Bound by Debt, page 16
“I remember of course,” I affirm, not quite grasping the reason for the severity of her warning.
Knives separately, there are only four. Forks next to them. Spoons parallel. Small spoons are endless, and there is not enough room for them in their compartment. An opener, a peeler, tongs, and a mallet I organize behind the silverware so the drawer is able to run on its tracks and close. Next time I’ll clean underneath it, I decide, pushing the drawer back and shifting to the stove top. While engrossed in cleaning, trying to set order in the chaotic mass, I hear Betty waddle near me again.
“Every day you deep clean a different room,” she announces, standing next to the window in her faded bathrobe with the missing buttons, hands on her hips. Lit by the midday sun, I notice her graying mustache is shadowed by black hairs peeking out from the caverns of her wide nostrils.
“Of course,” I assure her, returning my focus to scrubbing the stove, thinking that after three hours in the kitchen I haven’t made much progress. The kitchen still stinks, getting it in shape will take a lifetime. I urge myself past the disappointment. The filth on the stove has been stuck there for years, stubborn, unwilling to be removed. Toast leftovers that turned into charcoal stand firm in their refusal, unyielding to the shaking and probing of a knife. I utter a sigh and look up to the ceiling. A light bulb hanging like an empty skull in the middle looks back at me as if to say: You should have known that three hours are a drop in the bucket in the face of the time needed to make this kitchen clean for human use.
Planted there in the midst of the chaos I can hear my mother’s prophecy reverberating in my heart that nothing would ever come of me, maybe just a house cleaner. Reflection muddles my mind. Consumed in dizzying contemplation, as I reach my hand towards a cabinet to shut its crooked door, the sensitivity in my stomach reminds me of yesterday’s events. Goddamn his accursed soul. Mateotti and his whole mafia. May their miserable existence be erased from the earth, may those creepy creatures get blown to the sky and land in Hell.
The pain is still there. Could I have a broken rib? Or two? The possibility that my uterus was harmed flashes in my mind but fades in an instant. Julieta’s tired theory about hard work as a cure for the ailing soul is clearly false. In fact, not once does my demanding daily grind as a house cleaner help me forget my worries. The only optimistic thought that manages to encourage me is the meeting scheduled for tomorrow with the psychologist. Only the surrogacy plan can extricate me from my deteriorating state.
The concluding sentence, “Mrs. Iris Maor is fit for any scenario,” I read out loud from the paper presented to me by Gordon in his office.
“Yes,” says the psychologist, today in a partially ironed suit and a striped tie. “That is the conclusion after assembling all the test results. The Piersons are very excited. They would like to meet you as soon as possible. The ball is in your court. You just say when.”
“Before I say when, I have a question, a question I don’t really understand how we did not discuss earlier.”
“Ask. That is what I am here for,” answers Gordon, sitting up straight.
“The question that bothers me most about this whole surrogacy issue is what I should say to Yuval about the pregnancy. How to make it as easy as possible.”
“Tell her the truth. Try to disconnect yourself from emotions. Think about your mutual needs, about your hope for the future. Emphasize the benefits that will come from this, money, a lot of money, so much that you will be able to return to Israel and buy that house you’ve been dreaming about,” he says, as dry as dust.
“Yuval is only five. She tells me over and over how much she wants a brother or sister; you think I can talk to her about mutual needs?”
“Of course you can, to the proper degree,” he clarifies, his fist resting on his cheek.
As he speaks, I am struck with the insight that this task-oriented psychologist, solely focused on his mission, will not make a meaningful statement on the matter, and I state to myself: Your wish is accomplished. They are ready to proceed. This is the moment when the die is cast. This is the moment of your turning point for a better future. So what are you waiting for? Accept with no regrets. I make my decision, and a stream of delight starts rushing through my veins.
“Here.” Gordon hands me a note. “To move things along, the meeting with the Piersons has already been arranged. Wednesday at five PM.”
“Suits me fine,” I respond gratefully as I click down the date and the time in my cell phone.
I skip out of the building onto the street, and the first thing I do is call Julieta. “I have a green light!” I holler cheerfully. “The psychologist thinks I’m fit for surrogacy. From this moment on things are gonna go according to plan.”
“Where are you, sister? The salon is full of people, I can’t talk right now. Stop by this evening. ” Julieta sounds busy.
Evening. I walk the crowded streets. Wrapped in hope that everything is going to work out, I can feel magic dust flutters down from the sky, droplets of honey land on my head. My prayers have been answered. No more Love Palace, no more mafia persecution, no more tormented wild prostitute neglecting her daughter. The surrogacy plan, the plan that will save me from my collapsing future, is about to become reality.
“You look wasted.” Julieta, in her plastic-covered living room comes towards me and wraps me in a warm hug. “No offense, sister, but a little blow dry and some French nails would set you straight. And what’s with this hair all tied back? You need a haircut too,” she says, giving me the once-over with a sympathetic look.
“Long day. A day full of excitement.” I lean back and get comfortable on the recliner.
“Feel like a glass of Brazilian rum? Some Caribbean fire will do you good,” Julieta offers, a reckless glint in her eyes.
“Definitely feel like it, why not? Yuval is at Nancy’s, and I’m not pressed for time.”
“Right on. Now, talk,” says my friend as she opens the door to the bar and gathers up a reddish bottle and two slender wineglasses.
“So yeah, they approved the surrogacy. I almost gave up, you know. Until the meeting with the psychologist today, I was sure they were gonna deny me. I was afraid that someone had already told the Piersons about my work at the Love Palace. I was afraid that Mateotti’s messengers followed me and got to the Piersons to look for information about Avi Inbar. Apart of this, I was suspicious the psychologist could read minds and knew everything about me. I was certain they would dismiss me because of my personality.” I stop for a breath and shake my head, remembering.
“See, during the psych sessions I didn’t filter anything. My night job was the only thing I didn’t disclose. I poured out all the shit from my childhood, the stuff that made me into a woman with a short fuse. After I let it all out I was sure I had made a mistake because with the surrogacy, there is no room for nerves. They look for a woman that can take life easy. And because I let loose and spilled everything, I was sure they would nix me just like they did all the other women that wanted to be the Piersons’ surrogate.”
“Everyone has piles of shit and short fuses. What do they want, some blind cow who doesn’t get bugged by anything? And you, Iris, you have restraint,” Julieta says and pours the amber liquid into the glasses. “I see the way you talk to Yuval; I wish I had patience like yours.”
Two long-stemmed glasses clank. “Cheers,” we say in chorus and tip the glasses back for a sip.
“So what can I say to you, life is full of surprises. I got up this morning feeling like shit. I was prepared for the psychologist to tell me I’m not a good fit. I knew he was gonna waste my time with explanations and apologies so I wouldn’t be insulted. My gut feeling said skip the meeting, nothing good is going to happen.
In spite of all that, in the heat of the day I dragged myself over to the psychologist’s office, and it was all for the best.”
“Good for us. And now what?”
“Soon Eleanora’s ovum that was kept in deep freeze will be pulled out to thaw, it will be fertilized with her husband’s sperm, and then the gynecologist will plant the fertilized egg into my uterus. God willing, everything goes well, I will give birth in the spring, and we seal the deal with a hundred and fifty thousand dollars in my pocket. What could be bad?”
“All good. Even very good, tons of money. Hopefully it all goes well,” Julieta says and swallows another mouthful from her glass.
“Still, I’m not completely at ease. I’m bothered because of Yuval.” The smooth rum, sliding down my throat like a warm caress, awakens my concerns. “She wants a baby brother so badly, and what does her mother do? Arranges to deliver a baby for money, and she won’t have a brother. The other day when Yuval told me that Nancy got a little brother, she practically pleaded for one too.”
“So she begged, and how would you support a baby?” Julieta slaps an open hand on her thigh and lets out a sigh choked with laughter. “In like a minute, these girls are gonna grow up and take off away from us. If we don’t steer life where we want it to go, we will be left by ourselves poor and lonely, to face whatever fate has prepared for us.”
“And you? What’s up with you?” I change the subject, not ready to face the truth I have to reveal to Yuval.
“It’s all gravy. The new boyfriend is a good man, spoils Jessica a lot. There’s work in the salon up to my ears, day in, day out, and our lives go blowing in the wind.
“And with your work?” Julieta inquires.
“I’m done forever with the Love Palace. After the beating those thugs inflicted on me the day after I went back to work there, I don’t go near the place. The cleaning at that crazy lady’s apartment is slave labor. And, sister, if you saw her and her apartment you would say Darwin got it wrong. That the origin of man is not the monkey, it’s the chicken, low-grade animals that spread their shit everywhere and then trample it. The place, so help me God, hasn’t been cleaned in years.
This morning I sweated it out in her kitchen for three hours, and it’s like I hadn’t touched anything. The same stench, the same trash she won’t get rid of. Is it a wonder I look cooked? And think, forty-five dollars for three hours of work in that garbage dump. No tips there, you know. Compare that to nine months of pregnancy and a hundred and fifty thousand dollars in my pocket. Believe me I’m set,” I sum up.
Near the door before we bid goodbye, Julieta makes me promise. “Do me a favor, before you go meet the couple, come into the salon. A little French manicure and a blow dry will fix you up good. On me.”
“Sure,” I agree, but I have no intention of following through.
Chapter 23
Summer is melting away. September is on the brink of October, a trace of cool weather with it. In the Piersons’ living room four people are assembled for a joint mission. The Piersons, me, and a severe-looking lawyer. The breeze from the park drifting through the open windows mitigates the near oppressive atmosphere. The lawyer reads the terms of the contract aloud.
“Be it that Miss Iris Maor is asking to serve as a surrogate to the fetus of Mrs. Eleanora and Dr. Ted Pierson, and be it that Mrs. Eleanora and Dr. Ted Pierson wish to deposit their embryo in Miss Maor’s uterus and be it that… It is hereby agreed upon by both sides that the pregnancy process will begin in the month of September under the strict supervision of Dr. Ringer… Miss Maor will hereby declare that she has never engaged in immoral or unlawful activity whatsoever and will commit herself during the pregnancy to a healthy lifestyle that will in no way endanger the unborn baby…”
I nod. Scared to blink, my gaze is fixed upon the attorney. Not a cell in my face moves lest my expression disclose my lies.
“The Piersons will commit, on their part, to support Miss Maor in any way that Miss Maor sees fit to be relevant during the pregnancy and birth…” The lawyer pauses at the end of each paragraph and eventually finishes.
As he concludes, three heads nod before him. I’m as taut as a guitar string. The worry that the sentence “Has never engaged in immoral or unlawful activity whatsoever” isn’t a standard condition in contracts of this kind, and was inserted because of information that made its way to the Piersons rattles me. I choose to ignore it.
My eyes stop on Eleanora. She returns a warm, trusting look at me, so heartfelt I can almost hear her thoughts. Iris, we believe in you.
A hesitant smile spreads on my face, and I answer her unspoken plea, “I will do everything I can to bring you a healthy baby.”
Under the lawyer’s watchful eyes, three signatures appear at the bottom of the contract. Aware of my deceit, I control my trembling fingers and affix my signature. Something inside me relaxes. Just a piece of paper, I convince myself as I extend my hand for a firm handshake. A check for fifty thousand dollars is given to me. A hundred thousand more, according to the contract, will be transferred to me with the birth of the baby.
Two days later in his office, Dr. Ringer, a bald fellow with a pink oval skull resembling a melon with eyeglasses, explains the steps. “In our treatments we imitate nature.”
I sit in front of him, on the other side of a glass desk in a comfortable chair, my fingers tensely tucked under my thighs, listening to every word.
“First we must prepare the uterus. Throughout the development of the follicle in your ovaries, a condition which will be monitored by ultrasound, you will take hormones to strengthen the lining of the uterus. Over the course of two weeks you will take three Estrophen tablets a day. It is a synthetic that replicates the natural estrogen of the female, the hormone that is secreted before ovulation.
After two weeks we check to see if the endometrium has thickened and if it is ready to implant follicles. In other words, this initial stage of ovulation is an indication for us that the endometrium is at its best for the embryo implant. If we see in the ultrasound that the endometrium is sufficiently prepared, we stimulate ovulation. Are you following so far?” he asks, peering at me condescendingly.
“Yes. Totally. Questions at the end?” I inquire like an obedient student.
“Why wait? You can ask questions at any time if something isn’t clear,” he says in a calming voice.
“These pills for thickening the endometrium, do they have side effects?” I ask, assuming I’m going to blow up like a balloon.
“Just some fatigue, at most. The same as a premenstrual feeling.”
“And how do you cause the ovulation? Actually, why not let nature do its thing without all these pills?”
“We need to control the process. We need to know exactly when the follicle deviates from the ovary and then act. When the endometrium is ready to implant follicles, we add vaginal tablets of progesterone to ensure successful transfer. The implantation involves inserting a thin tube, called a catheter, containing two fertilized eggs from the donors into your vagina, past your cervix, and into your uterus. From then on we hope for the implantation to take root in your endometrium and keep monitoring with ultrasound and blood tests.
Silence. Dr. Ringer removes his glasses, shines his lenses again and again with a handkerchief and puts them back on his nose.
“What do you mean the fertilized eggs of my donors?” I try to keep my cool, hiding the worry creeping up my spine, knowing that Eleanora’s uterus was removed, and she cannot produce eggs, so I keep inquiring.
“Okay, I understand that Dr. Pierson can produce sperm, but where do you get Eleanora’s eggs from? Dr. Pierson told me she had cancer and her uterus and ovaries were removed,” I say, examining his white lab coat, the pen sticking out of his pocket, and his white chest hairs peeking out of his scrubs.
“True,” he pronounces with a smile. “We are talking about eggs that were aspirated out of Eleanora’s uterus eight year ago, before she underwent the hysterectomy. They were fertilized with Dr. Pierson’s sperm and were stored in frozen liquid nitrogen. Three days before the transfer we will thaw two of them, keep them in proper conditions, and when your uterus is ready we insert them into you.”
“And why two?” I protest. “We agreed in the contract on one child,” I say, my confidence suddenly shaken.
Dr. Ringer doesn’t lose his patience. “Two just to make sure. Statistically, it’s important that you know, external fertilization only works twenty percent of the time. Nevertheless, women who’ve previously given birth are more likely to be able to get pregnant using IVF than are women who’ve never given birth. And in our case if both embryos implant in the lining of your uterus, one of them will be destroyed, assuming the Piersons don’t wish to have twins.”
“Destroyed how?” I suddenly feel the urge to protect the little embryo that will be sentenced to death. I free my hands from under my thighs, place my elbows on the table and rest my chin between my fists.
“We have solutions for everything,” he says, gently joining the fingers of each hand forming a frail cage by the union of their tips.
“Seems like you professionals know everything ahead of time,” I point out.
“Yes.” He nods seriously. “Almost everything. But you know, sometimes there are still surprises.”
“Meaning?”
“We will talk about risks later. Right now, we are still exploring the process of getting the fertilized eggs into the uterus, so we will continue from here,” he says, as his gaze lingers on my face.
“From this point forward you will take a combination of estrogen and progesterone, the same hormones that support a natural pregnancy. As I said, we are always imitating nature. We are always watching with ultrasound and always checking that the process proceeds like a natural pregnancy.” He pauses for a moment, clears his throat, and searches my eyes. Once he recognizes my attention he continues.
