Fiona and Jane(58)

“Of course it was,” Jane replied.

“But it just makes me think,” Fiona said after a moment. “And seeing his dumb wedding photos—”

“Think what?”

“I don’t know,” said Fiona. “That some part of me still—I remember thinking, when I took that pill to make the abortion happen—we’ll get to do it for real one day, you know? Me and him.”

“Part of you still, what?”

“Loves him.”

“No—”

“It doesn’t mean anything,” Fiona said. “I’m happy.” She laughed, though she didn’t know why. “I’m happy, I mean it. Everything’s great.”

“What’s going on?” Jane asked. “Seriously—is Bobby—”

“Nothing,” Fiona said. “I swear. I’m fine.” She laughed again, and this time it felt like she’d pressed a valve, pressure alleviated. “Janie,” she said. “Don’t you ever think about what other lives you could be living?”

“Hell no,” said Jane. “What’s the point of that? Once it’s done, I’m over it. No regrets.”

“You weren’t always like that—”

“I learned from Won.”

“Now we know where you went wrong,” said Fiona, and then they both laughed. After a moment, Fiona said, “I was thinking about my mom this week.”

Jane made a noise, half grunt and part moan. A comforting sound. “I know.” She was quiet. “I miss her, too,” she said finally. It had been two years since Auntie Wendy passed. “I think she would’ve liked Bobby,” Jane said.

“You think so?” Fiona wanted to believe her.

“Tell him I said congrats, too,” Jane said, and Fiona promised she would.

“Can I tell you something?” Fiona said suddenly. Jane waited for her to go on. “I’ve never told you about my dad.” She paused a moment. “My biological father. Back in Taiwan.” She took a breath. “I can finally talk about it, now that Mom’s . . .”

Jane listened to her best friend tell the story of how her mother became a mother, at sixteen. Her father, Fiona said, was an older boy—a college student, studying under Fiona’s grandfather. In all the years they’d been friends, Jane had never asked Fiona about her father. It wasn’t that she hadn’t been curious; some things, even between friends like they were, remained unspoken, passed over in silence. Fiona talked on. Jane could hardly imagine it; Auntie Wendy, a scandalized teenage mother, all on her own. And yet, she could see it all so clearly: Fiona as a little girl, her mother’s treasure, protected at all cost. They were happy, Jane knew without Fiona saying so, mother and daughter close in a way that had always felt foreign to Jane.

Growing up, Jane preferred playing at Fiona’s house, where there were no restrictions on what they could watch on TV, how long the set stayed on, or whether they’d finished their homework first; where their afternoon snacks were pepperoni Hot Pockets heated up in stiff paper sleeves, fried shrimp and teriyaki hot wings from the casino buffet in Styrofoam takeout containers; where all sorts of kids in the apartment complex dropped by to ask if Fiona wanted to go ride bikes, if they’d heard the ice-cream truck go past yet today. And when they were teenagers, Fiona’s mother was more like a friend than a parent. She gossiped with the girls, told them outrageous stories about the casino regulars. Auntie Wendy never scolded, unlike Jane’s mother, who was always breathing down her daughter’s neck, finding fault.

“Do you ever think about finding him? Your . . . father?”

“No,” said Fiona without hesitation. “And anyway, now, there’s no point.” She was quiet for a moment. “I don’t ever want my baby to feel that way,” Fiona said. “Unwanted.”

“Fiona—”

“I made my mom’s life so hard. And then I think about what I did—”

“You were wanted,” Jane said. “What you and Jasper chose to do—it was the right thing.” A pause. Then: “And this baby? She’s wanted, too.”

“She?”

“I have a feeling,” said Jane.



* * *



? ? ?

They hung up the phone. In her apartment, Jane settled back into the sofa. She folded her hands in her lap. It was Saturday, and she had the rest of the afternoon ahead, nothing planned other than a couple errands: the car due for an oil change, and another thing she couldn’t remember now. What was it? Something or other she’d put off all week. Still she sat there, considering what Fiona had just told her. A baby coming. Fiona and Bobby’s baby. She was going to be an aunt! Jane sighed. Everything was going to change. She stood and plodded to the kitchen, opened the refrigerator door, and peered inside.

Fiona was going away, she thought. There were three cans of Diet Coke left. A wedge of Parmigiano-Reggiano in a sandwich bag. Jane felt afraid. She thought of Bobby and despised him a little. She thought of the annoying habits he had that Fiona complained about, and then the ones she’d noticed herself but kept quiet on—analyzing Bobby was like commenting on the weather. He existed regardless, her best friend’s husband, and Jane accepted this as fact. She shut the refrigerator door.