In the Straubs’ home office, I turned on the overhead lights and sat down at Amelia’s walnut desk, where I found two new Post-its. One read travel, and underneath were written several dates. Another read couples counselor and a phone number. Amelia’s inability to carry another child had obviously put a strain on the Straubs’ marriage. Of course, I felt deep concern for both of them, but I also had the exhilarating realization that the Straubs and I had crossed paths now for a reason. Perhaps, I was in a position to help them.
Next to Amelia’s keyboard, I noticed an exquisite pot of lip gloss. I opened the small gold jar to discover that it was fire-engine red. Amelia was a little old for such a bright color; it would make her look harsh. It was actually a better color for me. I applied a dab to my lips and returned the jar to its original spot. Next to her desk on the floor, a Post-it was stuck on top of an Asics shoebox with the word return scribbled on it. I looked inside and saw a pair of expensive running shoes. Before leaving the office, I examined the scene to make certain everything was returned to its original location. Then I turned out the lights.
I’d been dreaming about the Straubs’ master suite for two days, anticipating my opportunity for exploration. The moment I walked in, I felt a thrill. It was the intimacy of being in their bedroom, deep inside their lives. Swimming in the pool of their merged identities—woven into their larger family identity. The bedroom looked out over a patio and the backyard. Underneath grand casement windows trimmed with brass hardware, a built-in window seat extended the width of the room. Crisp white molding set off the ivory walls. The duvet resembled a watercolor, as did the silk rug. In Amelia’s closet and dressing room, the quality of the custom millwork equaled that of their kitchen cabinetry. Many thousands of dollars in clothing resided there.
It was the master bath that captivated me above all else. The photos I’d seen did not allow the eye to appreciate how each layer informed the other layers. It was a stunning vision of glazed silver floors, a polished stone vanity, large dramatic sconces, a spacious marble-lined shower with a rain showerhead, mosaic tile flooring, and an overscaled egg-shaped resin tub.
I approached the vanity and the built-in magnifying mirror attached to the wall in order to study my reflection: golden hair framing a youthful complexion and shiny red lips. It was not until last year, when I turned thirty-five, that I noticed a few fine lines in my forehead and, even then, only if I looked closely. In one of the top drawers of the vanity, I found several beautifully packaged skin creams, along with a thirty-dollar mascara, a seventy-dollar concealer, and a pair of tweezers that I used to remove several stray eyebrow hairs.
When finished at the mirror, I turned to take in the magnificence of the bathtub. I’d never bathed in such a tub. I considered how much time I had. It was 10 P.M. The Straubs definitely wouldn’t return home before eleven, and Amelia had indicated it would be later. If I were to take a bath, I’d have at least an hour before I’d have to worry about their arrival.
I pulled my shirt over my head, removed my bra, and examined my torso in the full-length mirror. I still had a flat stomach and a slender waist. I thought about conceiving and bearing a child. Childbirth can alter a woman’s body, sometimes permanently. I sat down on an Indonesian stool and pulled off my socks, my jeans, and my underwear, then stood naked in the lavish bathroom and stared at myself in the mirror, savoring a sense of connection and intimacy with the Straubs. And also the power associated with claiming what I needed.
I considered the logistics of my bath. I ought not to use a towel for my bath, because I might not have time to wash and dry it. They would likely notice a damp towel or a damp tub. Maybe I needed to wait for my next visit and bring my own towel. The thought of postponing the bath brought my spirits down. I spied a damp towel draped over the towel bar and contemplated using that one. I leaned over to smell it and detected Amelia’s musky scent.
Still undecided, I returned to the bedroom to study the Straubs’ bed. A dozen pillows of various sizes and fabrics, and in various shades of blue, covered the upholstered headboard. I wanted to lie naked under their organic cotton sheets. Thoughts of Amelia and Fritz having sex entered my mind. Maybe they’d stopped having sex after all the miscarriages. Maybe it was too traumatic for them now.
Natalie’s face appeared in the doorway. Her body lurched back at the sight of me.
“Hi, Natalie.” I spoke in a calm tone, though a wave of panic ran through me. I spotted a throw draped over a nearby chair. “The craziest thing…” I wrapped the blanket tightly around my body. “Just a few minutes ago … Itzhak vomited. I was downstairs and lifting him off the porch. Awful for him. Really.” I avoided her eye contact. “So all my clothes … I had to clean everything. It was quite a mess, and I’m … I’m going to wash my clothes in the machine. I’ll just find a towel until they’re dry.”
“Poor Itzhak.” Natalie crossed toward me in the direction of the bathroom. I feared she was going to examine my clothing to see if I was telling the truth about the vomit. But she stopped in front of one of her parents’ nightstands to check the time. She turned around and walked back toward the bedroom door.
Fortunately, Natalie returned to bed rather quickly after a glass of milk. I was mildly concerned about how she would relate what she saw. She appeared to believe me when I explained about Itzhak. But I couldn’t be certain.
Still wrapped in the blanket, I went back to the master bathroom, where I’d left my clothes, and sent Amelia a text: can I use the laundry machine to wash my clothes? unfortunately, Itzhak’s been ill.
no! did he ruin ur clothes?
i’m fine
please use my bathroom to rinse off. The response allayed all my fears and filled me with the same sense of euphoria that I’d had earlier.
I placed my clean clothes in the laundry machine with detergent. Then, when I entered the master bathroom again, it was not as a trespasser, but as an invited guest. I sank down into a tub of steamy hot water. The water jets massaged my body, and I imagined it was someone touching me. Thoughts of Fritz consumed my imagination. Followed by thoughts of Amelia. I stared at the magical light fixture on the ceiling, a million drops of crystal held together by some invisible force. A feeling of deep contentment and optimism pervaded my soul. I stepped out of the bath, invigorated. Once I’d dried off, I returned to the laundry room to place my clothes in the dryer.
When Amelia and Fritz came home, they both apologized repeatedly. They felt awful for leaving Itzhak in my care, a dog with chronic gastrointestinal issues. In this situation, they could only see themselves as the guilty parties.
The next day, I woke up late with a headache, as if I were hungover, though I’d had very little to drink the night before. I checked my phone. The first time I’d babysat for Natalie, Amelia had written to me early the following morning, but I found no message this time. I checked again twenty minutes later. And again after that. I was hoping for some acknowledgment of our growing relationship. I feared sliding back. I drank a cup of coffee, showered, dressed, checked my phone again, then collected my equipment for the job I had that afternoon in Tribeca.
I arrived and stepped out of the elevator directly into a corner duplex penthouse: twenty-foot ceilings, white oak floors, a landscaped terrace, and sweeping views. Having photographed more than eight hundred parties given by wealthy New Yorkers, I was no longer impressed by the size of a home, nor was I impressed by costly art, furniture, or finishes. A majority of rich people have bad taste and derivative homes. Some of them have an impressive art collection dictated by an art consultant. It’s possible to hire people who will tell you what art to buy, what dishes to buy, what sheets to buy, what color to paint your walls. But the final product does not reflect any one person’s point of view, personality, taste, or sensibility. Just like any generic idea of what’s good, it’s actually not good.
The Straubs’ home was different. Amelia and Fritz did not design their home with the goal of trying to re-create something that they’d seen before. They, themselves, were the artists. They, themselves, had the vision.
Since I’d arrived early at my clients’ home, seven-year-old Boris was alone in the living room playing video games on an iPad. I approached the sturdy-looking child and handed him a box wrapped in green paper and silver ribbon. “Happy birthday,” I said. He took the package and placed it on the floor next to his feet. Then he jumped, landing with all his weight on top of the birthday present. He picked up the crushed package and handed it back to me, with a snide look on his face.
“I don’t want the party,” he said. “I don’t like anyone who’s coming.”
I turned the package over in my hands, noticing for the first time that my green blouse matched the wrapping paper. “Not even me?” I smiled at him.
He studied the camera around my neck and wrinkled his nose. “Especially not you.”
I stepped away from Boris, determined to try again in a few minutes.
Across the room, in the kitchen, I recognized Chef Simone, preparing pigs in blankets and goat cheese canapés. “Hi, Delta,” she said to me as I approached, and then quietly, with a nod toward Boris: “Little brat.”
Over the years, I’d perfected an inscrutable expression on my face that was neither agreement nor disagreement. And that was the expression I offered Simone. I refused to be seen gossiping. Quite frankly, she was underestimating our clients. That energy gets out there and I know for a fact that the clients can smell it. Many of my clients were vulgar, shallow, arrogant, and/or insolent. But they were not stupid. They expected the people in their employ to feign respect, whether or not it was genuinely felt. I’d learned that lesson early on from socialite-turned–event planner Emily Miller when I was assisting on her weddings. If a client had the vaguest notion that you didn’t think highly of her, you’d never get hired again.
Boris’s friends arrived, followed by Mack the Magician. I’d known Mack for years, since I’d started shooting Emily’s clients and their kids. He laid claim to performing at large venues and implied he did parties on rare occasions as a special favor to the parents. But we all knew that wasn’t true. He had the identical act every time and the same tired jokes. He didn’t even bother to rotate his show.
Most of the children crowded Mack during the knife-juggling segment of his show, causing my stomach to drop more than once, though I’d seen his show at least twenty times, and no one had ever died. Boris’s parents, who were sipping Veuve Clicquot in the kitchen, didn’t notice the knives.
Boris was the only child who derived no pleasure from the performance, or any other aspect of the party. I stayed for three hours, hoping that his frame of mind would shift, but nothing, not even the Avengers cupcakes, could shake him out of his mood. Since the raw material from the party was unusable in its present form, I resigned myself to creating photos out of whole cloth.
I made it a rule not to drink while working, and not unless the hosts specifically offered me a drink. But on my way out, when the hosts were otherwise occupied, I drank half a glass of champagne. My nerves were on fire and I needed it.
As I was waiting for my car, Amelia’s name came up on my phone. I felt a rush of exhilaration until I read the entire text. She explained that they were leaving town for two weeks. It was Natalie’s winter break. She’d forgotten to mention it.
A heaviness settled into my arms and legs.
I spent several minutes composing a response in my mind. I didn’t want to appear too eager, but I needed to hold on to the Straubs. My body craved our connection.
Finally I landed on a solution and wrote: I could look after itzhak and water ur plants. it wouldn’t be trouble. Let me know!
OMG delta ur the best. itzhak is at a doggie hotel, but please water the plants! So amazing if you would.
Her message was an enormous consolation. There was terrific value for me in spending time in their home.
Another text from Amelia: remember I told you about ian walker? he’s a doll. i gave him your number!
I resented Amelia pawning me off on Ian. It was mildly disrespectful. How did she even know whether I was single? After mulling it over, I decided that I’d go out with him anyway. I saw it as an opportunity to garner information on the Straubs.
Back at my apartment, I settled in and turned on my computer. Boris’s party was going to require many hours of editing. Essentially, I would have to create a birthday party that had never happened, in order to showcase a delightful and affectionate child who did not exist. When I needed a break, I turned to the pictures from Natalie’s birthday. In each and every image from her party, I saw opportunities to photoshop—ways for me to spend time with the Straubs. My interactions with them, even if only in photos, were a balm to my spirits.
Two days later Ian and I had dinner at a loud and crowded Italian restaurant in the West Village. When I arrived, I spotted him across the room. I recognized him as the man talking to Fritz at Natalie’s party—early forties, dark brown hair, heavy eyebrows. No one would have called him out for being good-looking or bad-looking. He was wearing a tie, unlike the rest of the men in the restaurant. His hair was extremely short, as if he’d had a haircut earlier that day, and it appeared he’d cut his chin shaving.
Ian seemed surprised by me. Or maybe taken aback by my appearance. I gathered he wasn’t used to dating women who were as pretty as I was.
I started by asking him questions about himself. I always preferred to do the asking. The person asking has more power. The person answering is more vulnerable. Among other things, I learned that he grew up in New Jersey and attended Rice University for his master’s. He spoke of his father, who’d passed away the previous year, and his mother’s subsequent loneliness. I was bored by the subject of other people’s loneliness, but Ian would have had no way of knowing that.
He’d just come from helping his mother clean her apartment, in preparation for trying to sell it, because she had bad arthritis in her hips and it wasn’t easy for her to get around. She was so stingy, he said, she’d photographed the apartment herself, refusing to spend the money on a professional interiors photographer.
Some people consider themselves photographers because they’ve taken a few decent pictures on their iPhones. An infinite number of monkeys with an infinite number of typewriters and an infinite amount of time could write The Complete Works of Shakespeare. That’s called the infinite monkey theorem, and it applies to cameras and photographs too. I didn’t tell Ian about the infinite monkey theorem.
“The photos can make a big difference,” I said.
“I know.” He shook his head in disgust. “Her lousy photos are probably costing her forty percent of the sale price.”
After a couple of martinis, Ian loosened up a bit. “Delta Dawn. Isn’t that a song?”
I smiled. “Mm-hmm.”
“It’s a beautiful name.”
“I’ve never liked it,” I said.
“That’s too bad.”
“It tells people I don’t belong.”
“Don’t belong … where?”
“Anywhere, actually.” The words fell out of my mouth.
I could see that Ian found the comment troubling.
“I’m kidding!” I laughed.
He smiled awkwardly and ordered another martini.
Once the topic of conversation shifted to the Straubs, the evening flew, because it was a subject we both thoroughly enjoyed. He told me stories about residential and commercial projects they’d worked on together over the years. He’d been with the firm for ten years and had been promoted to associate three years earlier. One day he planned to start his own firm, but he said it was too challenging in the current climate.
Ian provided more direct information about the Straubs than I would ever be able to glean from perusing their house. For example, I grew to understand aspects of Amelia and Fritz’s relationship—both personal and business. Fritz had been a wunderkind who’d started his own firm in his late twenties. Early on he offered Amelia a job at his firm, and eventually made her his business partner. Somewhere along the way, they got married. Meanwhile, though Ian didn’t say it directly, I gathered that Amelia had risen quickly in terms of the demand for her work, and at this point she was the breadwinner, responsible for bringing most of the clients in. A reversal of power.
Ian was a veritable fount of information, and also mildly charming.
“I’m grateful for Amelia’s friendship,” I said. I’d finished a third glass of wine and a plate of spaghetti Bolognese. “She’s inspiring.” I had to raise my voice because the small restaurant had grown more crowded over the last hour.
I brought up the subject of babysitting Natalie and told him about the diorama contest for her school.
“Natalie’s a sweet girl,” he said. “But I worry about her. Sort of lonely.”
The comment sounded vaguely disloyal to Amelia and Fritz. Fortunately, our waiter delivered our cappuccinos and I didn’t have to agree or disagree with the notion that Natalie was lonely. Ian sipped his coffee.
“Maybe there’ll be another little Straub on the scene soon,” I suggested.
He cleared his throat. “Maybe.”
“It seems like something Amelia really wants. Don’t you think so?”
He shifted in his chair. “Well, they’re not secretive about it, but they’ve been trying to have a baby for a few years.”
“I had no idea.” I wanted Ian to believe that I was a trustworthy friend. Not someone who was fishing for information.
We didn’t order dessert, but our waiter forced a platter of petit fours on us.
I sipped my cappuccino in silence. “I wish I could help Amelia,” I said. “I wish I could do something for her.”
He studied the plate of petit fours and then took one of them. Apparently, his mind had wandered away from the subject of Amelia’s infertility. He inched the plate in my direction and pointed to one of the mini tarts. “This one’s really good.”
I took the mini tart to satisfy him, though I didn’t want it.
He cleared his throat again. “Amelia said you have a son.” He smiled at me, like he wanted to make sure I knew he was pleased.
“Yes. Jasper.” I pulled out my phone and looked up the picture of Jasper on the beach, playing in the ocean with a surfboard. I showed it to Ian. The photo was one of my best creations. “He’s in California with his dad.”
He smiled. “Beautiful picture. Is your ex-husband a photographer too?”
“No.” I tried to laugh. “Not professional, anyway. Jasper’s started surfing. Isn’t that crazy? He’s only five.”
“Adorable,” he said.
I put the phone away, and Ian paid for dinner.
Afterward, I wanted to walk a fine line in how I parted with him. Friends for now, but give him hope for the future.
We made our way to the coat check at the front of the restaurant, squeezing between tables and past waiters. “Listen, Ian,” I said, while we were waiting in line, “if you want me to photograph your mother’s apartment before she puts it on the market, I’d do it for free.” He clearly wanted to say yes but was too polite to show it.
He looked down. “I don’t want to take advantage of your time.”
I handed my tag to the scrawny coat-check woman behind the counter. “I could add your mom’s apartment to my portfolio.”
“I don’t want to impose.” He blushed but appeared pleased by the offer.
“When would be a good time?”
He paused. “Actually, she was going to put it on the market on Monday, but—”
“So, how about tomorrow morning?” I had a job the following day, but since it wasn’t a party, I was pretty certain I could push it back a couple of hours. I might not have another opportunity to ingratiate myself with Ian.
“It’s really kind of you.” Ian helped me with my heavy down coat. And then his own. Outside on the sidewalk, he leaned in toward me to say goodbye, but I shifted my weight and turned, as though I wasn’t aware of his intention.
“So I’ll see you tomorrow?” I said.
He smiled, and I noticed dimples in his cheeks. “Thank you, Delta.”
Ian’s mother’s apartment had large windows and good light. I used my wide-angle lens. In the darker rooms, such as the master bedroom, which looked out on a brick wall, I compensated with Elinchrom strobes. In the living room, I ruthlessly cleared out all personal belongings if they didn’t materially contribute to the beauty of the image—removing 90 percent of the vases, trays, boxes, plates, baskets, and other knickknacks from the frame. Clutter inhibits lines and light. Years ago I’d learned not to ask permission in situations like this. As long as I was doing a “favor,” I intended to produce photos that would sell the apartment.
Once you see a photograph of an apartment, that image becomes the reality—like the pictures of my clients’ children. It’s actually more important than the reality of what you see when you walk in the door. Viewing an apartment in person is similar to looking at your own reflection in the mirror. The information your brain takes in is malleable. Whereas pictures are fixed. They don’t shift as easily, because it’s one point of view. One moment in time. We tend to trust pictures.
Ian and his mother, Paula, followed me around, observing my work. Occasionally I allowed them to look through the viewfinder. Paula asked me questions as we went along. I explained how to create more space, higher ceilings, a sense of grandeur. It’s about the angle and the light. I was shooting from a kneeling position, corner to corner. And almost every shot included one of the mirrors hanging on the walls. “If you shoot a mirror from the right angle,” I said, “you can create another window, or a painting, or a room that looks twice as large.”
That evening, I sent Ian and Paula a few of the best shots. I had taken an attractive but drab apartment and turned it into a showpiece. My photographs could have appeared in any shelter magazine, and I say that with no hyperbole. With my lighting, that apartment transcended its limitations in terms of its size, scale, and design. I had created art. I had created an illusion.
On Friday evening I descended the exterior steps of the Straubs’ brownstone. Amelia had given me the combination to a small lockbox, which was mounted behind a hedge near the entrance to the garden apartment. Their front door key happened to be on a key chain with two other unmarked keys. I surmised one of the extra keys might unlock the garden apartment. I paused to see if I could detect any activity through the windows, but the lights were out and the shades were down. I had yet to ask the Straubs if anyone was living there.
I walked up the main steps and unlocked the Straubs’ front door. “Hello!” I called out. I was carrying two bags of groceries, which I brought to the kitchen and unpacked. I planned to make chicken Parmesan. The most mundane tasks, when performed in the Straubs’ kitchen, took on a magical quality.
Since the Straubs were out of town for two weeks, I’d planned four visits to their house, thinking I could safely spend a few hours each time. More than that might raise questions. I felt certain that Amelia and Fritz would be pleased for me to spend any amount of time in the house, but even so, it would be best to steer clear of gossip.
I noticed an open bottle of pinot grigio in the door of the refrigerator that had barely been touched. Since I knew it would spoil by the time the Straubs returned home, I poured a glass for myself and drank it. With my second glass of wine, I walked from one room to the next. Up the stairs and back down, absorbing every detail. Each and every vantage point built upon the last, so that the cumulative effect was a transcendent experience. The transitions between spaces, like the sculptural staircase, were isolated but spiritual, and the spaces themselves were earthbound and communal. An interplay between isolation and community.
I set my glass of wine down on a brass end table in the great room. I had yet to pay close enough attention to the silk rugs they’d chosen. I’d seen them in a magazine, listed at thirty grand each. They began as watercolors, painted by Brooklyn artists, and then were woven in Nepal. The Straubs owned four of them. I sat on the floor next to the most beautiful one and ran my hand across the smooth gray surface. It was softer than most sheets and pillowcases were. I put my cheek down on the rug, just to feel the silk against my face. It would be easy to fall asleep here.
I took off all my clothes, including my bra and underwear, and lay facedown on the rug. I felt myself to be fully inhabiting the home of Amelia and Fritz, in the deep recesses of their life. In spite of the many hours I’d spent in clients’ homes, I always hit walls blocking me from entering all the way. I couldn’t see the walls; I could only feel them when I came too close. I was forever hovering on the edge of something.
Early on in my career, I’d sometimes made mistakes, such as resting on the sofa in a client’s study or snacking from their refrigerator. When a client saw me, their reaction was clear. I’d invaded, crossed a line, trespassed, taken liberties.
With my body spread naked on the rug, I felt a sensation of entitlement and power. I had penetrated the walls. I had pierced the barrier. I was claiming the territory as mine. The opposite of the deference and the hesitation that restricted me so often. No one could stop me.
I stood up. Still naked, I found Amelia’s watering can in the kitchen and filled it up. I watered the ficus in the great room and the rubber tree in the front library. My nudity made me feel close to the Straubs—at the very core and center of their lives. I passed by the full-length hall mirror and stopped to observe myself. I posed my figure facing forward, and then in profile. My image, watering can in hand, resembled that of a Greek goddess.
After I dressed, I poured another glass of wine and set to work on the chicken Parmesan—pounded the chicken breasts, coated them with flour, eggs, and bread crumbs, before adding tomato sauce and cheese. The woman who cooked in this kitchen was a remarkable person. If she wasn’t remarkable to start off with, the time spent in this particular setting would alter her intrinsically. We humans evolve to fit our surroundings.
I placed the copper baking dish in the oven. As I was refilling my wineglass … I heard something in the backyard. It was concerning. The downstairs tenant, if one existed, was not home. Who was in the backyard? The Straubs would definitely appreciate my checking on the situation.
I exited out the bifold doors and walked down the spiral staircase. “Hello!” I called out. A leafless cherry tree, dramatically lit, stood in the center of the yard surrounded by brown grass. Outside the garden apartment’s back door was a small patio with two chairs and a side table. The downstairs resident was likely restricted to the patio. Amelia and Fritz wouldn’t want to socialize or share space with a tenant. Would they?
I smelled something unusual. The Straubs would want me to check on a gas leak. They would be grateful for my conscientiousness. I knocked on the back door. “Hello!” Inside, the lights were still out, as they were when I arrived. I knocked again. No one answered.
I tried one of the extra keys, then the second extra key. Seconds later I was inside, standing in the open kitchen. I switched on the lights.
The apartment looked exactly as I’d hoped—as if it had been designed to conform to my tastes, with every architectural detail conceived and executed flawlessly. It was breathtaking.
Amelia (I assumed it was Amelia) had chosen more vivid colors for the garden apartment, such as smoky green in the living room and grayish purple in the hallway. I walked from one end of the apartment to the other. “Hello,” I said loudly. If someone happened to be in, I would explain that I had smelled gas and was checking to make certain all was well.
The apartment had one large bedroom near the front entrance. A crisp white duvet cover appeared comparable to the linens in the master bedroom.
Two framed photos rested on the bedside table: A group of twentysomething women who looked to be on vacation in the Bahamas. A young homely woman and an older couple, maybe the woman’s parents. Perhaps the homely woman lived here and rented the apartment. I wondered what she paid. I wondered what kind of work she did. I wondered if she was fucking Fritz. I opened her closet and saw several suits. Maybe a lawyer? Maybe finance? I examined her scant collection of imitation jewelry. She was meticulous. It takes one to know one. In that respect, she was an ideal tenant.
In the living room, I sat down on a dingy sofa that probably belonged to the tenant. I studied the recessed lights, the skim-coat paint job, the fine cabinetry. If the apartment was a rental, it was a highly unusual one. Perhaps Amelia and Fritz believed the entire house was a marketing opportunity, and it needed to represent their work accurately.
Before I left, I took a glass down from the kitchen cabinet and filled it with water. I poured the cup of water on the wood floor in the middle of the bedroom. A leak, she might think. I took a photo of the puddle so that I could replicate it in the future, if need be. Then I dried the glass and returned it to the cabinet.
When I finished eating dinner, I cleaned the Straubs’ kitchen so it would look exactly as it had when I’d arrived. I washed the dishes by hand, dried them, and put them away. I placed all the garbage in a bag that I would throw out on my way to the train.
Before leaving, I checked on their home office, because I’d found useful information there in the past. I sat down at Amelia’s desk, resting my hands on the smooth, rich walnut. In and among a stack of architectural drawings, I saw two new Post-its. One read: surrogacy agency with a phone number below. One read: adoption agency with a phone number below. A chill traveled across my scalp and down my back.
Amelia and Fritz could very well be moving forward on their quest to have a baby, and I wasn’t privy to any of the pertinent information. I needed to understand their thought process so that I could guide them, so that I could help them.
Days later Ian sent me an extravagant flower arrangement with a card that read: I’m in awe of you. His mother, Paula, sent me a box of Godiva chocolates with a card that read: You’re brilliant.
I emailed Ian to tell him that I was planning to be in his neighborhood in the West Village for work. We met for dinner at a small Japanese restaurant, decorated with antique Japanese panels.
Apparently, his mother had already received two offers on the apartment, with another potential one on the way, all greatly exceeding the asking price.
For the first half hour, Ian appeared tongue-tied and mildly flustered. “I really … I mean … Yeah, I know it was your photos,” he said. “My mother is your friend for life. I can’t even … I sent a couple of them to Amelia. She was blown away too.”
He was especially grateful, he said, because he wanted to move things along quickly with his mother’s apartment. “It reminds her of my dad,” he said. “Once she moves out, she’s planning to go to Florida.” He paused. “You grew up in Florida, didn’t you?”
“Orlando. My parents worked at Disney World.”
“Wow.” Ian blinked several times in a row. “A fairy-tale childhood.”
“They were ‘custodial cast members’—that’s what Disney calls its janitors.” My parents had hated their jobs and each other. It was probably each one’s own personal hell.
“Wow.”
Most people don’t realize that any job at Disney World, maintenance staff or otherwise, has more dark than light, more pain than pleasure. “I lived in Disney housing for ten years.”
“You’re incredible.”
“No.” I smiled modestly.
“Overcoming … obstacles … hurdles.”
I ate another piece of California roll. I’d mistakenly allowed Ian to order for both of us; obviously risk averse, he’d ordered the least interesting items on the menu. “I called Amelia yesterday,” I said. “She sounded distressed.”
Ian smoothed out the wrinkles in the tablecloth.
“She wouldn’t tell me what was wrong.” The waiter refilled our water glasses. “Do you know?” I had my own thoughts, but I was looking for Ian’s history and perspective.
He sighed. “It’s probably about the baby she wants to have.”
I felt the muscles in my jaw release. “Yes?”
“Fritz says it’s really hard.”
“On their marriage?” I asked.
“Maybe.”
“Of course it would be.”
“Maybe they blame themselves or something.…”
“Solutions exist.”
The waiter cleared our plates away.
Ian brushed away imaginary crumbs from the tablecloth. “Fritz says the whole adoption thing is rough. It’s been two years.”
“There’s surrogacy,” I said.
“Yeah.” He rolled his chopsticks with the palms of his hands. “I know a guy who did that.”
“Could be a friend or a relative,” I said.
“I guess.” He sighed.
The waiter brought the check.
“Ian, I’m so glad that we had this evening together,” I said. “It’s just, there’s an ease. I feel like we’ve known each other forever.” I gently placed my hand on his forearm and rested it there for several minutes. I put my arms around him when I said goodbye. It was an intentionally ambiguous gesture.