Tangled Innocence

Chapter 1 Episode 1

“What do you mean, ‘You gave me the wrong sperm sample?’”

I can’t quite believe what I’m hearing. I take a look around the room tocheck my surroundings and confirm that this is in fact reality and not justsome terrible, twisted, Häagen-Dazs-fueled nightmare.

Unfortunately for me, everything seems to be in order.

The placard on the wall reads SAEDER & BANKS FERTILITY CLINICOF CHICAGO in a sleek, modern font. The fluorescent lights overheadsound like buzzing mosquitos, casting pale white light over every inch ofthe exam room. There’s not a speck of dust to be found. Normally, I’m thelast person to complain about a clean room, but in this case, it’s justcontributing to the sense that none of this is real life.

I pinch myself. It hurts.

Shit. Maybe this is real after all.

Dr. Saeder blinks down at me. Or up, rather. He’s perched on his gleamingblack wheely stool and I’m sitting on the edge of the exam table with myfeet dangling in the air like a naughty kid in the principal’s office. He lookslike an ancient tortoise from this angle, all bristly nose hairs and beaked

nose and bulbous eyes magnified to ridiculous proportions by his Cokebottle glasses.

He clears his throat and starts again. He’s one part weary and ten partsterrified that I’m about to sue his ass into the next dimension—which isreasonable, because I’m sure as hell considering it. “As I explained, Ms.Turner, there was a mix-up in the labeling system for donor samples at ouroffsite lab facility. At the intrauterine insemination stage of proceedings fora surrogacy pregnancy such as yours, the biological…”

He drones on and on, but I’m not really hearing him. I processed it the firsttime he explained things—well, processed it logically, at least. Emotionally,I’m light years away from coming to grips with the bombshell that the not-so-good doctor just dropped on me.

I’m pregnant with the wrong man’s baby.

There isn’t a therapist alive who’s qualified to deal with this ol’ satchel oftrauma. Thanks a lot to the sperm clinic from hell.

It’s not like I didn’t have enough of the stuff already—trauma, that is, notsperm. When your sister and brother-in-law get viciously murdered a monthbefore you’re supposed to start carrying their baby for them, you end upwith enough baggage to last a lifetime.

Today was supposed to be a good day, dammit. Well, as good of a day asyou can have in the immediate aftermath of a tragedy like the one that stoleRose and Jared from me. I was supposed to come in and get finalconfirmation that my eggs were properly fertilized. That the baby Rose hadspent her entire life dreaming of would finally be hers, albeit not quite inthe way she’d always imagined.

Rose was always the girlier of the two of us. She was the one directing herBarbies in theatrical performances and whipping up Easy Bake browniesfor anyone who asked.

I’d have chugged orange juice and toothpaste before doing anything quiteso feminine. While she was straightening doll hair, I was climbing trees andfeeding those brownies of hers to any squirrel that would come closeenough.

But we made it work, her and I. When Dad kicked us all out and Mom fellto cancer, we were all we had left. I came back home for the funeral andnever really left Chicago after that.

It was good to be back near my sister. She understood how I grew up, allthe little wounds to the heart that I suffered along the way to adulthood.

And I understood her just as well.

Which is why I was the first one she came to when she found out that thebaby she’d always wanted so badly wasn’t ever going to be hers.

“I’m barren, Wren,” she’d said to me. I remember those words exactlybecause of how ridiculous they sounded. They belonged in a Jane Austennovel or in a cheesy grocery store checkout aisle bodice ripper.

Not on the lips of my sister.

But she didn’t need jokes then. She needed a hug—which is what I gave herin those first tear-drenched moments—and love, which is what I gave her inevery second that followed.

She needed something else, too. It took her a while to work up the courageto ask me. But I’ll never forget that moment, either.

“Do it for me. Carry my baby. Will you, Wren?”

Back in the fluorescent-soaked present, I close my eyes to ward off thetears. I’ve cried enough in the last few weeks, thank you very much. Thisexact room has seen its fair share of those tears.

Even though things with the surrogacy have gone well—up until now—thatdoesn’t stop the sadness from sitting heavy on my chest, always ready toreach up and clamp my throat closed for a little while, just for shits andgiggles.

Grief is a cruel, petty b***h.

“… you understand, Ms. Turner?” Dr. Saeder finishes. “Ms. Turner?”

I sigh and open my eyes again. There are three of him in my field of vision,blurred and split up by the unshed tears. When I blink, they coalesce backinto one.

And at the sight of him, I get mad.

I don’t get mad often. For all that Rose was the princess of us two Turnergirls, she was also the one more likely to melt down into a temper tantrum.And when she did, it was fierce.

“Hurricane Rosie,” my mom used to call it. “The forecast is rain andthunder—lots of it.”

Sure enough, she’d cry and scream like a storm cooked up by the devilhimself. Hands pounding the ground, cheeks red and wet, the whole nineyards. She’d let her rage out like that—and when it was gone, it was like ithad never even happened. She’d just smile again and go right back to herdolls.

Me, though… I turned my storms inwards. I kept ‘em close and buried ‘emdeep. It felt safer that way.

But Hurricane Rosie isn’t ever coming back, is she? And after a lifetime ofkeeping the hatch closed on my own thunderstorms, I figure I’ve earned theright to let out a clap of lightning or two.

“What I understand, Dr. Saeder, is that you and your staff have made anincredibly serious mistake that is about to change the course of my lifeirreversibly,” I grit out, my voice wobbling dangerously.

Dr. Saeder’s eyes open wide and he scoots back a bit on his wheely stoollike he wants to stay out of arm’s reach. Not a bad idea, honestly. There’s notelling what I might do next. “Now, Ms. Turner, I think ‘irreversibly’ is a bitof a strong word. There is always the option of ab —”

He freezes and the words die on his tongue. The only sound in the room isthe irritating fluorescents—my God, I wish they’d just shut up already!—and the sound of his gulp.

“Don’t you dare suggest I get rid of this baby,” I continue. I jab a finger inhis direction. “My sister is gone. I buried her, Dr. Saeder. She and herhusband are ashes six feet under the ground right now—and you want me toget rid of the only piece of them I have left? You want me to put this babythere, too? I. Don’t. f*****g. Think. So.”

He gulps again. His throat is so scrawny that I can see every inch of themotion. “V-very well, Ms. Turner. I only meant to explain your opt —”

I hold up a hand and he stops talking once again. My head suddenly hurtsso, so badly. And the fluorescent lights just will not stop. “There are nooptions, okay? I’m having this baby. I just—f**k, my head is pounding—Ijust want to know one thing. One thing, okay? And you’re going to answerme—because if you don’t, I’m going to leave this clinic and I’m going togo straight to a lawyer’s office and I’m going to drop a lawsuit on yourhead so heavy that your great-great-great-great-grandchildren will feel theweight of it crushing them flat. Are you ready for the question? Nod if youunderstand.”

I feel drunk. I feel high. I feel asleep. I feel insane.

“Wonderful. Tell me this: Whose. Baby. Am. I. Carrying?”

He gulps one last time. “I’m afraid you are not going to like this answer,Ms. Turner.”

I go back to work shaking and nauseous. Despite me subjecting him to mymodern-day Spanish Inquisition, Dr. Saeder stood his ground on refusing todivulge the name of the donor whose sperm is currently fertilizing an egginside my body.

He did, however, agree to communicate an invitation to the man in questionto meet me at 5:00 P.M. tonight at Lifelines Bistro, a local bar just down thestreet from the Egorov Industries skyscraper where I work.

No promises on if the guy will agree—but a girl can dream of actuallymeeting her own baby daddy, right?

Jennae at the front desk lets me in with a dazzling smile, just like always. Ittakes every ounce of willpower I have to return it and swipe my badge atthe turnstile. The elevator ride up, clustered with men in suits wearing toomuch cologne or not enough at all, doesn’t do my stomach any favors.