Surrogate to the Alpha

Josephine 

“Are you a healthy and physically fit female aged between 20 and 40?” 

Check. 

“Do you consider yourself to be a selfless person that enjoys helping others?” 

Check, check and… check, I guess. 

“Hundreds of families that are unable to conceive are in need of your help in order to get the only thing missing from their lives. Join our agency today and be a surrogate mother to carry their much‑wanted child,” the ad read. And yes, I did scan over every word, for some reason. Maybe because desperation makes you read things twice. Maybe because the pastel colours hypnotised me. Or maybe because the universe has a sick sense of humour.

I remember picking up the pink and blue flyer when I cut through the maternity ward at the hospital. That day started as a poor attempt at dodging my mother’s doctor — the same one who has made it his personal mission to ensure I remain on top of the payments towards the hospital. I mean, who is that guy anyway? Is he a doctor or a goddamn debt collector with a stethoscope?

Fine, I may have misplaced the dozens of invoices that arrived by post, and I may be screening my calls whenever I see the hospital’s main line calling, but I am trying my bloody best to pay for my mom’s treatment. My biggest issue with that is that money doesn't quite grow on trees. If it did, I’d be out there watering the branches at dawn.

But I do guess I owe her doctor a lot since he’s kept his promise of not discussing any money in front of my mother. As far as she’s aware, I can afford her treatment without any issues — just like I could afford the ridiculous red wig that I often wore in my attempt to go incognito at the hospital.

Why red, you ask? I’m sure the first thought popping into your mind is that red hair would stand out and not blend in, right? Well, red is to make sure it does draw attention — so much so that no one would look at my other features and recognise me as I hurry past them. For the 3.5 seconds I’m in anyone’s line of sight, all of that time is spent staring at the hair. It’s like a visual smoke bomb.

That particular day I was in such a desperate rush to get to my shift at the diner in time that I really didn't have time to spare to explain that I needed a little more time to pay the next instalment. Apparently my disguise/distraction worked for a good few weeks before I started getting recognised again. Maybe the wig lost its shine. Maybe I did.

I did wonder if I could go back to the shop and trade my red wig for a sleek black bob one, since buying a new one outright meant no dinners for a week. And while my mother might think that me moving back in with her in the small one‑bedroom apartment is because I want to be close to her in case she needs me, that’s only part of the reason. What I didn’t mention to her is that I can’t keep up with my rent anymore. And lately she’s in the hospital most days, anyway.

But yeah, money is tight and I've hit rock bottom, hence why my fingers curled around the pamphlet that promised a six‑digit payout to the successful candidates. Never have I equally wanted to both pass and fail a test like I do this interview. Pass, because money. Fail, because… well, pregnancy. And nine months of being a human incubator. And the whole “my life is already a circus” thing.

“So tell me, Josephine, what made you apply for this role?” The skinny woman with jet‑black hair and thick‑rimmed glasses asked me, before adding a sweet smile that showed her red lipstick smudged against her perfectly straight, white teeth. Someone should tell her. Someone with courage. Someone who's not me.

I’m forced back into the reality of now, rather than feeling lost inside my own head, between caring for my mother and trying to figure out how I can keep her on the very expensive treatment plan she’s on right now. Wigs or no wigs, hospitals are not a soup kitchen like I've been told before. They could very well refuse to treat my mother. The thought alone makes my stomach twist.

I gulp, stalling, because how do you say that I’m desperate enough to rent out my body yet not so desperate to resort to selling it? Not yet, at least — a girl's got to keep her options open. Christ, what has become of me?

Lipstick‑smudge lady raises her eyebrows a little — my cue that she’s actually waiting for me to answer her question. Right. I clear my throat, shifting uncomfortably.

“I need a job.” 

The words fall out of my mouth like a drunk toddler. I mentally slap myself and scramble for damage control. 

“What I mean is that I am in need of a job, one that would also allow me to spend time with my mother, and I would like nothing more than my work to account for something.” 

Not bad. Almost noble. 

“My mother is very ill, you know, and I think that providing a good family with the only thing missing to make them feel complete would only bring me a lot of good karma with the big guy.”

And a lot of money which I so desperately need. But I don’t add that last part. Instead I smile politely, hoping I don't come across as the nutcase that I clearly am.

Beth — that was her name — watched me intently for a moment before nodding and closing her thick folder.

I won’t lie and say I didn’t try to peek at her papers and see what’s written there. The ad did say that a full background check was due before any chance of an interview would be offered, and since I find myself here, interviewing, I can only assume that said background check has been done. I'm sure she already knew I am beyond broke, with a sick mother and a mountain of bills, but between squinting my eyes and having to read upside down, I didn’t make out much other than my name.

Luckily Beth didn't mention what she already knew about me, but it does help that I have nothing to hide, I guess. Well, other than the debt I’m currently drowning under making me a little mentally unstable — otherwise why would I agree to be a surrogate at this moment of my life? I mean, hello, wigs and disguises to walk into a hospital?

That happens when you don't have much of a life aside from trying to keep yourself in any form of employment while caring for an ill mother.

After a few more standard interview questions peppered with ones meant to draw out if I’m a drunk or secretly like to snort illegal substances — like I could even afford either of those anyway — Beth seemed pleased with my candidacy. At least if I were to judge by the way she kept insisting on displaying her teeth along with the red smudge of lipstick that looked like part of her denture. And yes, I’m a horrible person and a coward because I never mentioned it to her. God, I hope that wasn't intentional and part of the test.

I kept debating things, barely paying attention to her explaining the next steps, if there will be any. In the end I decided that if the roles were reversed, I would appreciate the heads‑up before others saw my stained teeth.

I waited until Beth finished explaining about the medical exams and tests I'll have to take, and before she could send me on my merry way, I jumped in, clearly disrupting her perfectly rehearsed speech.

“By the end of the week you will get a call if your application will be moved forward.”

“You ha— I’m sorry to interrupt,” I blurted, almost chickening out. “Thank you for the information, that all sounds great.” I smiled, then forced myself to finish. “Before I leave, uhm… you have something on your tooth. Right here.” 

I opened my lips and talked with my jaws closed together, pointing to where Beth's stain would be on her tooth.

She looked at me like I’d lost my mind, then slowly understood what I was trying to say and her whole face turned bright pink. Thanking me, a visibly embarrassed Beth ushered me out of her office and practically slammed the door after the first step I took into the hall.

That went well. 

I just had to wait an hour before letting the poor woman know she had a stain on her tooth. I couldn't just start with that when she greeted me, could I?

I sighed and walked myself out of the building, convinced I will never hear from Beth ever again. This was a dumb idea anyway. Being a surrogate. I mean, I wouldn't be able to do it anyway. I would have to quit my job at the diner, and a pregnant woman should not be a caregiver anyway. I wouldn't be able to help my mom much in that condition.

Almost laughing to myself, I imagined my mom's reaction if I told her I was pregnant. She'd probably call the priest and tell him I'm the new Virgin Mary, because even my very sick mother mocks my lack of a social life.