Page 55 of The Deepest Lake
She turns, triceps soft against the top of her tuk-tuk seat, trying to face me. “No. I just thought of it this morning, after I read your essay. I said to myself, ‘She’s got some chops. She’s a lot like me.’ Which made me very happy.”
Eva’s natural joy is undeniable. I believe her. And she knows I believe her. She knows how much I need this—not just the money, but the validation. If this were all a big misunderstanding, it would be easier to laugh it off. But it’s the opposite. It’s an understanding, at least in part.
She adds, “Which isn’t to say I haven’t thought about surrogacy before. But everyone’s always discouraged me, even when they know everything I’ve gone through, how much I’ve already sacrificed. I don’t think that’s fair. Do you?”
I think of my parents’ attitudes about my dream of becoming a writer.
“No.”
She points to her ear.
I think about the two MFA programs that rejected me.
“No.”
She shakes her head, annoyed, still pointing to her ear, though I’m sure she can read my lips. I’ve managed to hear nearly everything she’s said just fine.
“No!” I shout, over the wind and the tuk-tuk engine. “It isn’t fair!”
She nods, satisfied. “Jonah doesn’t necessarily want to be a father. He had a vasectomy years ago and has no plans to undo it. For him what happened might have been a relief in some ways. But Jonah’s a good man. On the short side. With psoriasis. But a good man.”
My mind is reeling, still trying to assimilate the (not very large) cash offer for surrogacy—a huge ask, a potentially life-changing transaction—plus the news that Jonah might have been relieved about Eva’s baby’s death, plus the fact that his lack of interest in children, like his stature and his skin flareups, did not prevent them from marrying. A mixed bag of the poignant and the trivial, which one might say is Eva’s brand. Why hadn’t I ever noticed that before?
“Barbara says, ‘You’re out of time. You’d be seventy-four when the kid’s eighteen.’ But then I think, ‘Well, I would have been only seventy-two if you’d been more supportive of the idea two years ago.”
I’m grateful that we’re having this discussion in the tuk-tuk and that we’ll be returning to a house in flux, the party only hours away. There won’t be time for further discussion.
“Young writers leave MFA programs in debt,” Eva says. “Depending on the school, what—thirty or forty thousand? One hundred and twenty thousand at a school like Columbia? Their own teachers can’t make a good living from writing. It’s a ponzi scheme! You know that, right?”
“Yes,” I shout. I do know that. That’s the problem. I wish everything about this were wrong. But it’s only partly wrong, and it’s the wrong part that has settled deep down into my gut, where I can’t take it out and examine it properly. Details can be worked out. Payments and timelines can be negotiated. But what I’m feeling can’t be negotiated, or silenced. It’s a big, screaming air horn.
Eva bangs on the roof of the tuk-tuk with her hand. “Slow down, will you?”
When the driver ignores her, I say, “Más despacio, gracias.”
“See? Good with languages. That’s a plus.” She puts a hand to her neck, sore with the effort of trying to look and shout over her shoulder. “If I were a young writer all over again—twenty-two, with no publishing record—I’d find a way to make a quick ten grand. Then I’d settle myself in a place just like this where I could live on less than one thousand a month. That would give me a year to write a book. You know how long it took me to write my second memoir?”
“Seven weeks.”
“And they were good weeks.” She looks wistful. “When it’s the right story, and in you’re in the right place, both geographically and emotionally, it’s magic. And my most recent novel?” she quizzes me.
“Four months but really just three, because during one of those months you were on tour and that doesn’t count.”
I hear myself still trying to get the right answer, still trying to get the good grade and the recommendation letter and the someday-blurb, still trying to please her.
“Good girl. Anyway, I’d be covering your room and board. You wouldn’t spend a thousand a month. You’d end the year with savings in the bank. Don’t like Central America? Try year two in Thailand.”
Her cost-of-living math is sound. And I’ve googled how much a woman can get by selling her eggs. That’s how I know she’s underpaying. If eggs are worth close to 10K, surely surrogacy should be worth five or ten times as much. It isn’t like pregnancy is easy or risk-free. But it’s not all about that. It’s about much more. I want out of this tuk-tuk.
When we come around the final curve to Eva’s house, I say, “I appreciate that you think I’d be a good candidate. But—”
“You’re scared.” Eva flutters her fingers toward me, wanting me to reach back and take her hand. Which I do. “Pregnancy is a beautiful thing. No one tells you this part: months two to six, you’re a goddess. Big breasts, waist still not too thick if you start out thin and athletic like we are.”
“It’s not that. I’m just not interested in selling my body—”
Eva starts to open her mouth in protest. “It has nothing to do with selling.”
“—or even renting it out.”