My daughter. Born just five minutes, and I was already jealous. Jealous of the doctor who held her first. Jealous of the nurse who spoke the first words to her (“tão bonita!”). Even jealous that those first words were in a language I didn’t understand. When she was finally placed in my arms I held her possessively. I had carried her for nine months, endured morning sickness and swollen limbs, turned my body into a receptacle whose sole function was to keep her safe and healthy. I’d paid for her with blood and pain. If that didn’t make her mine, what did? “Hello, Joy”. I breathed her name as part greeting, part prayer, and part promise. We were safe here. I hadn’t travelled or registered under my own name, and no one would think to look in a Cabo Verde hospital for a typical Mid-western college student who’d never left Iowa. Six months ago I hadn’t thought of being a mother at all. Now I was prepared to keep and raise my daughter despite my (our!) fugitive status. All thanks to Larry. He peeked in now to meet the newest member of the family. I hadn’t known him long, yet his expression of pleasure and excitement almost matched my own. We’d met eight months ago, while I was still thrilled at being part of a “team”. I imagined myself surrounded by the eagerly expectant parents, the watchful doctor and staff at the clinic, all of us committed to giving the best possible start to this new life. The reality was completely different. Slowly I came to realize that as the surrogate, I was barely to be acknowledged as a person. The “mother” and “father” were the paying customers, after all. The rest of us were simply on the job. Everyone from doctors to nurses to technicians offered congratulations at every milestone over my head to the woman who would raise this child. Her husband would lean on whatever stood behind him and jiggle restlessly or talk on the phone, every now and then tossing comments at his wife (“everything look OK to you?” “The kid doing all right?”). She never answered him, or asked any questions. No one seemed to notice that she was more and more withdrawn. And no one noticed me at all. No one but Larry. By the sixth month I no longer wondered that it had taken a referee for their egg and sperm to cooperate, and when the proud mother-to-be left a terse note abandoning “the project” and the marriage, I wasn’t surprised. What did surprise me was my relief. The plan had been brilliant: take a semester off, deliver near the end of summer, come back in the Fall with full college tuition, including room and board. No part time job, no student loans. I hadn’t told anyone, not even my parents. I told them I was part of a group researching labor relations on Wall Street for my sociology degree and spoke to them as often (or sporadically, according to my parents) as always. I had thought to sell a service, not fall in love with the person growing inside me. Now the thought of giving her up to people who didn’t love her felt like a betrayal. Larry, who saw the growing awe produced by his sonograms and the joy at my little girl’s every move, was the one who opened my eyes. “You can’t keep her, you know” he’d said quietly one day, while wiping the cold goo off of my belly. I looked at him in surprise. I hadn’t even admitted to myself that this was what I so desperately wanted. “Of course I’ll keep her. You can see the egg and sperm donors don’t give a damn.” “True. But what happens if you keep her and they change their minds? Even if it’s just one of them? One DNA test and you’re facing kidnapping charges.” I felt faint. I had no idea about what records the clinic was keeping, but I knew I couldn’t count on them for proof of anything. And I’d have no genetic relation to the daughter I was carrying. Larry had shown me the problem, but a few weeks later he brought me the solution as well. Change our identities, start a new life – leave the country. “Cabo Verde”, he’d said, flashing his crazy grin. “Sunny, low cost of living. And” he’d stressed with a flourish “no extradition agreement with the US.” I’d walked around in a daze for weeks, my frequent vomiting now due to raw fear. I watched in confused paralysis as he produced a fake passport and ID, never asking where they came from. Then came the final, exhilarating surprise as Larry placed two tickets before me. “I’m coming with you” he said. “Why?” I asked, stunned. “Can’t you guess?” he said. Then he kissed me. Suddenly I was no longer a scared girl running to protect her child. Now we were two people in love preparing a glorious life together. We were a family. “Say hello to your Daddy” I said now, handing my Joy to Larry. He took her tenderly as he laughed. “Funny you should say that”. I blushed “Well, you know what I mean…” “No,” he interrupted “What I mean is that her Daddy is here.” I was confused. “What?” Larry opened the door to let in the sperm donor. He gave me a curt nod of greeting, then both men dismissed me. “The kid all right? I’ve got a woman meeting us here for the trip home.” Larry nodded, all business now. “I’ll hand her to whoever you say – as soon as I confirm the transfer into my account” “C’mon – I wouldn’t stiff you, man. That bitch thinks she can walk away from me that easy, sure. But not when I’ve got her kid, right? You did good, taking care of this for me. Otherwise it would’ve been such a hassle! “ “Hey, I’m sentimental. Kids belong with their parents, right?” They both walked out, taking my daughter with them. Neither of them had so much as glanced at her.

The man with the flute played a tune to the stars while the butterflies danced in the breeze. Glancing out of the window, Matt frowned and moved to take in the scene more fully. Yes. The man was slight, pale, dressed in green pants to his knees, green suspenders, white shirt, and green felt hat. And yes, there was a feather. All of this would have meant little to Matt – either one of his neighbors wanted to try on his St. Paddy’s Day outfit a bit early, or the guy actually thought he was a leprechaun. Neither case would be particularly surprising: crazy neighbors were par for the course anywhere in NYC. But crazy butterflies? From the darkness of his second story bedroom he could see them clearly, dancing under the streetlamp’s eldritch glow while the flutist merrily did his thing, moving to his own music on a patch of soft, green grass. Neither the butterflies, the man, or the daffodils growing at his feet were fazed by the glinting snowfall of this wintry evening. Despite the early nightfall, no other light was visible. Grove Street could have been the dark side of the moon for all signs of life it presented. No lights from nearby apartments, no traffic - automotive or pedestrian - no cars parked on the street, no other streetlamps lit. And no sound – not even from the flute, Matt realized with a start. He opened the window hoping for a hint of the song and was met by a sharp stinging freeze, followed by a warm breeze that smelled of clean grass and lemonade. His movement had drawn the attention of the musician, and the man stopped playing to greet Matt with a friendly smile and a beckon of welcome. Then he returned to his flute, and played with a gladness and verve that was evident to Matt despite the fact that he heard nothing. A dancing maniac was one thing, but Matt knew that seeing a patch of grass that green and lush growing in a perfect circle in the cement of a New York City sidewalk must be the effect of stress. The securities firm he worked for hosted plenty of seminars on the subject, highlighting the importance of frequent breaks, taking vacations, and maintaining a sane work-life balance. The seminars were an effective strategy for weeding out the gullible, and anyone who took them too seriously soon found himself with an obsolete account password and a packed cardboard box, de-Friended and un-Linked. The cold wind had returned, bringing a heavier snowfall with it. Matt shivered and drew back into the apartment, shutting the window and turning away from the cavorting butterflies. The dots behind his eyes mirrored the butterflies’ dance, then morphed into images of his father’s proud slap on the back, his music teacher’s farewell sigh, the embossed letterhead in his leather portfolio...then resolved into a loud, blank nothing. Finally he turned on the light, checking the bedroom closet for the box. He’d packed it eight years ago when he’d moved out of his parents’ home after college and into Phase III of his life, but hadn’t touched it since. Not finding it, he headed for the catch-all closet in the hall. Meg was in the tiny kitchen, probably chopping something that he thought he hated but would turn out to be delicious. Married for three years, and until a few minutes ago the thought of the rest of his life with her made him feel as if he’d won a jackpot. His energetic foraging through coats and boots drew her into the hall. “What are you looking for, babe?” she asked “Just a box...I’ve had it for years...” he trailed off, knowing she couldn’t hear him anyway with his head stuffed into a dark corner of the closet. He drew out the stepladder, and as he climbed he glanced down into her up-turned face. She had that genuine prettiness that comes from laughing eyes and an easy smile, and for a second Matt could see in her the children they’d never have now: a little girl who shared his passion for architecture and movies about aliens, a boy who was a whiz at math and hated kale. The ladder wobbled, and as he steadied himself with the aid of the closet shelf he felt the box with his finger tips. He took it down and looked inside. From under the old letters from ex-girlfriends, his acceptance letter from Julliard, his diploma from NYU, an expired passport, he pulled out his harmonica. It had been his constant companion for so many years – now it lay here rusty, dusty and neglected. He blew it free of the dust, and tried a few experimental bends. Meg laughed. “Cool! But what’s the deal – I thought you said you had a headache and needed to lie down for a sec?” Shrugging into his leather jacket, Matt felt a harsh, sharp, rip in his ribs – a stab in the heart that bought quick tears to his eyes that dried as soon as they formed. He blinked his eyes clear, knowing he’d experienced just a shadow of what Meg would feel in the months ahead. “You going out?” she faltered, seeming a little frightened by his manner and expression. “Meg”, Matt began. But what could he say that would actually be truth? “I’m sorry,” he finished. Pulling the door shut behind him, he caressed the smooth metal of the harp, jogging the two flights down to street level. The frigid cold of the corridor flowed into a comfortable warmth, and when he reached the exit he shrugged off the jacket before stepping into the balmy breeze of the flute.