymore.

In LA, she clarified for herself. She wasn’t thinking he was dead.

She reached for her tablet, put it down, then swore under her breath. After sitting up, she drank more vodka, grimacing when she realized the ice had melted, diluting her drink. Stupid laws of physics or whatever it was that controlled melting ice cubes. She didn’t want watery vodka, she wanted cold vodka.

She opened the tablet and went directly to the TMZ home page. She didn’t have to look hard to see the headline: Does Treasure Have a New Man?

Her vision blurred more as she started crying again. Finola angrily brushed away the ridiculous, useless tears and clicked on the link that took her to the page. There were more pictures than text, which was fine with her. The last thing she wanted to do was to give herself a headache from reading impossibly small and moving print.

Instead, she studied the photos, trying not to care about how young Treasure was and how incredible she looked in a very tiny bikini.

“Look at her ass!”

Finola thought about the hours she spent working out and how every year it was just a little bit harder to keep things high and tight and firm.

Life was many things, but fair wasn’t one of them, she told herself.

There were more pictures, all of them of Treasure. Once Finola had accepted the other woman’s incredible body, she started paying more attention to where the pictures had been taken. One word jumped out at her. “Bahamas.” Her already shaky stomach sank.

“He’s not there,” she whispered, even though she knew he had to be. She scanned the pictures again, looking more closely at the people in the background. No Nigel, no Nigel, no...

She turned back to one of the pictures she’d already studied, peering at it more closely. There, in the background. The image was blurry, but she recognized the man. He was with her. Nigel had gone to the Bahamas with Treasure.

“Bastard!”

She reached for her drink, only to remember the watery contents, then bounded out of bed. That last thing was a mistake as the room spun and her stomach lurched. She hung on to the nightstand to steady herself. When she was pretty sure she wasn’t going to fall over, she headed for the landing and, clinging to the railing, made her way downstairs to the kitchen.

There were two empty bottles of vodka on the counter. A third still had most of its contents. She dumped the tepid liquid from her glass into the sink, added ice, then poured in more vodka. After two big gulps, she set the glass on the counter and closed her eyes.