The Surrogate

It's been five years, now. Five years. I still think about her every moment. I still do, I can't help it. I'm not allowed to see her. I'm not allowed near her. It's not my fault. It's not my fault. It's not my fault. I couldn't help changing my mind about her.

Sometimes, when the children are leaving school, I stand and watch her. It must be a long time ago, now, because she --- my daughter --- has gone there. My little baby girl has been swallowed up by the system; she's sitting in the reception class. Right now as I write, she'll be learning the shape of every letter, learning to read, so that she can discover her past and come running back to her true parent. I stand on the other side of the road when they're leaving school. I wrap up in coat and hat, because than Donna won't see me. I can't let Donna see me. Bundled up, I can watch her, dragging my little girl along by the hand.

My daughter would love me if she knew who I was.

I said: five years. In truth, this started a long time ago. Many years ago. I was Donna's best friend, when we should have been at school. When both of us were young enough to have best friends. I was warned to avoid her. My teachers told me she dragged me down, but we were inseparable. We rushed through all the usual teenage milestones together: first love, first kiss, first period, first sex, always within a month of each other. And then we were pulled away by similar boyfriends and similar jobs, moved into council flats; the normal way of life in our small grey town.

It was then that our differences began to crawl into sight, staining my future and my view of the world. Almost everyone told me that I could have done A-levels, could have gone to university --- but Donna said it wasn't worth the effort. She fitted into place just where she was. She had been born into her lifestyle; rootless, adopted, I tried to follow suit. I never knew the name of my mother. I still don't know the woman who gave birth to me.

Donna wanted a baby, desperately. Because then, somebody would love her. Several times she became pregnant. Several times she miscarried, her membranes bursting and spewing out half-formed gobbets of useless slime. I didn't need a baby; I could manage fine without some mewling, puking infant. And I quickly became bored by Donna's endless, detailed descriptions of her "problem". Detailed down to the tiniest, most personal fragments of useless flesh and fat.

So then, Donna dreamt up the Agreement.

I don't know why I agreed. I don't know why I did what she told me. Six years ago, that evil cow Donna was the best friend I ever had. I didn't see the harm in letting out my body as her incubator. I didn't realise I would love my daughter until I felt her fight me from the inside.

As my body swelled, Donna also seemed to change. She became more possessive, she became more desperate. And I realised: the new person I was making would always be a part of me. My pain was so pleasurable, because it was producing my only child. I could never let her go.

Just after the birth was the worst time: all my body ached, and my wonderful tenant had gone. My nipples were cracking and dripping with milk, but I had nothing. I was nothing more than a dairy creature. Maybe I could have written it off as a nightmare, written her off as just the ghost of a baby, if only I had not seen her at that one perfect moment. The midwife held my daughter up, showed her to me; she was beautiful. I remember the doctor who cut the cord, who released her from me. She floated away and never returned. I had survived, and nobody showed any gratitude.

I need her.

I need to see her.

I feel as if she's tied to me still. She's mine and mine alone. The doctors must have been wrong: I created that baby entirely by myself. Evil Donna --- and her greasy man --- didn't have a single thing to do with it. I would destroy them, if I knew how. Because then I could rescue my beloved.

I'm seeing --- living with --- Tony at the moment. He tries to persuade me not to dwell on the past, tries to persuade me to forget her. But I can't. I never will. How could I? Tony has stopped me eating: after the birth my weight blossomed. But he doesn't know what it's like. He can't. Even though he was with me through the birth, he doesn't know what it's like. He says we can make a baby of our own; he doesn't seem to realise that somewhere I already have a child. I did it on my own. When the doctors shoved my daughter inside me, there was nobody to share my bed.

I cried for years, afterwards, never stopping. Tony ended it; he took control and managed to prevent my gut exploding. When I was lonely, I would melt huge bars of cooking chocolate, and drink them straight down mixed with Golden Syrup. Bowl after bowl: it gave me migraines. Because I was always lonely. Sugar and cocoa were my drugs of choice, and I tried to use them to fill that dreadful hole. When I was younger, men told me I was pretty, and I believed them until I grew up. But nobody would ever call me pretty now, not even Tony. My skin is a mess, and my body slumps. And I blame it all on Donna.

I'm back from the school run. On my own again. After half an hour hovering with my hand on the receiver, I pick up the phone. I know Donna won't be there.

She gives me their number in return. I know she's my child.

"Love, it's Mummy. Your Mummy's here for you."

"Mummy's busy right now. Do you want to leave a message?" Such a perfect voice, so painful for me to hear.

"I'm your mummy."

"You don't sound like her."

I put the phone down gently. I mustn't hurt her. I don't know how it happened: why did my life turn out this way? Why is Donna the way she is? Why can't my daughter be mine?

I need my daughter, and she needs me.

I remember something, in the beginning, when Donna and I were kids. I always knew that I was adopted, and I would speculate: who could my real mummy be? I would be optimistic --- film stars, actresses, singers --- and Donna would be realistic, forcing my hopes back down. I wondered why I had been put where I was; Donna said we were related souls, always destined to meet. If it wasn't for some form-shuffling social bureaucrat, I would never be where I am today. Or maybe, if I had stayed with my true parents, my life would be perfect. Because then I would at least have a family.

Maybe, if my mother had kept me, I could be somebody else. And then I could keep hold of my babies, and love them forever and always.

I wish my child could be mine.