Read Online The Surrogate, The Sudarium Trilogy - Book one by Leonard Foglia, David Richards - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Leonard Foglia, David Richards
Ads: Link
down. But we shall have accomplished our little mission. And then, well…then it will be in the hands of God.”
1:11
The sensation came over Hannah again. A vague queasiness that grew in acidity as it rose from the pit of her stomach until it reached the back of her throat, where it lodged like a large wad of unchewed bread. The first time it had happened, she’d dashed to the bathroom, thinking she was going to throw up. But she hadn’t. Now she knew that if she just kept still, breathed in deeply and waited, the sensation would pass, which is why she was sitting on the edge of her bed at 10:30 in the morning, holding on to the headboard, her eyes half closed.
She was due at the diner in another half hour and contemplated calling in sick. But she wasn’t really sick sick. Just temporarily indisposed. Dr. Johanson had told her to expect something like this, when she’d been back to see him two weeks ago. The HCG test had confirmed what they all had hoped for, what Hannah had somehow known before her blood had been drawn: the implantation had taken. She was pregnant.
She could hardly believe the words or the joy they had given her. She could hardly believe them now, except that she wasn’t feeling much joy at this particular moment. She was feeling woozy and thinking about it only made it worse. The reflection in the dresser mirror didn’t help.
Well, she had to expect some discomfort. She wasn’t getting paid for nothing. Her first check from Partners in Parenthood had, in fact, arrived two days after Dr. Johanson had called her with the official announcement of her pregnancy. A separate letter, specifying the pre-natal vitamins she should begin taking immediately, followed next, then a perky brochure entitled “Exercise for Moms-to-Be.” Now she could count on a mailing from Partners in Parenthood just about every other day. With the flood of junk mail that was arriving, as well, Box 127 was proving to be a busy place.
She liked to check it en route to the diner. If she got moving now, she told herself, there would still be time. A couple more deep breaths, and the wad of bread sensation seemed to diminish. Now there was just the grayish pallor to contend with.
Waiting for her in the post office box was another of the elegant greeting cards that Jolene Whitfield favored for her correspondence. This one was a landscape by El Greco that showed a Spanish town lit by jagged strokes of lightening in a spectral sky. The moody picture was not quite in keeping with the cheerful message Jolene had scribbled inside (in her trademark lavender ink), which reiterated her and Marshall’s happiness and invited her to come to lunch soon.
“Just the two of us. Nothing but girl talk! Please call, when you can,” the note concluded. Jolene had underscored the final words three times by way of suggesting that sooner would be preferable to later.
The Whitfields lived in East Acton, a suburb on the northeastern outskirts of Boston, so it meant an even longer drive than the one to Boston, Hannah reflected. The old Nova hadn’t seen this much use in months. The mechanic at the Esso Station had been telling her it was past due for a tune-up, so if these trips kept up, another big expense was probably in the offing. Then Hannah remembered what Mrs. Greene had said - how much the Whitfields had wanted to “share” in this pregnancy. There wasn’t a whole lot to share right now, just the occasional wave of nausea, but if that was part of it, far be it from Hannah to keep it to herself.
Jolene’s instructions were good and East Acton wasn’t that hard to find. There really wasn’t that much to the town - a single main street, three blocks long, with the sort of upscale stores befitting the prosperous bedroom communities that hugged Boston. A quaint Victorian train station in the center of town suggested that some of the inhabitants commuted to Boston by rail. Pansies had been recently put out in the planters in front of
1:11
The sensation came over Hannah again. A vague queasiness that grew in acidity as it rose from the pit of her stomach until it reached the back of her throat, where it lodged like a large wad of unchewed bread. The first time it had happened, she’d dashed to the bathroom, thinking she was going to throw up. But she hadn’t. Now she knew that if she just kept still, breathed in deeply and waited, the sensation would pass, which is why she was sitting on the edge of her bed at 10:30 in the morning, holding on to the headboard, her eyes half closed.
She was due at the diner in another half hour and contemplated calling in sick. But she wasn’t really sick sick. Just temporarily indisposed. Dr. Johanson had told her to expect something like this, when she’d been back to see him two weeks ago. The HCG test had confirmed what they all had hoped for, what Hannah had somehow known before her blood had been drawn: the implantation had taken. She was pregnant.
She could hardly believe the words or the joy they had given her. She could hardly believe them now, except that she wasn’t feeling much joy at this particular moment. She was feeling woozy and thinking about it only made it worse. The reflection in the dresser mirror didn’t help.
Well, she had to expect some discomfort. She wasn’t getting paid for nothing. Her first check from Partners in Parenthood had, in fact, arrived two days after Dr. Johanson had called her with the official announcement of her pregnancy. A separate letter, specifying the pre-natal vitamins she should begin taking immediately, followed next, then a perky brochure entitled “Exercise for Moms-to-Be.” Now she could count on a mailing from Partners in Parenthood just about every other day. With the flood of junk mail that was arriving, as well, Box 127 was proving to be a busy place.
She liked to check it en route to the diner. If she got moving now, she told herself, there would still be time. A couple more deep breaths, and the wad of bread sensation seemed to diminish. Now there was just the grayish pallor to contend with.
Waiting for her in the post office box was another of the elegant greeting cards that Jolene Whitfield favored for her correspondence. This one was a landscape by El Greco that showed a Spanish town lit by jagged strokes of lightening in a spectral sky. The moody picture was not quite in keeping with the cheerful message Jolene had scribbled inside (in her trademark lavender ink), which reiterated her and Marshall’s happiness and invited her to come to lunch soon.
“Just the two of us. Nothing but girl talk! Please call, when you can,” the note concluded. Jolene had underscored the final words three times by way of suggesting that sooner would be preferable to later.
The Whitfields lived in East Acton, a suburb on the northeastern outskirts of Boston, so it meant an even longer drive than the one to Boston, Hannah reflected. The old Nova hadn’t seen this much use in months. The mechanic at the Esso Station had been telling her it was past due for a tune-up, so if these trips kept up, another big expense was probably in the offing. Then Hannah remembered what Mrs. Greene had said - how much the Whitfields had wanted to “share” in this pregnancy. There wasn’t a whole lot to share right now, just the occasional wave of nausea, but if that was part of it, far be it from Hannah to keep it to herself.
Jolene’s instructions were good and East Acton wasn’t that hard to find. There really wasn’t that much to the town - a single main street, three blocks long, with the sort of upscale stores befitting the prosperous bedroom communities that hugged Boston. A quaint Victorian train station in the center of town suggested that some of the inhabitants commuted to Boston by rail. Pansies had been recently put out in the planters in front of
Similar Books
