Lourdes

“Come on, baby. We don’t want to make Auntie Rachel wait for us.”

Toby has one shoe on and one shoe . . . somewhere. I don’t even know where. He’s standing in front of the coffee table playing with his Hot Wheel cars, lining them up in one hell of a traffic jam.

Shit. I hate running behind, and having a dawdling toddler doesn’t help. If I hadn’t overslept, we would have been in the car twenty minutes ago. Rachel is taking the kids to Disney on Ice this afternoon while I have conference calls with two prospective couples from Joyful Connections. I hardly slept last night worrying about what kind of questions to ask. Picking people to give a baby to isn’t something you learn in a class or online. It’s work for the heart, and I can’t imagine doing it over the phone. The agency has a method, I guess, and these phone calls are the first step.

I went through dozens of profiles until my head hurt. I couldn’t remember which couple had a barn full of horses and which couple owned a restaurant. Before I fell asleep, one couple stood out though. I never got the chance to read their stats before I drifted off, but the photograph on the first page had me thinking things I shouldn’t be thinking about Mr. Wild, things Mrs. Wild surely wouldn’t appreciate.

I didn’t choose Mr. and Mrs. Wild.

I have two conference calls today, one with a couple in Malibu—the husband is an anesthesiologist and his wife was an executive who wants to have a baby and be a stay at home mommy. The other couple owns software design companies here in LA. They’ve been trying to have a baby for ten years with no luck. They both seemed perfect on paper, but anyone can write pretty words and a heartbreaking story. I need to get to know these people well before there’s any baby making involved.

“Where’s your other shoe, Toby?” He looks up at me and shrugs his little shoulders, and I drop to my knees to look under the couch.

I grab a back scratcher from the coffee table and pull his red sneaker out from behind a dinosaur action figure.

“Got it!”

I straighten up and watch him zoom his cars around while I shove it on his foot and tie the laces.

“We go?” He asks.

I pat him on his legs with both of my hands.

“Yep, we go.”

“You nervous?” Rachel asks.

I run my fingers along my necklace with one hand and wrap my other arm around my waist.

“Never mind,” she says, waving her finger at my throat.

“What?”

“You always do that when you’re nervous.”

I drop the chain and wrap that arm around my waist too.

“I guess I do, huh?”

“Yep. It’s going to be fine. Do you have a list of questions?”

I tap the side of my head.

“All up here.”

She stops packing the bag of snacks and places her hands on her hips.

“Lourdes! You didn’t write anything down? I don’t know how you do that.”

“I work better under pressure, Sis.” I step behind a dining room chair and place my hands on the back of it to keep them occupied. She’s really rattling my nerves.

“Yeah, well I sure hope so. This isn’t a math test. It’s some kid’s future. Sorry. I’m making this worse, aren’t I?” she says, eyeing my fingers that are white-knuckling her dining room chair.

A thin layer of perspiration is forming on my forehead as I grip the chair harder.

“Yeah, a little.”

“Ok, shutting up.” She returns to packing her bag.

“Good luck. We will be home in a couple of hours. Make yourself at home, as always. Love you.”

“Love you too.” I give her a quick peck on the cheek and ruffle Toby’s wild hair as he runs for the door with Ivy.

I pull out the chair and sit down at the table, placing my hands palms-down for a second to pull my shit together and organize the questions in my mind. My bag full of profiles from Joyful Connections is on the table next to me. I spread them out to look them over one more time. I have twenty minutes before I have to make the first call.

My eyes are automatically drawn to Mr. Wild—the Wilds, whatever. God, there is something about that man’s eyes that suck me in and leave me breathless. I have purposely avoided looking at anything other than the cover photograph. I don’t want to know about his wonderful life with his beautiful wife in their lovely California home. I don’t want to know about the love and generosity they want to give a child or their hopes and dreams for their future together, all snug as bugs in a rug.

“Liam Wild,” I say it out loud and a shiver runs up my spine. Lord, his name alone stirs something unrecognizable deep in my belly.

I’m attracted to him, but there’s something else. Something other than his lean, muscular build and his adorable dimples and perfect white smile. And those deep, dark blue eyes are so commanding, so powerful so…

Oh my God, this is so wrong. What the hell is the matter with me? I’ve hardly given men a second thought since Toby was born. I’m too damn busy with school, work, and being a mother to go on a date, and here I am, drooling over a guy who wants to have a baby with his wife. I should be ashamed of myself, and I am.

Sort of.

Yes, I am. I can’t believe I’m arguing with myself about this.

I shuffle the profiles around and flip through a couple of them again, but Mr. Wild won’t leave me alone. I give in and push them all aside except the Wilds. I sit back in my chair with my arms crossed over my chest, staring at the damn folder.

After a minute of internal battle, I flip the Wilds’ folder open to read about them . . . him.

Curious to see what he-they-do for a living, I skim to the occupation section first. What the hell? He’s a DJ? And she doesn’t work at all. How are they going to afford a surrogate on a DJ’s salary? Now I’m genuinely glad I didn’t choose them. They can’t expect to give a child a full life when Daddy works nights in a bar and Mommy doesn’t have a job at all.

I closely examine the professional photographs taken in their living room. The house looks expensive and big, not what I would imagine a DJ’s house to look like.

Things just don’t seem to be adding up until I read further, and whoa! They make more money in one year than I’ll ever see in my lifetime!

I continue to the personal and confidential information section of the profile and learn that Mrs. Wild has a trust fund that would choke a horse, and Mr. Wild is a professional international electronic DJ

Ok, so that’s were the money is coming from, but I still can’t understand why a trendy jet setting couple like these two would want to have a baby. Mrs. Wild looks like she spends twelve hours a day in a gym, and Liam . . . he looks dangerous, like sex on a stick.

They have only been married for six months, not long enough to try to have a baby. I wonder why they’re taking the surrogacy route? Maybe one of them knows they can’t have children. Yes, that must be it.

I check the time on my phone. I have five minutes before my call with the Malibu parents. I tuck the Wilds’ folder away and pull out Ken and Barbie’s. If Mattel ever wanted to do a Barbie movie with real people as their characters, this couple would have to be Ken and Barbie.

After twenty minutes of a painful, boring conference call with Ken and Barbie, I’m thinking that they aren’t the couple for me. Ken was overbearing and snobbish and Barbie was timid. She sounded like she was afraid to say anything at all. Whenever she started getting friendly with me, he would shut her down with a passive aggressive comment, as if he didn’t want us getting too close. That’s not the kind of people I want to be involved with. I do agree to meet them in person, though, because the counselor at the agency said sometimes people don’t act like themselves over the phone. I’m not holding out much hope for them though. It’s pretty clear these two have shown their true colors today.

I call Mr. and Mrs. Weaver next, couple number two, and I’m immediately comfortable with Mr. Weaver’s polite tone and the good energy flowing between us. His voice is like thick velvet with a tinge of grit, and I find myself leaning back in my chair with my knee pressed against the table, rocking back on two chair legs, until Mrs. Weaver joins the call. She’s late. He made an excuse for her at the start of our call, and he didn’t sound hopeful that she would make it, but unfortunately, she did.

If I have to listen to this woman’s Nicki Minaj, whiney voice for the next nine months, maybe ten, I may not live to the end of my pregnancy. It’s painful and anxiety inducing. I can feel my top lip pulling up involuntarily every time she interjects, which is often. She’s not only annoying to listen to, but she’s an interrupter as well. With every other word, she’s circling the attention back around to herself. All I want to do is sit and listen to Mr. Weaver’s words glide off his tongue like honey, but Mrs. Weaver is constantly shaking me from my trance with her ugly tone.

After forty minutes of tug-of-war between the Weavers and me, we agree to meet tomorrow for dinner. But first, I’m having lunch with Malibu Ken and Barbie. I feel a long day of stress eating coming on.

With the rest of the afternoon to myself in my sister’s house, I let my curiosity get the best of me. I Google Liam Wild. Big mistake. Big, big, mistake. The picture in the profile was flattering, but the things I find online are downright mind blowing. Blowing. Now there’s an idea.

Good grief, what’s happening to me? This stranger is making me a mental slut! The more I read, the more intrigued I am. He isn’t just a DJ. He’s an international super star in the electronic dance music industry. His concerts pack in hundreds of thousands of people, and without even hearing his music, I can see why. I’d go just to stand by and watch him work.

I click on my sister’s Spotify account and pull up DJ Freedom. When the cover of his first album pops up on the screen, I raise my hand to where my necklace sits in the dip of my throat and touch the delicate charm that Terrell gave to me.

Freedom’s cover is all black, and in the center is a gold tree with the leaves blowing off into the wind, representing what else but . . . Freedom. That tree is the same tree as my charm. I frown and lean closer to get a better look. This can’t be, but it is.

I sit, holding my breath while I try to untangle my emotions until my lungs burn. I push away from the computer, gasping for breath, and rush outside onto the porch with memories of Terrell flooding my mind. Terrell playing football, holding my hand, cuddling on the couch, watching movies and planning our future, making love for the first time, and finally, the memory of him smiling while he accepted his diploma on stage the last day of his life.

It’s been years, but my emotions have no concept of time. They feel the same today as they did the day he died, and so do the hot tears that race down my cheeks. I swipe them away and take a deep breath in and blow it out while I step back into the shadows so Rachel’s neighbor, who is out mowing his lawn, doesn’t see me crying. I don’t want her thinking I’m upset about the surrogacy situation.

This neighborhood is like Wisteria Lane on Desperate Housewives. Everybody knows everybody’s business. If I didn’t know better, I’d think the universe was trying to push me into Liam Wild’s life, but that’s absurd. He’s a happily married man, trying to find a way to have a baby with his wife . . . or is he?

Liam Wild, also known as DJ Freedom, doesn’t look like a family guy in the photos of him touring Europe. He looks like a mischievous handful, a player, and a partier, not a daddy.

I pad back inside in my bare feet and stand behind the computer chair, fiddling with my necklace. I reach out and tap the mouse to expand a close-up picture of Liam standing behind a massive array of electronic equipment with an insane light show going on around him. Surrounded by a crowd of people known for their ability to party for hours on hallucinogenic drugs, alcohol, and who knows what else, he seems to be a part of them but not. His eyes are clear, his clothing is neat and tidy, and his music is phenomenal, he’s like a sober pied piper leading a million drugged-out rats into a massive party.

I click through ten or fifteen more pictures before I sit down and pick apart the scenes. The dates on the articles and interviews are all very recent. It looks like he’s only been home in the United States two or three times during his six-month marriage.

It takes a while, but I finally find a picture of him with his wife, Amira, the night they got married in Germany. He looks nothing like he does in any of the other pictures I’ve seen so far. His eyes are glassy, and he’s slumped over, hanging on Amira’s shoulder with a drink spilling from his hand in almost every shot. There are thousands of pictures on the Internet of DJ Freedom, and so far, I haven’t seen him drinking alcohol in any of them.

In the YouTube videos of his shows, he always looks bright-eyed and energetic, and prior to six months ago, there is not one single pic without at least two or three gorgeous women hovering around him—and none of them are Amira. It’s almost as if she appeared one day and BAM, they were married.

When I Google Amira, I learn that she is the daughter of the wealthiest oil tycoon in the world. This woman will do just about anything to get attention, including making sex videos with famous men and women, sky diving naked, frequenting raves, doing drugs, and craziest of all, in my opinion, refusing to go to college because she will never need to earn a living. There is a whole interview about her lack of desire to go to college.

She’s Paris Hilton spoiled—no, she’s Kim Kardashian spoiled, maybe worse. She’s also fabulously gorgeous, and surprisingly, with all the drinking she seems to do, she’s in incredible shape.

I slam the laptop shut and grab my keys. Why am I sitting around wasting my time researching people I’ve never met and will never know? There is no connection between the rich, worldly Wilds and me other than that damn surrogate profile. The tree thing is just a weird coincidence that I pathetically linked to an emotional event in my life during a moment of weakness.

I need some fresh air and ice cream to clear my mind of raves and sex tapes, and I could use a night out with a man, but that’s not an option for at least another year with a pregnancy looming on the horizon. Lord, I can’t imagine the basket case I’ll be by then. I’m already falling for a married stranger from my prospective parent profiles and stalking his wife online! What’s it going to be like when I’ve been abstinent for almost a year and hormonal?