Rich and Pretty (29 page)

“I'm ready for a vacation,” she says. “I'm over this summer.”

“We're going away on Monday. We're renting a house in East Hampton with Fiona and her kids. Family vacation. I even convinced Dan to take three days off, but only three, because he's worried about the paternity leave coming up. But we'll all be together those three days, and actually Henry and I are going for ten. You should come out.”

“Fiona. She's got kids plural, then?”

Sarah nods. “Owen's just a little younger than Henry, Eliza is almost two now.”

“So cute,” Lauren says. “You guys should have synced up your second borns, too, you could have had family vacations together forever.”

Sarah is quiet. “We did, actually. Not by design, but it happened.” She pauses. “I lost the baby.”

Lauren looks at her. Sarah looks calm, her posture, her demeanor bearing no real relationship to the words she's just said. “Oh God, I'm sorry. I had no idea. When was this?”

“I never told you.” Sarah exhales deeply. “I don't know why, to be honest. I just. It was so bad, Lolo.”

Lauren pulls her feet up under herself, pivots in the sofa so she's almost sitting on Sarah's lap. She touches her arm, tentatively. Sarah, so fat, so solid, seems fragile. “Were you far along?”

She'd been sixteen weeks. It was old hat, pregnancy. She threw herself into it, and it felt as if it had been longer because she'd gotten so big, so quickly. In utero, Henry had cooperated, blossoming after she walked down the aisle, but the second one had made her presence known early. Sarah had dug out some of the less offensive pregnancy clothes, stored in a plastic box in the basement. She'd bought books for Henry, books about being a big brother, about how love isn't diminished, but rather amplified, when you add another person into the mix.

She'd told her parents, she'd told Fiona, she'd told the nanny. She'd been on the verge of calling Lauren, actually—it was on her to-do list—when, one otherwise unremarkable Tuesday, she woke up feeling different, somehow. The baby hadn't really started
moving, but Sarah felt a stillness there, inside her taut belly. The doctor asked her to come in, but it was the radiologist, whom she didn't even know, who gently placed a hand on Sarah's knee and confirmed that there was no heartbeat.

One of those things. They had to dilate her. They used seaweed, of all insane things. The twenty-first century and that's how it's done. She went home, came back, and it was all a terrible mockery of what had happened four years earlier, with Henry: the room hushed, the pain nonexistent, the final moment not an anticlimax even. Dan held her hand, and she cried. She declined to look at the baby, declined the offer of an autopsy. She went home and, two days later, took the big brother books out of the pile by Henry's bedside.

“Four months. Showing and everything. Then, one morning, spontaneous.”

Lauren's mind races, trying to latch on to the right thing to say, trying to give voice to all the questions that come up. “But why didn't you tell me? This is terrible. I could have—. I don't know what I could have done. But I could have done something. I could have tried.”

“I know.” Sarah squeezes Lauren's forearm. “It's not you. I wanted it to be over. I wanted to come home, and just be here, with Henry, and Dan, and be quiet. I thought I was pushing it, with the universe. I thought I was asking too much. I just wanted to . . . to never think about it again.”

Lauren thinks, immediately, of Christopher. Ghost brother, the lost boy Lulu never talks about.

“Hey, we got through it,” Sarah says. Another squeeze of the arm. “I should have called, I'm sorry.”

“I should have been there,” Lauren says. “I'm a terrible friend.”

“You're not. You're my best friend. It's fine. Here I am. Look at me.” She spreads her arms open wide to indicate the bulk of her body. “He's fine in there. It's all okay.”

“I'm so sorry, though.” Lauren reaches up to take Sarah's hand, which is cool, and soft. “I don't know what to say. You're so. Fine. But I know you. I know that you must not have been fine. I wish you'd told me.”

“Just one of those things, that's what the doctor kept saying.
Sarah, it's just one of those things.
”

“One of those fucking horrible things.”

Sarah is quiet. “I didn't know, Lolo. I didn't know if I could call you. With that. I didn't know if you'd . . . if you'd understand. No. I knew you'd understand. I just didn't . . .”

Lauren gets it. She does. She's offended, but it washes away quickly. She understands why Sarah would keep this from her, would keep this to herself. And she understands now that she can't be mad, that she can't shift the focus, from Sarah to herself. This is one of those moments: real life happening. She has to take it for what it is. She looks around the room. The books on the shelves are arranged by height and by color. “You could have told me,” she says, as gently as she can. “But you're telling me now.”

Sarah looks away. “I didn't want to bother you.”

“You say you're done being sad about this,” Lauren says. “So let's be happy. You're going to have a baby. It's a happy ending.”

“It is a happy ending,” Sarah says.

Lauren smiles. “I brought a present,” she says. “Trucks.”

“Henry will love it, I'm sure. But I apologize in advance if he's not thankful enough. He got so many presents. It was like a religious experience for him, ripping open all that paper.”

“As long as he remembers me,” Lauren says. “He'll remember me, right?”

“Auntie Lauren? Yes. He'll remember you.” Sarah pauses. “But, if being remembered is a big concern, well, the surest way to deal with that is to come around more. You should. Actually. Come around more. I don't know why you don't.”

“I'm here,” Lauren says. Then, admitting: “You're right.”

“I moved to fucking Brooklyn, Lauren,” she says. “I'm right here, twenty minutes away.”

“You got married and had a kid and now you're having another one and it's life, Sarah.” They'll have this conversation forever. “Twenty-six years, I've known you. Here I am.”

Sarah shrugs. “So, a year from now, at Henry's sixth birthday, you'll come over with Legos, or whatever six-year-old boys like, and we'll talk. But we could do it sooner.”

“I know. I get wrapped up in being me,” Lauren says. “You're not missing anything.” Now she can't tell Sarah about David. It'll just confirm Sarah's suspicion that something is being kept from her, even if that's not what's happening, or not what Lauren means to happen. She smiles, at the thought of David, his bright eyes, his fidgety hands. Sarah will like him, Sarah will love him, when they meet.

“You're sure it's not because you're so busy with hot guys and amazing nights out that the last thing you want to do is come to Park Slope and drink white wine in my backyard?”

“Come to your mansion and sit in your beautiful garden and drink white wine? Are you joking? I will do that, anytime. I'll remember. That we should do that.”

“I am lucky,” Sarah says, looking around the beautiful, quiet room. “I know it. Let me ask you a question.”

“Shoot.”

“Do you want a glass of wine?”

“I'd have a glass of wine,” Lauren says.

“Good,” Sarah says. “Because I want two sips of your glass of wine. Two. Maybe three.”

July was rainy,
August sunny, so the vines draped across the arbor are full, green, alive. There's lots of shade, but still, sliding the door open, there's a blast of heat, as might accompany the opening of an oven. Sarah wiggles back into a chair, tries to ignore the weather. There's no point talking about it, anyway.

Ten little children, eight boys and two girls, red-faced, damp-haired, have ridden their little metal scooters home, gift bags (temporary tattoos, bottles of bubbles) in tow, and presumably ten other sets of parents are right now enjoying the respite of their child's unexpected afternoon nap. After all that exertion, that running and screaming, Henry, compliant, had stripped out of his shirt, wiggled into his sheets, his room cool and quiet, and started to snore. They have, maybe, another twenty minutes.

Lauren has the glass and the bottle, only a third empty, as few of the parents drank at the party. She tips some of the yellowish wine into the glass, sips it.

“Mmm,” she says, approvingly. “Here.” Lauren hands the glass to her.

Sarah takes a tiny sip. It's fruity, sweet, like biting into an apple that's been soaking in alcohol. She shouldn't, after what she's been through—losing the pregnancy, which is how she thinks of it, a pregnancy, not a child. It was the darkest time in her life and made her realize how light the rest of it has been. She knew that, of course, would never have described it as anything else, her life, but still.

Without Henry, she'd have given into it: the grief, the darkness, the sadness. The memory is both distant and fresh, in the past and right there with her. Sarah feels better that she's told Lauren. She hadn't told her, because she thought that would make it easier to get through. But not telling Lauren made it worse. Now, though, she does feel—if not better, lighter, a sense that things are right between them.

Something about being around Lauren makes her want to indulge in vice. She's dying for a cigarette, which she can't quite believe. She can't think of the last time she's had a cigarette.

“Well, that's fucking great,” she says. She hands the wineglass back. “Take it away.” It's very big in Lauren's hands, very big near her face, which is small, delicate, lovely. Her eyes look darker than Sarah remembers. She seems good, Lauren. She seems happy.

“This yard is incredible,” Lauren says.

“It was the real reason we bought the house,” Sarah says. “It's so thoughtful, the way they did it. I guess it makes a difference, when you're an expert. You just see things in a different way. It would never in a million years have occurred to me to do this.” It's true. The asymmetry of the yard, the way it's all chopped
up into zones, runs counter to what she'd have thought would make the small garden feel bigger, but it's brilliant, and the place feels like it just goes on forever. And here, in the middle of it, the big birthday present: a swing set. Custom made, to save them the trek to the playground a few blocks over, good for just running out and getting a quick bit of play in. It's very simple and slender, as not to take up too much space: a pair of swings, one for a baby, one for a big kid, though the bucket seat for baby can be replaced. The woodworker who built it showed her how easy it will be, when the time comes. The frame of the swing doubles as a ladder, which Henry had been more delighted about than the swing, actually, climbing, reaching up toward the sky, grabbing at nothing, lost in his own, fluid reality.

“It's wonderful,” Lauren says. “When you go on vacation to the Hamptons, I should come here to stay. Central air, this backyard, I can't ask for more from a trip.”

“You should come out to see us,” Sarah says. “The house is huge. And without the husbands there it's going to be so empty. Take the train out. There's a pool.” She's looking forward to the ten days on Long Island, the sweet coolness of the evening breeze, the silence of the afternoons. She's booked some time with a real estate agent while they're out there, just in case. She always has a good time with Fiona, but loves the idea of Lauren there with them.

“I should,” Lauren says. “It's not easy, this time of year. It's summer and a lot of people are out, but there's still a demanding production schedule in place. September is a huge month for us.”

“Of course,” Sarah says. Maybe it's for the best. She's not entirely certain, but she thinks it may be the case that Fiona is not that fond of Lauren. But Fiona is excellent at pretending.

“Say, how are Huck and Lulu? I was sort of looking forward to seeing them at this party.”

“You just missed them. Huck likes to make a big fuss about commuting out here from the city. They're the same.”

“Of course they are,” Lauren says. “Tell them I said hi, though. I'll send your mom my new book, when it's out. She'll get a kick out of it.”

“How's your family?”

“The same,” Lauren says. “They're fine. Ben and Alexis are having a baby.”

“Your parents must be psyched.” Sarah doesn't say what she thinks, which is that Lauren must be relieved that her brother is taking the pressure off her. She's never fully understood the complexities of Lauren's relationship with her parents. She's met them. She remembers them as perfectly pleasant. She can't understand, but then, unhappy families, et cetera.

“Oh, they are,” Lauren says. “They're planning a baby shower that's only slightly less complicated than a royal wedding.” She takes another sip of the wine.