Rich and Pretty(81)

“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 f*cking 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 f*cking 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.