On a Saturday afternoon in early March, I received a text from Amelia.
What r u up to during the day tomorrow?
Her question was one I’d hoped and prepared for.
going for a run over Brooklyn Bridge
I knew that Amelia enjoyed the route over the Brooklyn Bridge and through Brooklyn Bridge Park, because I’d overheard Natalie discussing it with Piper. I surmised that Amelia liked Brooklyn Bridge Park because she wanted to feel like she was part of the community. She liked the image of herself as someone who took advantage of the free things that the city had to offer, as if what she loved most about her life was accessible to anyone who lived in Brooklyn.
It wasn’t an especially convenient route for me. Moreover, I disliked running. But I had a feeling that if I casually mentioned a plan to run over the bridge, Amelia would be tempted.
She wrote back: I’d love to go with you.
I spent a few minutes composing my response. I hoped to appear pleased, in a measured way, but not excited. In the end, I wrote: Great.
We met at 10 A.M. on Sunday morning and started by running north on the promenade. It was late winter, but still cold, so the walkway was relatively empty. The BQE below us was backed up with traffic and oppressively loud. For the first twenty minutes of our run, Amelia talked nonstop. “They’ll move on to another architect in a heartbeat,” she said. “And Fritz has a lazy confidence. He thinks the clients are loyal. He’s always surprised if we lose them.”
We approached the end of the promenade and continued down the long hill past the playground. In spite of the fact that Amelia was ten years older than me, she was a lot faster and in better shape. I tried to disguise my heavy breathing.
“He’s leaving it to me, largely because he knows that I landed these clients and they’re mostly interested in my ideas. Well, that doesn’t have to be true.” Amelia wasn’t winded in the slightest. If I were just listening to her voice and didn’t see her, I wouldn’t have known she was running. “Fritz is devoting more and more of his time to pro bono jobs. A library for an underserved neighborhood. Fine. A homeless shelter. Fine. And he says he finds that more rewarding. But we have a hell of a lot of overhead. Fritz throws up his hands and he says it’s time to downsize. Downsize, my ass. Twenty years ago he was driven. But he’s lost his competitive edge.” Amelia finished the speech and exhaled like it had taken a lot out of her. She sounded defensive and probably felt guilty about her criticism of Fritz. Even so, she really owned her story, perhaps more than anyone I’d ever met. It was intoxicating.
Once we approached the bridge, I looked below and could see the lights on Jane’s Carousel, the century-old merry-go-round, sparkling inside a glass box, and could make out the carved wooden horses, no two exactly alike, and the chariots.
I’d photographed two birthday parties there. It was the most beautiful merry-go-round I’d ever seen. Up close, each horse has a distinct personality and decorative style. The older children prefer the “jumpers” and the littlest children like the “standers.” The babies ride in the chariots.
I recognized this carousel as an original work of art. It differed from Cinderella’s Golden Carousel and everything at Disney, all of which had an eye toward sales in its DNA.
So much talent and skill had gone into the restoration of Jane’s Carousel and the design of the glass pavilion, situated on the East River between the two bridges. It was divine in its concept and execution. And how ironic that the children, the primary consumers, would never fully appreciate it. And neither would the adults. They would trivialize it as an amusement ride.
Amelia must have seen me looking in that direction. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” She paused. “Do you ever take Jasper to the carousel when he’s in town?”
My throat tightened. “Yes, he loves it.”
“Same with Natalie. I used to take her there.”
“How is Natalie?” I hadn’t seen her for a week. She had gone to a friend’s house Friday night, so Amelia hadn’t needed me to babysit.
She paused. “Well … a couple of days ago, she heard us talking about having a baby. You know, I’m very open. I don’t believe in hiding anything.”
“Right.”
“I worry about her. She’s not tough. She doesn’t have grit.”
I thought it possible that Natalie was tougher than Amelia knew, but I didn’t choose to share my opinion.
We ran across the bridge, then back again, then into the park with the river on our right. At this point, I was sweating profusely, and since I’d made the mistake of wearing cotton, my shirt was wet, cold, and clinging to my skin.
“So I need an update on you and Ian,” Amelia said brightly.
“We’ve grown really close in such a short period of time,” I said. “He has amazing stories from his childhood.” Ian hadn’t told me any amazing stories from his childhood. But it couldn’t hurt for Amelia to believe that Ian and I were serious. “I might be in love.” I whispered the last words, as if I were embarrassed to admit it.
Amelia gasped with delight. She was clearly invested in my relationship with Ian. “If you two get engaged, I’m throwing you a brilliant party!”
I tried to laugh, but didn’t have enough breath, so I had to make do with a smile.
“He’s working on this apartment in Rome and our client adores him. Thanks to Ian, we have five new projects, all from the same client.”
“Wow.”
We ran along the water, past Pier 2, which offered endless choices of recreational activities: roller-skating, handball, bocce, basketball, kayaking. I’ve never been able to appreciate concepts like “recreation” and “fun.” I don’t viscerally understand what those words mean.
The wind was picking up, and my throat and lungs were burning in the cold air. Along with intermittent pain behind my knees, my shins were aching. Unfortunately, in talking to Amelia, I’d implied that I was a regular runner, so I needed to keep pace with her or risk appearing disingenuous.
We approached the Pier 4 Beach and the enormous residential complex up ahead.
“Do you have plans for the afternoon?” Amelia asked.
“Errands, laundry.”
Amelia put her hand on my shoulder while we were running. “Come back to the house with me. I bought a really good chicken soup at the market this morning.” She had an eager expression on her face.
The invitation to join Amelia at her house gave me a powerful surge of energy and strength. In a matter of seconds, the pain in my shins and knees disappeared. My legs felt strong, and I could move forward with freedom. Even my breathing turned effortless.
Back at the Straub house, Amelia showered and changed. She offered me a change of clothes, but I told her I was fine, even though all my things were damp and I would have loved a hot shower. I sensed that she didn’t really want to lend me anything—that she would have considered it an imposition.
Amelia made coffee and served Natalie and me chicken soup. The three of us sat at the kitchen counter, and Itzhak lay near Natalie’s feet. Fritz was in Boston for the weekend, celebrating his brother’s fiftieth birthday.
Natalie told us about her upcoming concert. Amelia listened for a few minutes, then checked her phone, sent a text, then checked her phone again.
“Delta,” she said, “I totally forgot that I have to drop by one of our sites in Lower Manhattan. Would you mind hanging here with Natalie while I’m gone? Only if it’s convenient, of course.”
Once I’d processed her words, I felt a dull aching sensation in my chest, similar to how I’d felt when she asked me to photograph the town house. Amelia had invited me to her house for this reason specifically. Maybe she’d gone running with me for this reason too. Perhaps she could have left Natalie alone for a couple of hours. Or she could have had Natalie join her. But it was so much simpler to invite me over as the family friend who had nothing better to do.
While Amelia was out and Natalie was practicing the cello, I let myself into the garden apartment, having observed that no one was home. I moved a stack of books from the bedroom to the living room, opened the closet doors, and left a small puddle in the bedroom. Before leaving, I studied the photographs on Gwen’s bedside table again. The picture of her in the Bahamas had probably been taken two years earlier, judging from the clothing the women were wearing and the quality of the photo. It was clear that Amelia and Fritz didn’t think much of Gwen’s personality. Yet, somehow, this woman had ten friends who wanted to spend their vacation with her in the Bahamas. What did she do to make them like her?
I returned to the main house before Natalie noticed I was gone. When Amelia came home in the late afternoon, I gathered my belongings. “Oh, don’t leave yet,” she said, her voice rising and falling in a lovely cadence. “I was hoping we’d have some time together.”
I felt flushed and warm with pleasure. She had the capacity to alter the chemistry of the air around her instantaneously, as if a drug was pumped into the room when she entered and I was breathing it in involuntarily. I found it almost impossible to go against her will.
She poured us each a cup of coffee, and we sat together at the dining table. She spoke softly, but intently. “The thing is … I thought that Fritz and I were on the same page about having a baby.”
The sound of Natalie playing a sonata on her cello drifted down the stairs.
I pressed the nails of my right hand into my left palm. “I understand how stressful it is,” I said. “I’d like to help you in any way I can.”
“You know, when a birth mother chooses us,” she said, “we can’t hesitate.”
I took a sip of coffee, choosing my words carefully. “I understand.”
“Adoption makes the most sense for us, but it’s taking so long. If it doesn’t happen soon, we’ll have to go out of state for a surrogate.” Amelia pushed her hair behind her ears.
I sipped my coffee again, mainly to distract from any telling signs of anxiety in my face or voice. “You’re considering surrogacy, then?”
“I’m considering everything.”
“What about a friend or a relative?”
“There isn’t anyone, not someone I could ask.” She pushed her hair behind her ears again.
I hesitated, looking for the right words.
“I’d do anything to help you, Amelia. You know that, right?”
“I know.” She smiled at me.
“You’re such an amazing mother to Natalie. If you want another child, you should be able to have another child. It shouldn’t be so hard.”
“Thank you, Delta.”
The sun was low in the sky, shining through the glass doors into the great room. I took another sip of my coffee. “It doesn’t seem fair. Pregnancy and childbirth were easy for me,” I said. “So easy.”
“You were lucky,” she said, then paused at the sound of quick footsteps coming down the stairs.
Natalie appeared with a piece of paper in her hand. “Mom, I need you to sign this form for my field trip.” Natalie lingered in the room after her mother had signed the paper. Amelia turned to sift through some mail on the kitchen counter. My window of opportunity had closed.
I was scheduled to shoot a birthday party the following Saturday at noon on the Upper West Side. The clients had a five-year-old daughter, Hazel. From one phone conversation with Hazel’s mother, Brooke, I visualized her as a brunette with sun-damaged skin, an athletic build, and overdeveloped calf muscles. It was a game I often played with myself. After a phone conversation, I would create images in my head of the client and the family members. The majority of the time, my images would prove to be accurate.
The night before, I’d purposefully left my cardigan sweater at the Straubs’ house so that I would have a reason to go by there after Hazel’s party and spend a few minutes in their house. Five minutes in the Straubs’ home made a difference to me. The ache behind my sternum diminished quickly in their presence.
In freezing rain and sleet, I took a car from my apartment to the Upper West Side. Clients always covered my travel expenses, as I usually carried heavy equipment—a tripod and a ball head, external flash units, light stands, reflectors and diffusers, and my camera case with lenses, filters, and an exposure meter.
Hazel’s family greeted me at the door, including all four grandparents, Carmen and Sergio Fernandez, Sarah and Howard Cohen. I peeled off a couple of wet layers and entered the apartment, a classic six in a prewar doorman building. I identified Hazel’s mother—the sun exposure and the overdeveloped calf muscles. But I got the hair color wrong. She was a redhead.
The grandmothers gathered around me. “I need a picture with Hazel,” Sarah began, “for my next holiday card.” Holiday cards. The bread and butter for a family photographer. What used to be a thoughtful gesture, a considerate note and good tidings for the holiday season, had become a self-promotional opportunity—with less reach than social media, but more of a tactile punch. My clients sent out holiday cards because they wanted their friends and family to know that they had beautiful children and a lot of money. It was a message that came across easily in my photos, if that was desired. Success, in its various forms, was what I sold, so conveying it and bringing it into relief was effortless for me.
“We have five other grandchildren,” Howard said to Sarah. “You can’t send out a picture of only one.”
“She’s the one who takes after me.” I didn’t see any physical resemblance between Sarah and her granddaughter.
“Happy fifth birthday, Hazel.” I knelt so I could look her in the eye. She had a round face and a head of red curls, like Little Orphan Annie.
“I’m still four,” she said apologetically. “My birthday is next week.”
“I see.”
Sarah led her granddaughter to the living room and sat down with Hazel in her lap. Sarah yanked Howard’s arm. “What’s her name, the girl who’s taking pictures?” she said loudly.
“Delta.” Howard put his finger to his mouth to shush his wife.
“Delta! Come here!” Sarah called to me.
Howard stood behind Sarah and Hazel for the group shot. I took several photos of them, and then Carmen and Sergio entered into the frame and leaned over Sarah’s shoulder.
“Feliz cumpleaños, Hazel!” Carmen called out to the camera. She kissed Hazel on the forehead.
Sarah’s expression morphed from joyful to irate. She turned to Howard. “I’d like one photograph with my little granddaughter. Without everyone breathing down my neck.”
One after another, family members entered the apartment: aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents, dressed for the occasion. I finally caught another glimpse of Hazel’s parents. They looked amazed by their good fortune—amazed that a child such as Hazel had entered their lives. They seemed to believe in their child’s brilliance and talent, the same way people believe in God.
“I don’t know if I mentioned,” Brooke said to me, “that Hazel is also a gifted ballerina. She’ll be performing for us later.” She came closer to me so that she could whisper in my ear. “I have an idea for Brian’s birthday. I want to surprise him with a gallery wall—photos of Hazel dancing.”
“Of course,” I said. “Perfect.”
Brooke was entirely undiscriminating in her opinions of her child—so different from Amelia. Amelia had high standards for herself, and those high standards extended to her daughter. She wasn’t inclined to heap praise on Natalie if it wasn’t warranted.
I concluded that all of Hazel’s relatives at the party considered themselves an important part of the girl’s life and had probably never missed a birthday. The child didn’t realize what she had. Her significant place in people’s lives. Her privilege was of a different kind than Natalie’s. For all of Natalie’s material advantages, she would never have the same kind of self-esteem that Hazel had. She simply wasn’t that central. Natalie drifted on the periphery of the Straubs’ lives, in an outer lane around their whirlpool.
Mack the Magician showed up on time. We’d seen each other at five birthdays in the last two months. I remember the first time we met. We were working on a party in the East Village and we left the clients’ town house together. When we reached the sidewalk, he pointed at the brown leather biker jacket I was wearing. “Funny, I didn’t see you arrive with that.” I smiled and kept walking, but I’ve hated him ever since.
At two thirty, when Hazel’s party was winding down, I slipped into the front vestibule to phone the Straubs’ house.
“Delta?” Fritz picked up the phone.
“Hi, I left my sweater at your place last night. I—”
“Amelia missed her meeting in Dallas.” Fritz was speaking quickly in a hoarse voice. “She left the house at five in the morning and was supposed to fly straight there, but she didn’t show up. The clients called me. They can’t reach her. I can’t reach her. I left a message for Ian, but I haven’t heard back.”
“I’ll be there soon.” I attempted to keep my voice in a low, steady vocal range. Changes in pitch indicate fear or anxiety.
I packed up the camera equipment, which I’d already placed near the front door; it took longer than it normally would have because my arms and hands were trembling terribly and I found it difficult to zip and unzip my camera case.
I waited for my car on West End Avenue. The rain had stopped, but I could feel the harsh, bitter air cutting through my down jacket. All the blood in my body was rushing to my head. I was confronted with the possibility of losing Amelia. My love for her was as intense as any romantic love I had ever experienced. I needed her. I wanted to disappear inside her.
Fritz answered the door, his sandy-blond hair disheveled, his face unshaven, a glazed look in his eyes. “Natalie’s in her room doing homework. I haven’t told her anything yet.”
I dropped my equipment in the vestibule, hung my coat, and followed him into the library.
“Why don’t we sit down?” I motioned to the sofa. He rubbed his palms together, like his hands were cold. I was genuinely concerned for him. It occurred to me that I needed to behave in a calm and confident manner. It wasn’t the role I wanted to play, but I really had no choice, because anything other than that would send Fritz into a state of greater panic and crisis.
“Let’s just talk through everything,” I said. “Do you know if Amelia took a car service to the airport this morning?”
“I wasn’t awake.” He held his hands to his mouth and blew hot air on them.
“Do you know if she boarded her flight?”
“Jesus Christ. Jesus fucking Christ,” he said, covering his eyes with his hands.
“If she checked into her hotel?”
He opened his eyes, but didn’t appear to process what I was saying.
“Do you know the airlines, what flight number?”
I remembered a conversation I’d had with Amelia. She’d described Fritz as fragile and said that he expected her to be the strong one. Now I saw how he broke down in a crisis.
He leaned his elbows onto his knees with his head resting in his hands. “I should have gone. Fuck. Fuck.”
“In a little while, she’ll call us, and we’ll know that everything’s fine,” I said. “Maybe she sprained her ankle. Maybe she lost her cell phone.” Blood was pumping in my head, like there was too much blood and not enough space. I hid my fear, not wanting to add to Fritz’s worry.
He looked up at me. “Do you think I should file a missing person’s report?’
“Not yet,” I said, though I didn’t actually know the answer. I took one of Fritz’s large callused hands and held it in mine. The feeling of his hand in mine calmed my nerves slightly. “I understand how you feel.”
He looked as though he might have a stroke or a heart attack. I gently placed my hand on his cheek. His face reddened slightly, but he didn’t move my hand away. I needed to handle the situation for Amelia’s sake. I needed to comfort Fritz and get him back to thinking straight. “This is so painful right now, but it won’t last long. We’ll find her.” A river of tears poured from his bright green eyes, down his face, and soaked his T-shirt all the way through, as if he’d jumped into a pool. I’d never seen so many tears. He needed my help. I leaned in toward him and kissed his lips very lightly, in an attempt to alter his frame of mind. He didn’t push me away. When I pulled back to look into his eyes and gauge his response, I was relieved to see some animation in his features. I tried to read his expression. It could have been shock, but I tended to think it was excitement. I felt that kissing him was the only way to shake him out of his state. Again I leaned toward him.
“Dad!” Natalie’s voice called from upstairs.
Fritz stood up with a start, his face bright red. I could tell how intensely he wanted me.
“Madeleine’s mom is taking me to chamber music,” Natalie called down. “She’s picking me up in five minutes.”
“OK, honey.”
Fritz motioned for me to stay where I was. He turned and ran down the hall and up the stairs. I said Amelia’s name in my head, then tried to find an image of her in my mind, as if my subconscious might give me information on her whereabouts. But even visualizing her face was difficult and painful.
On their library console table were several of the framed photos from Natalie’s birthday party: the one of Natalie with her balloon unicorn in a sterling silver frame. One of Amelia holding Natalie, kissing her daughter’s forehead. They resembled each other in that both had large eyes spaced far apart. Natalie’s hair was lighter. I remembered the original version of the photo. I’d edited Natalie’s image because it had lacked sufficient lightness and joie de vivre.
My gaze returned to Amelia in the photo. I closed my eyes to see if I could place a background with her face and discern any clues to her location. I felt so connected to her—almost like we were one and the same person—I ought to know where she was. But nothing came to me.
I opened my eyes again and compared Amelia to her daughter in the photo: Amelia was clearly playing to an audience. I doubted that she could identify the line between her performance and her life.
In one revealing photo of Fritz and Amelia, they were saying goodbye to their guests, toward the end of the party. Amelia was resting her head on Fritz’s shoulder. He was gripping her wrist. She wanted him to protect her. He wanted her to protect him. They both wanted to be saved. Amelia described herself as the organized one who always had to take charge. Fritz felt that she expected too much of him—that she was always slightly disappointed in him, and he was probably right.
I’d seen an unpaid tuition bill for Natalie’s school in their office. Such questions of money could bring stress into a relationship. Enough stress to break a marriage. I knew, not because I had any firsthand experience. I knew because I’d seen it in subtle ways whenever I’d photographed a party. Some parents wouldn’t notice whether I charged five hundred or five thousand for a birthday party.
But there were others, maybe bankers, traders, lawyers, or otherwise, who might have had a couple of lucrative years. Then there was an assumption it would continue like that. And maybe their expectations were set in a certain place. Luxuries crept in. And perhaps, they assumed, because they saw their peers, they assumed it could be done. They were wealthy. And they would stay that way.
The families would hire me one year and then they’d hire me back the following year whether or not they could afford me. And the birthday party they’d have for the child—it would be as lavish as it was the prior year. Maybe it was a matter of pride or positive thinking. If we believe we have the money, we will. So it was in those cases where I could see the tension starting to eat away at the family. And I could see it was right under the surface, just like Amelia and Fritz. And the mom was snapping at the dad because she was angry. Because they’d hired a photographer and a magician, and they had a fancy cake, but the kid was screaming his head off. Tension. And on some level, the mom probably knew that they spent the money and it wasn’t worth it because of what it was doing and would do to their relationship. And she was probably angry at herself. But she felt angry at her husband because, well, in Amelia’s case, she was the wage earner for all intents and purposes. But he was supposed to be. She wasn’t supposed to be worried about money. That was the unspoken arrangement. She’s not supposed to wake up one morning and feel her way of life slipping away from her, out from underneath her. And he feels angry at her. Why is the burden on him? And why is she the one who’s running up the tab? And why, why, why.
Because someone lied to them. Someone told them that every year would be a little better than the last one. These were people who were working hard. They heard the silent promise floating through the air. And they probably believed it. Until one credit card bill after another started to pile up. And the private school tuitions were too much. And maybe we need to pull our kids out. Or move out because New York’s too expensive. And experience the shame because our friends would know why. And our children would know that this was never the plan. And for some of them, the children loved the school. And the children would be so sad. It all comes crashing down. It all comes crashing in on you. That can happen when you have too much. Like some people do.
But Fritz and Amelia were different. They were truly deserving and generous. Truly. They were raising a principled daughter and they were instilling decent values in her. Fritz and Amelia were talented, sensitive, cultured, intellectual types with fine sensibilities, well read, with sophisticated taste. I felt myself to be so very fortunate—that Fritz and Amelia and Natalie had entered into my life. All that they were. And it was because I knew that I was my best version of myself when I was with them. Yes. When I was in their house. In their company. I became the person I’d always wanted to be. Possibilities opened up for me. I knew I could help them. First and foremost, I could help Fritz to find Amelia.
And later, when Amelia returned … I could help them have the baby they longed to have. It was clearer than ever to me now. In life, sometimes we have an opportunity to choose our family. I couldn’t imagine there were any other people in the world with whom I’d have had such a strong connection. It was a certain kind of ecstasy to know where I belonged.
Fritz descended the stairs holding Natalie’s hand. I didn’t want her to see me, so I stepped back into the library and around the corner. A car horn beeped outside. Natalie kissed her father. Cello case in hand, she headed out the door, knowing nothing of her mother’s absence. The door closed behind her.
The house was now empty except for Fritz and me. I thought about the Straubs’ king-size bed, the mountain of pillows, their organic cotton sheets, and felt my body sliding under the sheets next to Fritz, his body on mine. I would help him get through this. He needed me right now. I needed him too. Holding Fritz close to me might ease the pain I was feeling. The excruciating pain of Amelia’s absence. I moved back into his line of sight.
He took a step back. “The important thing here is I need to find Amelia.”
“Yes.”
He was sinking, melting into quicksand. “Nothing else,” he said.
“Yes.” And I knew that he was right. I wanted Fritz’s hands on me. But more than that, I wanted Amelia back in the house.
Fritz and I looked out the window next to the door. I saw Natalie climb into the back seat of the Toyota Highlander that had pulled into the Straubs’ private driveway. The car door slammed shut. Her friend’s mother waved out the car window. I heard the car accelerating onto the street. Fritz finally looked back at me.
“Do you have access to Amelia’s calendar?” I asked.
In the daytime, the Straubs’ home office looked as if it were completely open to the side deck; one entire wall was made up of sliding doors with glass so clean, you wouldn’t even know it was there. Outside, I saw the snow beginning to melt. The rain had washed much of it away. I could almost make out the lines of the landscaping. A few potted plants, which had been covered with snow up until now, were starting to reveal themselves.
Fritz turned on Amelia’s computer. I sat next to him so I could look over his shoulder. His strong body odor filled the room.
Over the course of an hour, we looked through each and every meeting and call that had taken place that year, starting in January, as well as those that were scheduled to take place in late March and April.
“There was one time,” he said, “maybe five years ago, when I thought Amelia was having an affair. I was gone a lot. And I think she was lonely. I didn’t blame her.…” I heard a layer of darkness in his voice. “But it takes a toll.”
In my mind’s eye, I saw Amelia in bed with a woman, not a man. When I tried to make out the woman’s face, I realized it was mine.
“Recently she seems anxious,” I said.
Fritz continued to scroll through the calendar. “The whole baby thing.”
“I know.” My stomach clenched. He’d brought the subject up himself.
“Yeah, we’ve been looking at adopting,” he said. “Looking at surrogates.”
Amelia’s absence had led to an opening for the surrogate conversation. Here was an opportunity and I couldn’t turn away from it. “Did she find a surrogate?”
“We were … arguing. Amelia thinks a surrogate would confuse Natalie. And she doesn’t want her baby in a stranger’s body.”
“Of course.”
“It’s a decision with fucking zero information, all these donors, surrogates, birth mothers, for Christ’s sake. And you don’t know a goddamn thing about anyone.”
Patience. I needed patience and a level head. “You should hire someone you know to be the surrogate.”
Fritz combed his fingers through his hair, starting from his forehead and going straight back.
“It might give you a measure of comfort.” I patted Itzhak, who had followed us into the office. I could tell the dog was also troubled by Amelia’s absence.
“Nothing’s giving me comfort right now, Delta.” He repeated that gesture of running his fingers through his hair. “I don’t know where the fuck my wife is.”
Fritz was obviously agitated. Even so, I needed to see the subject through to its logical conclusion. Granted, it was not the best timing, but it wasn’t likely that surrogacy would come up again in an organic way. “Listen,” I said, “there might be a woman who wants the experience of being pregnant. Or someone who loved being pregnant and wants that experience a second time. Or someone who needs the money. There are health benefits. Your risk of cancer and heart disease go down.”
“OK.” Fritz was staring at the monitor and didn’t respond.
“All of those reasons would pale compared to the reasons that a friend would do it. A good friend who cared about you would want to see you happy. I know that I would.”
He shifted his jaw to one side. “Yeah?” He was finally listening to me.
“I would do it for a good friend.”
He squinted. “For us?”
My whole body was vibrating with uncontainable energy. I tried to maintain poise and stillness. I didn’t want Fritz to know how high the stakes were for me. The lengths to which I would go. “Fritz, you and Amelia”—I took his hand in mine in a purposefully platonic gesture—“I love both of you. And I love Natalie too. I don’t think it’s appropriate.… Amelia is the one who should be having the conversation.”
“She’s not here. Did you notice?” His voice sounded choked and sarcastic all at once. “And it’s just as much my decision.”
“Is it?” I placed my other hand on top of his. “I think … I don’t want to offend you.”
Fritz looked down at the floor, clearly angered. “Fine. Talk to Amelia about it. If she’s not dead.”
I heard a noise in the doorway, looked up, and was stunned to see Amelia standing there.