The package arrives just like that. No text, no email, only a screech of tires and a black sedan swerving into my driveway. An inconspicuous young man in a black sweatshirt with the hood draped over his eyes gets out of the passenger’s side with a box in his arms. He hands me the receipt and a bright blue ballpoint pen.
The box is heavy, which is a good sign, I think. I also think I can hear faint moaning, or cooing, coming from inside. I heft it up onto the kitchen table, scissors at the ready, and I cut the tape around the box meticulously, like a maestro dressmaker, careful not to damage my new property. The box blooms open.
The baby is inside: a healthy-looking, ruddy-skinned miracle. My baby, as advertised.
My friend Bertha was very skeptical about this and she made me anxious and giddy with her talk. “Made-to-order babies,” she scoffed on the phone. She had her daughter propped on one knee and was breastfeeding. “I were you, honey, with your good looks and smarts? I’d a used that money and gone back to college. What you just did is you’ve fed the capitalist machine on an empty promise.” As she talked, I could hear soft suckling. The conceited little bitch. It took all my resolve not to slam the receiver down—that wouldn’t do at all.
My hands are shaking. The baby—Finnegan, his name is Finnegan from now on—is smiling at me, his mouth tooth-free and gums shiny with spittle. A lone strand of blond hair adorns his head like a little crown.
I’m a mother now. Bertha can suck it.