I met G. downtown on Saturday afternoon. It was hot. She is expecting in the fall, and I was a little concerned for her in this heat. She seemed fine though, and happy, and we found a place that was not too crowded and ate salads and talked.
“Everyone wants to tell me the horror stories of their deliveries. Why do people want to do that?”
I laughed. I remembered that well. Strangers would come up to me to tell me about their 40-hour labors. “And after all that,” the stories often ended the same, “they still had to do a c-section!” “Good luck,” they’d often add, as they walked away.
I am thrilled for G. She has wanted this for many years. We were in graduate school together, and she was there when my daughter was born. She gave her these impossibly tiny red leather maryjanes that fit Z. for about a week, but what a week! We took countless photos of this tiny baby in these gorgeous little red shoes.
That fall, she came over to my apartment on Halloween evening, and we drank red wine while Z. slept. I had bought some candy, but not much, and G. had brought some over, too, but it was a busy night, and we quickly ran out. We didn’t think too much of it until we heard the eggs land on the front door.
G. left Providence for New York about eight years ago, and we’ve only been in touch sporadically since then. She’s become very successful with her work, and last year, it was quite a thrill to see her play produced in Boston, after engagements in New York and London.
She’s having this baby on her own. I admire her tremendously for this. She is still open to the possibility of finding a partner, raising this child together, but at forty-three, she did not want to wait any longer.
G. talks a bit about what she is working on now - a commissioned piece, a few things for television. She is not very forthcoming and I don’t press. The circles she moves in now are ones I don’t understand.
We hug on the sidewalk and I head toward Prince Street for the next item on my list.