Lauren assumes the doorman at Sarah’s building knows her, but he doesn’t. He looks at her, looks at the box in her hands, understands, and says, “Burton?” The doorman rings the apartment without asking her name, waves her along.
The package is unwieldy, but not heavy. She’s settled on some ridiculous clothes, the sort no reasonable mother would buy for her own child: a tiny, cashmere cardigan; a gingham button-down shirt with faux mother-of-pearl buttons; a pair of velvety corduroy pants, bright green; a very small fedora; an honest-to-God sailor suit, with navy blue shorts, crisp white smock, and neckerchief printed with tiny anchors and cartoon whales, all meant to be worn when he’s a much bigger boy—she’s even accounted for season and his relative age, buying the sailor’s suit in size 12 months, so Henry can wear it at some point next summer. She’s also bought a photo album, or a blank book anyway, bound in green leather, and plans a lecture about how no one gets actual printed photographs anymore, but there’s something about flipping through the pages of an album that scrolling around on a telephone cannot replicate.
Sarah answers the door. She looks very different, at first, and it’s because Lauren’s mental image of Sarah is Sarah on her wedding day. Sarah looks, now, nothing like that. Her hair looks thinner, somehow, or flatter, which is odd, given the day’s humidity. Summertime Sarah’s hair is usually so voluminous. There’s a hardness, too, to her face—she’s lost weight, that’s what it is. There’s that residual glow, of pregnancy, which has mellowed into the satisfaction of the parent. Lauren wasn’t sure what she expected—dark circles under the eyes, maybe, a general harried air—but she knows that Henry’s a decent sleeper, actually, eats his fill like clockwork, then dozes and mews in his little sleeper, attached to their bed. It makes a certain kind of sense that Sarah would have a perfect baby; it’s of a piece with the general expectation, in her life, of perfection. She looks good. She looks like her younger self, and it’s a look that seems better, more beautiful, now than it did then.
“Hi!” As she kisses Sarah, Lauren spies the small crowd in the apartment. She wills herself into party mode.
“You’re here.” Sarah pulls her into the apartment, closes the door.
It is cold inside, almost like a refrigerator. The apartment smells, as it always does, of nothing at all. It’s like a hotel, she’s always thought, Sarah and Dan’s apartment, anonymous, incongruous, well ordered and maintained, like a model home.
“Is he awake?” She’s seen the baby already, of course, but only the once, at the hospital, Sarah sleepy and crazed-looking, Dan sweaty and pleased. Newborns are never all that cute unless you have a genetic stake; Henry looked like a red alien, or how she imagined a turtle might look, without its shell. Lauren oohed over him, left them with some flowers, then, the next day, had some groceries delivered to their apartment, including many ready-made dinners you needed only heat in the microwave. She’s wanted to give the new family their space; this has been her gift to them. She thinks she knows what new parenthood entails: sleepless stupor, casual nudity, marital bickering, forgetfulness, anxiety about inoculations and insurance. A new parent needs time to process this, doesn’t need to spend her days making chitchat with gawkers.
“He’s dozing, but he’ll be up soon.” Sarah leads her into the living room, where Meredith, Amina, and two older women she doesn’t recognize are stabbing baby carrots into a bowl and having a conversation in an exaggerated whisper speak that’s frankly every bit as loud as normal conversations. Lulu and Fiona, who is clearly pregnant herself, her long, elegant body somehow made longer and more elegant by the rise of her stomach, are just offstage, in the kitchen, where Lulu is doing nothing to keep her voice down.
The baby is in his seat, amid all this general hubbub, a blank expression on his face, lips set in a perfect little pucker, his cheeks moving, almost imperceptibly, as he snores. The hair on his skull looks almost drawn on, like the lines of a pencil. He’s sweet; babies are designed to seem sweet.
“You know everyone,” Sarah says, her tone carrying a clue. “You remember my aunt Sharon? And my colleague Carol?”
“Of course! How are you?” Lauren offers a hand to both the women, unsure which is Sharon and which is Carol. It doesn’t matter. She hasn’t seen Amina or Meredith since the brunch, the Sunday after the wedding, an understated, hungover occasion. She and Rob sat with Sarah and Dan and the four of them ate quiche and pastries and mostly ignored the rest of the guests. The three of them exchange half hugs and half kisses, as is the custom. Their trip together—bathing suits and bangles, sunscreen and that pristine water—seems like something that happened to someone else.
“Can you believe this kid? I’m dying to wake him up,” Meredith says. “I can’t wait to get my hands on him.”
Sarah disappears into the kitchen.