The Surrogate by Kathryn Mackel

Author:Kathryn Mackel
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: ebook, (¯`'•.¸//(*_*)\\¸.•'´¯)
Publisher: Thomas Nelson
Published: 2013-01-31T13:00:00+00:00

“Tell me about the dreams, Bethany.”

Patrick leaned back in his chair, feet up on his desk. Always at ease, Bethany thought. She was more comfortable with him than with anyone except Kyle and Nora. And Hannah, now.

“The dreams are like a symphony. Lots of variety, but the same melodies and countermelodies.”

“What’s the theme?” He smiled but listened with intensity.

“Two themes. A baby crying—Hannah, of course. And darkness. The location can be anywhere, from the townhouse to the Boston Public Library to David Hemlow’s workshop. In fact, I’m never in the same place twice, it seems.”

“Tell me about the most recent one, then.”

“I dreamed about Fenway Park two nights ago. The whole stadium was dark. I could make out the lights on the poles, but I couldn’t get them turned on. I hated the shadows, especially the ones under the seats. I tried to shine a light under there, but my flashlight wouldn’t work.

“Then the crying started. At first it was a lonely little voice. Remember the crying I told you about last year? The wailing I heard that night in North Conway? It was just like that. I ran down the rows, even crossed the bleachers, trying to find Hannah. Then it grew in volume, echoing off the scoreboard and the left field wall, the monster thing out there.”

“The Green Monster?” Patrick said with a smile.

“Yes, that high wall—the cries just bounced back at me. But it was too dark to see what was happening on the field. I shouted for someone to turn on the lights and turn off the sound, but no one helped me. I woke up screaming, Kyle said. As usual.”

“Let’s start with the crying. How do you know it’s Hannah if you can’t see her?”

“Patrick. I’m her mother. I just know.”

“Think carefully now. Listen to the dream—does it sound like her voice?”

Bethany closed her eyes. She hated remembering. She could live with darkness, but the crying was unbearable. Hours after she woke up, that wailing would still ring in her ears. She feared sleep now. She didn’t even want to nap with Hannah during the day. If she could sleep with her eyes open, gazing at sunlight instead of night, she would.

“You know, maybe it isn’t Hannah. I just assumed that, because it was a child and all. But the cry seems deeper than Hannah’s voice. Kyle teases that she’s going to explode all our crystal someday with that high-pitched howl.”

“Is it deep enough to be an adult’s cry?”

“No. I’d say it’s definitely a child’s cry. Enough lung capacity to deepen the tone, but no maturity of the larynx.”

“Whatever you say.”

She laughed. “Can you tell I teach voice? Or at least, I used to.”

Patrick looked down at his hands. His fingers were long, strong—expressive. The hands of a musician, she told Kyle once. “No way,” Kyle had said. “The hands of a pitcher. Or a quarterback.”

They had known Patrick socially from church for years. Bethany had never expected to be in his office as a patient.

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