Fiona and Jane(57)

She reached for the phone to call up Jane.

“Well, you’re winning,” Jane said. “You’re on your second marriage, he’s only on the first.” A laugh in her voice. “What an amateur.”

“He looks constipated,” Fiona said. “He never knew how to smile like a real person.”

“It takes practice to look like a real person,” Jane agreed.

“I never thought he would get married,” said Fiona. “I always had a feeling he would end up alone and weird—”

“What’s her name?” Jane asked. “Who is she?”

“Kenji said she’s rich.”

“Rich how? What did he say?”

“Maybe now he can finally finish writing his novel,” Fiona said.

It had been more than a decade since Fiona moved to New York, straight from undergrad. Back then, she and Jasper were boundless, dancing along the city’s golden rhythm. Nothing and nobody could stop them.

“Fi? You still there?” Jane said.

Fiona realized she’d been silent a long while. “I’m still here,” she said. “Guess what.” She hesitated a moment. “I’m—well, the thing is . . . I’m pregnant.”

“What?”

“I went to the doctor’s yesterday. It’s only eleven weeks, but—”

“You’re having a baby?” Jane said. “I didn’t even know you were trying to—wait a minute,” Jane said, her voice suddenly serious. “You want this, right?”

“Yes,” Fiona said quickly. “I do. We do.”

“Oh my God. I can’t believe it,” Jane said. She was quiet for a moment. “A baby!” she said. “Congratulations,” she added. “Did I say that already?”

Fiona felt warmth spread through her chest. She recognized then that she felt relieved. Now that she’d told Jane, the baby felt real.

“Are you having a boy or a girl?”

“Too early to tell,” Fiona said. “Bobby wants a girl.”

“Course he does,” said Jane. “By the way, I can’t believe you told him before you told me.”

Fiona laughed. “I mean—he’s only the dad—”

“So what?” The laughing was back in her voice. “Male privilege strikes again.”

“You hate babies,” Fiona said.

“I won’t hate yours.”

“You said babies shouldn’t be allowed in public last week.”

“Your baby won’t be an asshole like the one sitting next to us at brunch.”

“What if she is an asshole?” Fiona said. “Or he?”

“Dude, see,” Jane said. “You’re totally winning over Jasper. It’s sealed now, with this baby.”

Fiona recalled the time she and Jasper walked over the bridge into Brooklyn to cheer for Kenji in the Idiotarod: stolen Pathmark carts festooned in tin foil, silk flowers, and painted cardboard; grown men in stretch-Lycra bodysuits muffing down Bedford Avenue. Kenji was on a team with some teachers from his school. Dirty, hardened snow piled up along the sidewalk, her breath visible in the air. At the finish line, she stood with her hand tucked inside the pocket of Jasper’s corduroy coat, her ears frozen, nose dripping, watching for Kenji to bend around the corner. When he finally appeared, shopping cart wheels scraping, she’d waved wildly and shouted his name but couldn’t catch his eye. Kenji rushed for the long red ribbon that hung across the middle of the wet black street. She’d looked up at Jasper then. A smile creased his face. In his eyes, she glimpsed her whole future.

That was all before Kenji got sick.

He’d recovered, anyway. It took time, but he got his mouth back. His throat, his voice. His hair grew in after the chemo rounds, his eyebrows and eyelashes. His skin lost that waxy, plastic doll sheen. She’d been afraid he might die. If he had, Fiona thought, maybe she and Jasper might have worked things out, sewn together by grief. Then she felt terrible for imagining that possibility.

In her New York years, Fiona had lost touch with Jane. She wondered now if it had been on purpose, the way she let the time between returning Jane’s phone calls, her emails, stretch out languorously. In truth, didn’t she believe her life, the choices she made possible for herself, superior to Jane’s? The odd jobs Jane worked, and often lost, carelessly, after they graduated high school. Of course, Jane didn’t really have to work, did she? Her mother always floated her money anyway. Then her father died, the way he did. Fiona had left California that year.

“Did I ever tell you,” Fiona said quietly into the phone, “about the time—Jasper and me, we accidentally . . .” She couldn’t bring herself to say the words. Was it bad luck to bring it up now?

“What happened?” Jane said.

“Nothing,” Fiona said. She touched a hand to her belly. If she hadn’t done it, that child would be—how old? Almost a teenager.

“Hey. You okay?” Jane said. “I was joking. About Jasper, winning—”

“I had an abortion. Years ago,” Fiona said. “Obviously, I had to. I mean, we talked about it. What if we—Jasper wanted to keep it, more than me.”

Jane was quiet.

“It happened right after we moved to New York. We didn’t even have a sofa yet.” Fiona shook her head. “It’s not like I regret it or anything.” She thought of that apartment on Mulberry Street and recalled the scent of almond cookies from the Italian bakery on the ground floor. “It was the right decision.”