Chapter 5

Emily's POV

My stomach resembles a bulging soccer ball. Fortunately, if I wear baggy clothes, no one will realize that I'm seven months pregnant. Staring in the mirror at myself is like staring at someone else.

I'm overweight, and I'm uncomfortable. I can't walk more than a few steps without being out of breath. And then there's the heat... It's the absolute worst.

I've given my notice at the restaurant at Catherine's request, which I'm not thrilled about. I spend most of my days in my apartment, bored and agitated, fantasizing about the day my swollen feet would fit back into my tiny sandals and I'll be able to wear that gorgeous little dress I'd kept for summer.

Except for one person, no one knows about my "condition," and for the time being, I believe I can get away with it. But one afternoon, on my way back from a doctor's visit, I ran into Rachel, my ex-restaurant manager.

"Be careful, you'll hurt yourself," she warns, glancing down at the now-visible bump.

"You know what you're having yet?" she inquires.

For a split second, I'm at a loss for words.

"It's a boy."

"Are you keeping it? You appear to be quite far along," she remarks. No, I shake my head. Rachel and I aren't exactly friends, but the look on her face indicates that she badly wants to tell me something.

"I didn't tell my ex for months because I knew he'd tell me to get rid of it. As a result, I chose to keep it. I even gave him a name, assuming he was a boy. I miscarried six months into the pregnancy," she continues, her voice sorrowful. "All I'm saying is that if you don't want to give him away, that's great. And it's also fine if you want to do that."

I wished I could tell Rachel the truth, but I decided that the less she knew, the better. Olivia was the one person I couldn't hide my pregnancy from.

Perhaps it wasn't my big belly, but rather my mood swings. I transformed into The Incredible Hulk a month into my third trimester. I was easily triggered by the tiniest thing. Most of the time, Olivia was in the line of fire. I'm not sure how she can still be my friend.

I ended up telling her everything one night, from meeting with Charlotte to breakfast in bed. I left out the real sex part for obvious reasons.

"You naughty girl, look at you," she exclaimed, laughing. "Who would have thought you had it in you?" she chuckled. "But, honestly, have you thought about what's going to happen when you hand over that child?" she inquired, her voice trembling.

That's all I've been thinking about for the past six months. My love for this baby are growing as my tummy grows. Sometimes I imagine him as a boy with brown eyes like Liam. The very thought of hugging him causes my heart to ache with an unexplainable sensation.

I can feel him kicking when I'm awake at night. He's in a rush to come out. I even hum that song to him, which has now become a sort of tradition when I see Liam in the hospital.

Of course, I haven't informed Liam that I'm expecting a child. He'll label me insane for going to such extent. I convince myself that it's better this way—he doesn't need the added burden of knowing his sister is one marble away from losing her mind.

He appears to be out of the woods for the time being, and he's been moved from the ICU, but there's still a chance he'll relapse if he doesn't receive the operation. Meanwhile, medical bills continue to pile up, with 'final demand' letters emerging every other week or so.

Just two more months, and I'll have enough money for his surgery. Who knows, maybe we'll return to Minnesota and start over. Liam can finally complete his senior year, and I may even consider returning to college.

My child is now 14 inches long and four pounds. Charlotte seemed to have a sixth sense when I first called to tell her the news.

"I believe you have something in your possession that belongs to me." She was well aware of how far along I was. A limo was waiting outside my apartment ten minutes later to whisk me away for my first visit to the obstetrician.

When a stern-looking woman glanced through the window as I was getting into the car, I almost peed myself. She introduced herself as Ruth and stated that she would be my caregiver for the length of my pregnancy.

More like a prison warder.

Ruth accompanied me to all of my doctor's appointments, cooked every meal, and even volunteered to bathe me once. she has muscled herself into every aspect of my life, so I put my foot down when she volunteered to bath me. The only time she was absent was at night. But that's debatable—I'm convinced she sleeps on my apartment stairs and only comes when Charlotte summons her.

She came over to the refrigerator one night when I was making dinner and noticed a picture of the baby's first scan pinned to the door.

"You're becoming too attached," she cautioned. "I knew something like this would happen."

She got her phone and walked out the front door, closing it behind her. I put my ear to the door to hear what she was saying. Charlotte was on the other side, I knew. She sounded agitated and enraged.

I immediately took the photo and hid it in my underwear drawer, next to the knitted baby blanket and infant crawler I found at a thrift store.

He appeared very small in the scan. He was the size of a pea back then—a small, tiny, little pea. The first visit to Dr Sophie was the most terrifying. She had a chilly as ice demeanor and never made eye contact, keeping things professional.

She plainly knew I was merely a surrogate, a baby-making machine being treated like junk. But the moment I saw that little heart beating on the ultrasound, my heart opened and I felt an enormous sense of love and a need to protect this life that was developing inside of me.

I looked away, afraid to exhibit any emotion, and asked whether she was finished. I quickly stood up and excused myself to the restroom. I locked a cubicle door and sat for ten minutes, cradling my stomach. Ruth was irritated in the waiting area when I returned. In a huff, she handed me the scan.

It's a beautiful summer day in New York, I'm meeting Ruth for lunch at a local restaurant before our appointment with Dr Kenneth.

Olivia and I have started calling her "the boar"—an excellent description, in my opinion.

I have the urge to pee, which is reasonable given that my bladder has taken on the workings of a toddler. I resist the desire and eat another bite of chicken Caesar salad. Then it's as if a dam has burst between my legs.

I reach under my dress and my hand comes into contact with a sticky liquid. It begins to leak on the floor under me. I tell myself not to worry, but Ruth must have noticed the expression on my face. By now, I'm as white as a sheet.

"Emily, are you okay?" she worries.

"No, I think my water just broke," I say as quietly as I can.

Without missing a beat, she springs into action. She helps me up and goes on the phone, taking my bag and clutching my arm. She's calling the hospital, which is fortunately only one block away.

I hear sirens in the distance. This cannot happen; it is far too soon. This cannot be correct. I turn to face Ruth. She's scared, but I'm not sure if it's for me or for the baby. I'm starting to realize I'm in big trouble.

The paramedics rush towards me as the ambulance pulls up to the curb. Onlookers eating their lunch began glancing at me and whispering amongst themselves. The paramedics perform a short inspection and transfer me to a stretcher. Ruth can be heard shouting from behind me.

"Her water broke!"

Five minutes later, I'm being wheeled into the ER at the same hospital where my brother is being treated. The overhead lights flicker once again above me. I wish Olivia could be here. I grab her hand and ask Ruth to call her, but she ignores me. My eyesight becomes fuzzy, and I begin to fade into the darkness.

When I wake up, I'm attached to a monitor.

Dr. Sophie has arrived and is standing next to Ruth.

"Can you hear me, Emily? Emily," I hear her say from a distance. "The infant is in distress. We need to do an emergency C-section."

"No, it's too soon," I mumble.

"We don't have much of a choice. If we don't do this right away, we might lose the baby," she warns.

A team of nurses enters the room and begins preparing me for operation. I sob when the anesthesiologist inserts the epidural. I know how this will end. I've done my homework. The survival rate of babies born at 28 weeks is between 80 and 70%. 10% of those born face long-term difficulties. What if this baby doesn't survive? What happens if something goes wrong?

Dr Sophie rushes in as I fight to rip the drip out.

"Stop fighting it. This isn't your decision," she yells at me. She informs the nurse that if I continue to cause them problems, they should give me a tranquilizer.

I can feel the cold steel beneath me once I'm on the surgical table. A gentle tug on my abdomen indicates that they've done their initial incision. I smell burning flesh—it must be mine.

There is complete silence until I hear the loud scream of a newborn.

It's my child. My infant is wailing.

Someone exclaims, "It's a boy!"

"I want to see him," I say, using the last of my power. "Please allow me to see him."

I'm being overlooked. Nobody is paying attention to me.

"Please, let me see him," I say more loudly. Then I'm pulled into the tranquil darkness.