• • •
Sam’s shriek is identifiable from across the maternity ward. At her bedside, I’m assigned the task of insisting that the nurse administer the highest authorized dose of epidural. Once that’s taken care of, and Sam wiggles her toes and exclaims how fabulous it is to not feel a thing, my job shifts to dodging her ongoing attempts to set me up with Malcolm the dude-la. I admit he’s sexy in an unkempt hipster-y way; I can tell there’s a handsome face under that scraggly beard. So, when Sam spends ten minutes on the phone with her mother shouting out directions to the hospital, Malcolm and I get into it about our favorite Brooklyn bars. It feels natural when he asks for my number and suggests we meet up at one of them.
At some point, I nod off in a chair. I’m woken by a nurse’s gentle tap. “Your friend is about to start pushing,” she whispers.
I don’t let go of Sam’s hand for what feels like hours. As she pants and pushes and nearly breaks my fingers with her grip, I can’t help but feel scared for this brand-new person about to leave the safety and security of the womb and emerge into our complicated world. Sam looks me in the eye, beads of sweat dotting her forehead. “Ready?” she says, as if we’re doing this together. I suppose we sort of are.
I squeeze her hand. “Ready.”
Felicity Smith is born at 2:32 a.m. She’s a lumpy, blotchy little thing who writhes and whimpers as a nurse lifts her onto a scale and announces her weight: seven pounds, two ounces. That makes her official, a human being with a name and a size and ten stubby fingers and ten tiny toes, which Sam is currently examining.
“Feel her head,” Sam says. So, for the first time, I touch my best friend’s daughter; I stroke the soft blonde tufts, marveling at how it’s such a sparse covering on such a fragile shell. “You have to help me protect her, okay?”
“I will,” I say, another vow I know I’ll keep.
Soon, everyone will rush in to the recovery room. Tom, of course, and Sam’s parents, plus a whole welcome wagon of loved ones. Each of them will lay claim to a part of this occasion, and to the baby herself—adding to the deep well of love and care she’ll need to grow up into her own. But, not quite yet. For a short stretch of the night, the hospital hum hits a lull, and it’s just the three of us—Sam, Felicity, and me—as if we’re outside of time and space. My friend holds out her daughter, swaddled snugly, and I scoot into bed beside them and take the cozy package into my arms. I rock her side to side as Sam babbles to her in the new language of motherhood. It soothes Felicity and me both.
The day Sam announced she was pregnant was the same day I told her I was engaged. We met at our favorite French restaurant, the classy one that serves baguettes with olive oil and garlic cloves, where sometimes I feel like I’m only playacting at adulthood. Afterward, we walked along the Gowanus Canal, and as we stood on the bridge, peering down at the murky waters, I revealed my big news. Sam and I were both on the brink of new life stages.
And now here we are, eight months later: I’ve taken a step back, while Sam is forging forward—into the unknown chaos of feedings and diapers and squeaky things meant to delight and pacify. I fast-forward to a year from now: Maybe Felicity utters her first “Mama” or takes her first steps, and Sam calls to tell me about it, maybe while I’m on a weekend getaway with Malcolm. I jump ahead a decade: Maybe Felicity is over for a sleepover, our monthly tradition of movies and manicures, while her mother is out dancing with Tom or who knows who. These scenarios are simultaneously easy and impossible to imagine.
I return to the present. “Baby’s first selfie?” I ask, and Sam nods. I grab my phone, extend my arm, and see the three of us framed in the screen, Sam and I wearing wide grins and Felicity placid. I’ve heard it takes weeks for babies to start smiling, longer still to laugh. It must take that much experience of the world to understand that it’s filled with pleasure and joy, despite everything else. I snap the shot.
“Yoo hoo!” Tom appears in the doorway, hugging a teddy bear, eyes large with tears, looking like a little boy. It makes me wonder if I’ll ever stop marveling at people my own age being old enough to have kids of their own, if I’ll ever stop having to remind myself that I’m a full-blown adult. Tom’s arrival is my cue to go. I hand off Felicity, kiss Sam on the forehead, and slip out.
In spite of the early hour, the waiting room is dense with people. Some doze or stare at the television cube mounted high on the wall; others are animated and chatty. Instead of the sober gloom that hangs over most hospital waiting rooms, there’s a communal energy here. New people are being born, and we’re all a part of it! Being alone among such cheer makes me a little lonely, so I text Kirsten the baby selfie, captioned, We miss you!
I imagine her receiving it while driving across some bland stretch of the Midwest, all her belongings loaded up in a U-Haul behind her. When five minutes pass and she still hasn’t responded, my stomach knots up. Gone less than a day, and the loss of her feels heavy already.
I buy myself a vending machine coffee and pick at the Styrofoam cup. I halfheartedly play a round of Words with Friends on my phone, and then mindlessly scroll through social media. I think of Gabe. He would want to know that Sam had her baby, that everyone is healthy and happy. I text him the same photo, uncaptioned.
“Molleeee!” The cry originates from Kirsten’s gaping mouth. She’s employing every possible muscle to barrel herself through the maternity ward’s double doors. I think I must be mad, that she must be a mirage, until I spot a harried-looking Caleb following close behind.
“What are you doing here?” My voice cracks. My eyes go blurry with tears.
Kirsten wraps her sweaty self vise-like around me, and it feels as delicious as cradling newborn Felicity felt an hour ago. She’s out of breath: “When Tom told me Sam was in labor, I put the brakes on our departure. A one-day delay is worth it to meet the baby! So, where’s our friend and our new little friend?”
When we’re let back in to see Sam, the room has transformed: It’s teeming with relatives and medical professionals, cluttered with flowers and gifts. Sam yelps when she spots Kirsten, and a path clears to the bed.
“Hello, Felicity,” Kirsten coos, reaching for the baby, “our fourth American Girl.”
Somehow, before she says it, this American Girl connection slipped my mind. I now remember that I was the one to suggest the name in the first place, back at the doll inn upstate. I turn to Sam: “I thought you said you hated the name Felicity.”
Sam shrugs. “It grew on me. And Tom loved it.”
Caleb places a tentative hand on the baby’s belly. “Can I hold her?” he asks. Kirsten hands off Felicity, and as Caleb bounces her gently in the cradle of his arms, she hovers between sleep and waking, eyelids flickering. I watch Kirsten watch her husband.
“You know,” Sam says, “they released a bunch more American Girls after the ones we grew up with.”
“The next one was Addy,” Kirsten says with authority. “Adeline is a pretty name for a baby girl, isn’t it?”
“It is,” Sam says, and I agree. I imagine Kirsten’s future baby and the tiny dress I’ll get for her, “Adeline” embroidered across the front.
Time passes in that elastic way of big milestones, stretching out and springing back, an hour feeling like both a full day and an instant. When Caleb consults his watch and says they better hit the road, Kirsten looks stricken. “I can’t,” she says, flinging herself onto Sam’s bed.
“Yes, you can,” I say. “And I should probably go, too.” I squeeze Sam’s arm, knowing I’ll be back tomorrow. Sam blows me a kiss while cradling her baby and stroking Kirsten’s hair. Kirsten eventually peels herself away and collapses into Caleb. The three of us leave together.
In the hallway, Kirsten looks at me and then at her feet. “I can’t handle another goodbye.”
“Let’s skip it, then,” I say. “Anyway, you know I’ll be visiting you before you’ve even unpacked.”
“I love you, Molly. Okay, I’m walking away now.”
&nbs
p; She’s halfway down the hall when I call out, “I love you, too. I’ll miss you.” Caleb holds her steady as they turn out of sight; I feel grateful Kirsten has him.
As I exit the hospital, the snap of morning air takes me by surprise. It’s a beautiful spring day. With no baby to care for, no husband to accompany across the country, no plans at all, I’m totally free.
So, I take out Gabe’s book, flip to the last chapter, and start reading:
Russell’s explanation for his new phone number was that a New York area code would make him feel like an official city dweller. And it did, along with his Brooklyn sublet and his job at the coffee shop while he looked for full-time work. But also, the new digits meant he no longer had to screen calls from unknown numbers at 2 and 3 and 4 a.m. Russell had always assumed drunks were either angry or jolly or quiet, but Dahlia’s drunken temperament ran the gamut from sweet and flirtatious to spiteful and furious. He’d stopped listening to the voicemails featuring her slurring monologues lasting the entire allotted two minutes; now he simply deleted them. He considered warning Verizon not to reassign his old number. An unsuspecting stranger didn’t deserve Dahlia. No one did.
All this talk of phones prompts me to check my own. I forgot that I texted Gabe back at the hospital. His reply pops up on my screen: Salutations from Asheville. Everyone looks great! Pass along my congrats to Sam & Tom.
I type back, How’s the tour going?
Good good. Next on to Nashville, then Louisville.
So many villes!
Yep, and I’ll be in Yorkville in a couple weeks.
As in, Manhattan?
I’m aware of my heart pounding as Gabe’s speech bubble fills with bouncing ellipses. In a blink, they’re replaced by: Yeah. Wanna get together?
Do I want to get together with Gabe? I think about it. We won’t have to discuss bills or wedding logistics. We won’t have to be each other’s support systems. We won’t have to reassure one another of our devotion, or doubt that devotion, or bristle at that doubting. I realize that yes, I do want to get together with Gabe.
Okay, I type, and hit send. Then I put away my phone and keep reading.
It was when he went to pay his first phone bill that Russell realized his bank account had been emptied, his credit cards maxed out. Within an hour, his roommate emailed to say his rent check had bounced. It was Dahlia, of course. It was always Dahlia.
Weirdly, Russell wasn’t mad. He’d sort of figured this new life—new city, new job, new freedom—was too good to be true. And truthfully, on nights when he had no plans, when he could hear his roommate and the guy’s girlfriend through the wall moaning and moving the bed, he was ashamed to find that he missed all the calls from unknown numbers. It was pathetic, but he missed the persistent attentions of Dahlia.
At the end of the week, Russell collected his $214 paycheck, just enough to buy a week’s worth of pizza and rent a van to haul his shit back to his dad’s place in New Jersey. He promised his roommate he’d make up the rent, and he would, even if the guy had no reason to believe him.
So, then Russell was back to where he’d been before ever laying eyes on Dahlia: sleeping in a shitty twin bed in his childhood bedroom, flat broke, a total loser. His dad had never lamented his empty nest, and he wasn’t the type to throw Russell a Welcome Home party. When Russell made the mistake of telling him the details of how he’d ended up in this position, his dad used words like “stalking” and “fraud” and “felony” in reference to Dahlia. Russell supposed he was technically right, although it didn’t feel that way. He insisted he didn’t want to press charges. His dad called him a pussy and Dahlia a cunt.
This last sentence makes me laugh out loud. I know it’s a disgusting, misogynistic word, but if anyone deserves to be called a cunt, it’s lying, stealing, life-ruining Dahlia. I’m usually no fan of “pussy,” either, but for Russell it seems fitting: How can he remain so meek, letting Dahlia steamroll him once again? It occurs to me that Russell’s dad could not be more different from Gabe’s own parents. In response to a similar misfortune with their son, Joe and Barb would be nothing but tender, loving, and Gandhi-quoting. I feel like I’m finally grasping Gabe’s fiction—the way it’s both real and not real, the way Russell is both Gabe and not Gabe.
• • •
Gabe and I volley texts back and forth. After he caps off his book tour, he’s taking a break at his parents’ house. And then? He’s not sure. I tell him he’s welcome to ride out the lease in our apartment; I’ll be relocating to Kirsten and Caleb’s old place to finish out their lease. Gabe politely declines, omitting the obvious truth that he’d rather not return alone to the home we once shared.
Gabe’s time in New York will be busy: two readings, an author panel, and meetings with his agent and editor. I ask if he’s working on a new book, and he says yes. A sequel to The Charms of Dahlia? No. I ask what it’s about then, and he says it’s an underwater thriller featuring sea zombies, a sort of Jacques Cousteau-meets-The Walking Dead mash-up. In other words, he doesn’t want to talk about it, which is fine by me. He does mention that the film rights sold for The Charms of Dahlia. Will his bestie Larissa Laraby be playing Dahlia? Probably, he responds; he’ll ask her at their weekly chill sesh at her Hollywood Hills estate.
I start looking forward to these exchanges. I put time and energy into crafting my half, the way I used to do when Gabe and I were first dating, and it seems like Gabe is doing the same.
For our meet-up, Gabe proposes May 27th, five p.m., Brooklyn Bridge Park—in other words, our wedding date and time, at a different panorama of rocks on the water. Maybe it’s a coincidence, maybe not. I RSVP yes.
In the meantime, I pick up his novel again.
Russell was game to sleep with almost all his new co-workers. The Parks Department had launched an initiative to expand the city’s public gardens, and for some reason had hired only sumptuous, sylph-like creatures (plus, inexplicably, Russell). Russell liked the actual work, too. It was outdoors and physically demanding and afforded him views not only of his fellow gardeners, but also of stunning cityscapes.
His coworkers flirted, and they invited Russell to happy hours. He tagged along now and then, and went home with a couple of them, too, their respective dirt-lined fingernails grazing each other’s sunburned skin. But usually, Russell boarded the PATH train back to New Jersey after work, and he and his dad ate dinner together, a sedate affair with SportsCenter subbing in for conversation. Russell pitched in for groceries, but it was cheaper than going out in the city. Soon he’d have enough saved up to move out.
Gardening was a kind of meditation. Russell barely thought of anything while working. Not even Dahlia, not really. Except for one morning, when a friend texted him an image of a flyer featuring a woman’s curvy silhouette, stamped with the text, “The Charms of Dahlia, a modern dance solo spectacle. Directed and performed by Dahlia Freid.” It listed a Los Angeles venue and three show times.
So she was okay. She was more than okay—she was dancing and performing and sharing it with whoever wished to show up and be charmed by whatever a “modern dance solo spectacle” was. Russell realized Dahlia had probably used his money to fund this endeavor. He tried to drum up some anger about it, but in truth, he was happy for her. And along with that happiness came a realization: Russell finally felt finished with Dahlia, for good.
The movers arrive tomorrow. I’ve packed up most of my things and set aside a small suitcase for my trip to Maine. John and my mother are throwing a sunset seafood boil for their belated wedding celebration, just family and a few friends; John’s nephew’s band will play, his fisherman friend will cater, and Leo and I have been instructed to pick up several cases of tax-free booze in New Hampshire on our way up. Lana is on road-trip playlist duty. The event is still a week away, so who knows, but for now the forecast says sunny and warm—my mom’s been sending me updates every few hours. It’s sweet how giddy she is. I’m excited, too, for both the party and its aftermath: I’ll be sticking
around to oversee the set-up of John’s new inn, then returning to the city to launch a stationery pop-up shop.
I rifle through the smattering of clothing that remains in my closet. What does one wear to a non-date with one’s former fiancé? It’s unusually hot for late May in New York, the first wave of summer. Tucked between two sundresses, I spot a flash of pale pink and pull out the hanger. It’s the dress I bought on the day of Lana’s surgery, the one I imagined wearing on my wedding day. As in, today. I try it on now, and it’s still beautiful, the flowy silk caressing my skin, making me feel beautiful. Screw it, I think, people get dressed up for no reason at all, and so can I. I slip on a pair of sandals, and head out to meet Gabe, grabbing his book to finish on the subway.
Russell and the longhaired goddesses spent the morning planting tulips along the path at Brooklyn Bridge Park. Later, he would think of those tulips like lavish versions of breadcrumbs, leading him to Olivia. Although at the moment, they were just a task to be completed.
The girls were doing Mexican for lunch, but Russell wasn’t in the mood for tacos or company. So he found a spot on the rocks, away from the couples and the crowds of kids. He’d recently been going through his college stuff, reexamining the syllabi from the courses he’d attended so sporadically, so distractedly. Dahlia had been the one to convince him to enroll in a Jane Austen and Feminism course.
I laugh, no longer surprised to find facts from my past tucked into these pages—I highly doubt Gabe has ever read a Jane Austen novel.
She imagined it would be romantic for him to quote great literature to her in bed. But, in reality, every time Russell had begun an assigned reading, Dahlia grew irritable, pestering him until he paid attention to her instead of his novel. The main thing he’d studied in college was Dahlia. He’d missed so much.
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