THE TASTE OF SIN (Short stories)

Simone

Ten Months Ago

“Why?” he asked, face still and half shrouded by documents. His eyes roved over the packet in front of him that detailed every piece of me—the good, the bad, and the ugly. The interview process wasn’t too traumatic, but I was relieved that he only had one more question after nearly an hour and a half of questioning.

I raised a brow. “I’m sorry?”

He glanced up at me, his expression unchanging. “Why? You’re young, single, with no family, and an average job. Why do you want to do this?”

“I mean…I want to make someone happy. Give them the gift of life.” I explained, trying to smile.

“Since you’re giving the gift of life, then payment isn’t required. Is that what you’re telling me?”

My mouth dropped in surprise. “I-I-I-”

“Relax. I’m joking.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. The $ 60,000 Mr. Powell was offering would be enough for me to travel and return to school.

“I’m sorry. You’re difficult to read. I don’t know when you’re joking or serious.”

He nodded. “Don’t worry. You’ll be compensated well. If our terms are agreeable, I’ll need you to sign on the dotted line,” he said, sliding the contract to me.

My eyes scanned the paperwork as I twirled the ink pen between my fingers before looking back at him.

“You’re by yourself?” I asked softly.

He looked up at me, going still, almost cold. The temperature in the room dropped a few degrees. “Pardon?”

“You didn’t mention a wife or girlfriend. Do you plan on being a single father?”

He nodded softly with about as much emotion as I had seen from him since I walked through the door. “I do,” he confirmed.

“Why?”

Anthony’s lips tipped with a soft grin. “Because I want to have a child. Why else?”

“Do you have anyone who’ll be able to help you? Family? Friends?”

“My parents are gone, but I have one pestering yet endearing friend with a gaggle of children.”

I smiled softly.

He has more than I have.

“What does he think about this?”

“What Jonathan doesn’t know won’t hurt him. The quicker you sign, the quicker you receive your first installment.”

Present

Push. They want me to push. But I am keeping this baby in.

“Call him again!” I screamed, feeling like I was being ripped from the inside out.

Holy crap, this hurts.

“Simone, we need you to push,” the doctor insisted.

“I’m not pushing anything,” I huffed. “Try him again! He has to pick up! This is his goddamn baby!”

The hospital room felt like an inferno, with no relief in sight. My hair stuck to my forehead, I was drenched in sweat, and alone—save for the doctor and nurses.

One of the nurses fumbled with my phone and held it to my face to unlock it. It took several tries.

Even my phone has trouble recognizing me in my current state.

“Ms. Livingston, we can’t delay anymore. You have to push!” the doctor urged again. I shrieked as the baby began to crown. The pain made my head spin.

“Not…yet,” I whimpered, trying to pull my feet out of the stirrups. The doctor sighed heavily, sick and tired of my antics.

“Take a deep breath. We’re here for you, Simone, but it’s time. If you don’t push, then we’re taking you to an OR for a C-section. It’s your choice.”

The threat of a C-section felt like a bucket of ice water was dumped on my head. I pushed as instructed with my contractions. All I heard was white noise as my body did what it was made to do. It contracted and pushed, forcing the child into the world. The white noise dissipated at the sound of her first tiny cry. I stared at the white tiled ceiling and attempted to catch my breath; my tongue licked my bottom lip.

“Do you want to hold her?” the doctor asked, smiling and trying to hand her to me. She was a little pink thing—screaming, writhing, and clawing at the air. Her cries were intense—a sign that she was a healthy baby. That was all I could hope for.

I did my job.

I didn’t reach for her as her hands moved and her feet kicked. My mind wandered to those nights when she kept me up, kicking around in there like she had a bone to pick with me.

She did all of that inside of me.

I glanced away and ignored the doctor’s disappointed look before they took her to weigh her and check her vitals.

“Where’s the father?” Nurse Tanya asked, her mouth twisted in a simper.

That’s a good question, actually. Where is he? Where is Anthony?

I reached for my cell phone again. Nothing. No missed calls. No voicemails. No texts, emails, or a sorry-I-left-you-with-my-baby carrier pigeon—nothing.

“How are you feeling, Mom?” another nurse asked.

“I’m not her mom,” I protested weakly. “I mean, I had her, but she’s not mine. I’m just—”

“Do you have a name, Mom?”

My forehead twitched in annoyance as I glanced up from my phone.

Are these people deaf? How many times do I have to tell them I’m not her mother?

“I’m not Mom. I’m…Simone. I’m just the surrogate, and her father should be here soon.”

I redialed the number, putting it to my ear. My eyes cast on the newborn, who’d taken to making small whimpers rather than outright crying. They managed to ease a little cap over her head. The baby looked around curiously, most likely trying to make sense of the already cold world. She was only a few minutes old, and her father had abandoned her.

Her slate-gray eyes connected with mine from the plastic bassinet. She was a beautiful baby with a nose, ten fingers, and ten toes. She deserved a name, but it wasn’t my place to give her one.

“You’ll need to nurse soon,” a red-headed nurse commented.

I swallowed and glanced at the baby.

Pick up the phone, Anthony!

Something dark and twisted settled in my stomach, leaving a sour taste in my mouth. The man I met was Mr. Responsibility. He talked a good game with his perfectly slicked-back hair, soft, insincere smile that never reached his eyes, and his light southern drawl with a hint of Texas twang. He played the perfect expectant dad—attending all my appointments after the first trimester and calling me daily to check in and see how I was doing and if I needed anything. For Christ’s sake, the man would leave his house in the middle of the night to bring me iced gingerbread cookies and chocolate milk to satisfy my late-night pregnancy cravings.

Call me day or night. I want to know everything.

What if the man had a breeding kink? What if he got off on impregnating women and then abandoning them?

“H-he told me to call day or night,” I whimpered softly, feeling tears prick behind my eyes. “He said he’d answer, but he’s not….”

My eyes were drawn to the baby again. She cried loudly from the transparent plastic crib with no name. While I was distracted, someone had taped a pink baby elephant at the foot of the crib, with the words “Baby Livingston” scrawled on it, along with her height and weight.

She’s not a Livingston. She’s a Powell. I can’t get too close. What if I get a whiff of her intoxicating baby scent as I hold her in my arms, only for him to appear and snatch her away from me?

“Are you going to feed her? The baby needs to make skin-to-skin contact soon, to form an attachment—”

“Formula. There’s…formula.” I nodded to the diaper bag that sat abandoned in a nearby chair. It was my gift to the new father. The red-headed nurse shot me a look of pure disdain before preparing the bottle. Her attitude did little to ruffle my feathers. I had fallen into a contented bliss while I stared at Baby Powell. I was in awe of how adorable she was in the hospital-provided onesie. It had tiny turtles on it and didn’t quite fit her. She was a little on the smaller side, but they assured me she was still within a healthy weight range.

I wanted to adjust her cap that slipped down her forehead, and I wondered what color her hair was. I wanted to hold her as I had for nine months, but I couldn’t get attached to a baby that wasn’t mine.

***

One day lapsed into two without a word from Anthony. Her father had gone AWOL, and the social worker was planning to put Baby Powell into foster care.

“A beautiful baby deserves a beautiful name, don’t you think?” Nurse Tanya asked with a soft smile. “Are you ready to name her?”

Am I ready? Can I do this?

I gave birth to this baby, expecting to hand her off, but after two days of waiting for him, I realized I was on my own.

I swallowed roughly and eased her out of her plastic crib. She cooed gently in my arms. And why shouldn’t she? I was her home, after all—the only thing she’d known. We only had each other. I smiled and stroked her face.

Am I ready?

“Nori. Nori Livingston. That’s her name,” I whispered. Nori looked into my eyes just as I said her name, as if to tell me I was making the right choice.

She’s mine.