The Surrogate, The Sudarium Trilogy - Book one by Leonard Foglia, David Richards Page A
Authors: Leonard Foglia, David Richards
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soda pop. Like the wise men following their star, she seemed to know where to go and what to do next. Beginning with the ad in the newspaper, she had been guided to this couple.
Everybody’s eyes were upon her. Even a beaming Mrs. Greene was content to sit back and relinquish her role as catalyst. Their faces were all so open that Hannah thought she’d burst with pride.
“I really want to help you,” she said. “I hope you will let me be the one to carry your child.”
1:10
After the emotional meeting with the Whitfields, the appointment with Dr. Eric Johanson was decidedly anticlimactic. He had a small clinic near Beacon Hill, which meant that once again she would have to slip out of the house and drive to Boston. It was becoming a routine.
From his name, Hannah pictured Dr. Johanson to be a tall, strapping Swede, with a mop of curly blonde hair and sea-blue eyes, so she was a bit surprised to discover a courtly gentleman in his 50s, who looked more like a writer or a college dean with his three-piece tweed suit and horn-rimmed glasses that perched on the top of his head, when he wasn’t using them. She couldn’t imagine a drop of blood or even a baby’s drool had ever sullied his crisp, white, cuff-linked shirt. Even for a doctor, his appearance was imposingly immaculate.
He had a soft voice with the trace of an accent that Hannah couldn’t identify. It sounded like some Middle European country. Definitely not Sweden. His manner was slightly old-fashioned, and when he greeted her, he gave a short bow from the waist, which amused her.
“I can tell in advance, just looking at you, so pretty and healthy, there’s nothing to worry about,” he chuckled. “How do you young people put it? ‘Piece of cake?’”
Dr. Johanson posed all the usual questions - Did she have diabetes? Hypertension? Was she a smoker? - checking off the appropriate boxes on a medical form almost as if he could predict her responses before she gave them.
Hannah hesitated only when Dr. Johanson asked if anyone in her family had a history of difficult pregnancies. Her mother or a grandmother, for example. “We’re concerned for your health,” the doctor explained. “But we have to be concerned for the baby, too. After all, you’ll be the incubator.”
That was the second time someone had used that word. Hannah thought it made her sound like a machine, just a bunch of tubes and wires and an on/off switch. Surrogate mother was so much nicer. But the benign look on Dr. Johanson’s face indicated that he meant no offense. Maybe, it was the technical term.
“My aunt might know. She’s my only living relative. And my uncle. I could ask them, if you want.”
“Well, maybe that won’t be necessary.” Dr. Johanson indicated a paneled door to the right of his desk that opened onto a small, antiseptic examining room. “Why don’t we get right to the physical exam, shall we? If you don’t mind removing the clothes. You’ll find a robe on the back of the door. I’ll be with you in a second.” He refocused on his paper work and jotted a few more notations on the forms in front of him.
The black leather examining table was covered with paper that crinkled when Hannah sat on it sideways, her bare feet dangling over the side. The room was chilly and smelled of disinfectant, laced with rubbing alcohol. The thin cloth robe afforded her little warmth. On the wall, a travel poster touted the sunny charms of the Costa del Sol, with people cavorting happily in the waves. Hannah concentrated on it and tried to think about faraway places, not needles and rubber gloves and unpleasant steel instruments for probing. She’d come this far. It would be—
She had no time to complete the thought, before the door opened. Dr. Johanson had taken off his suit jacket and put on a white lab coat that flapped about his knees and gave him a comical penguinish appearance. He went to the sink, scrubbed his hands, patted them dry on a towel.
“Shall
Everybody’s eyes were upon her. Even a beaming Mrs. Greene was content to sit back and relinquish her role as catalyst. Their faces were all so open that Hannah thought she’d burst with pride.
“I really want to help you,” she said. “I hope you will let me be the one to carry your child.”
1:10
After the emotional meeting with the Whitfields, the appointment with Dr. Eric Johanson was decidedly anticlimactic. He had a small clinic near Beacon Hill, which meant that once again she would have to slip out of the house and drive to Boston. It was becoming a routine.
From his name, Hannah pictured Dr. Johanson to be a tall, strapping Swede, with a mop of curly blonde hair and sea-blue eyes, so she was a bit surprised to discover a courtly gentleman in his 50s, who looked more like a writer or a college dean with his three-piece tweed suit and horn-rimmed glasses that perched on the top of his head, when he wasn’t using them. She couldn’t imagine a drop of blood or even a baby’s drool had ever sullied his crisp, white, cuff-linked shirt. Even for a doctor, his appearance was imposingly immaculate.
He had a soft voice with the trace of an accent that Hannah couldn’t identify. It sounded like some Middle European country. Definitely not Sweden. His manner was slightly old-fashioned, and when he greeted her, he gave a short bow from the waist, which amused her.
“I can tell in advance, just looking at you, so pretty and healthy, there’s nothing to worry about,” he chuckled. “How do you young people put it? ‘Piece of cake?’”
Dr. Johanson posed all the usual questions - Did she have diabetes? Hypertension? Was she a smoker? - checking off the appropriate boxes on a medical form almost as if he could predict her responses before she gave them.
Hannah hesitated only when Dr. Johanson asked if anyone in her family had a history of difficult pregnancies. Her mother or a grandmother, for example. “We’re concerned for your health,” the doctor explained. “But we have to be concerned for the baby, too. After all, you’ll be the incubator.”
That was the second time someone had used that word. Hannah thought it made her sound like a machine, just a bunch of tubes and wires and an on/off switch. Surrogate mother was so much nicer. But the benign look on Dr. Johanson’s face indicated that he meant no offense. Maybe, it was the technical term.
“My aunt might know. She’s my only living relative. And my uncle. I could ask them, if you want.”
“Well, maybe that won’t be necessary.” Dr. Johanson indicated a paneled door to the right of his desk that opened onto a small, antiseptic examining room. “Why don’t we get right to the physical exam, shall we? If you don’t mind removing the clothes. You’ll find a robe on the back of the door. I’ll be with you in a second.” He refocused on his paper work and jotted a few more notations on the forms in front of him.
The black leather examining table was covered with paper that crinkled when Hannah sat on it sideways, her bare feet dangling over the side. The room was chilly and smelled of disinfectant, laced with rubbing alcohol. The thin cloth robe afforded her little warmth. On the wall, a travel poster touted the sunny charms of the Costa del Sol, with people cavorting happily in the waves. Hannah concentrated on it and tried to think about faraway places, not needles and rubber gloves and unpleasant steel instruments for probing. She’d come this far. It would be—
She had no time to complete the thought, before the door opened. Dr. Johanson had taken off his suit jacket and put on a white lab coat that flapped about his knees and gave him a comical penguinish appearance. He went to the sink, scrubbed his hands, patted them dry on a towel.
“Shall
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