Caitlin’s been an intent, quiet listener. She shakes her head and grabs hold of Maya once more before she reaches for the door. “It’s fine, Maya,” she says. “You know that.”
Maya hardly has time to mourn the loss of this closeness before the first of the other guests arrive. It’s a man and woman. Bryant, Caitlin calls him. She hugs him big, then is very delicate with the woman, kissing her, her hand up on her shoulder, then helping her take off her coat. The man — Maya guesses very quickly that they’re married, there are simple gold bands on both, he’s slow to get even a few steps from the woman — watches, ready, it seems, to swoop in if Caitlin fails at retrieving her coat. And underneath the coat is what he also must be so diligently protecting; large stretches of brown cotton are wrapped tightly over the woman’s shoulders and around her waist. Maya glimpses just a patch of newborn baby head peeking out from against the woman’s chest.
Caitlin breathes in the minute that she catches sight of the tiny child. She holds her fingers to her lips, then reaches for the baby without touching her. She puts her arms around the woman, careful to stay clear of the tiny head. “Lana,” she says to the woman. She leans in once more very close to the baby, then smiles back up toward her friend. She whispers, “You made this.”
She leads her to Maya. “Alana.” She nods toward Maya. “Maya.” Alana smiles. “And Vivian,” she says, nodding toward the newborn head. Alana’s very tall and her eyes are round and large and dark and her nose has a bump up top, then curves in. She has a wide mouth and long hair, thick and wavy, that reaches below the child on either side.
“No one looks like this after having a baby,” Caitlin says. She’s back at the stove and transferring the kale to a serving plate, stirring the quinoa. She waves the spoon at Alana as if measuring her, then steps toward her once more and holds her face, kissing her once and then a second time on each cheek.
Alana’s husband is close behind her and offers up his hand to Maya. “We’ve heard so much,” he says and smiles. Up close Maya sees how much older he is than his wife: fifty, at least, to her maybe twenty-five. The girl seems suddenly impossibly young to have a person to take care of. The man rests the hand he has not offered to Maya on the small of his wife’s back. “Bryant,” he says.
Caitlin’s back’s to them. “He teaches too,” she says.
Maya finds her wine again. She takes very small sips, feeling the first rush of warmth of excess spread through her as she does. But she feels too unmoored by the prospect of having nothing to do with her hands to put the glass down. “What do you teach?” she says.
“Writing.” He nods toward Alana. “Both of us.”
“They’re both novelists,” Caitlin interjects, taking hold of Alana’s arm and smiling up at her. The girl looks down and brushes her nose along her baby’s head.
“How old?” says Maya, facing Alana. And then she’s still a moment, hoping it’s clear she meant the child.
“Seven and a half weeks,” Alana says.
“My God,” Maya says. “Just cooked.” She tries to smile at the girl.
Maya eyes Caitlin again and wonders if this is all a party to prepare everyone for Caitlin’s own revelation. She wonders what part Maya might be allowed to play. Perhaps, if there is no father, she could play the role of partner. She imagines the possibility of getting to make all those choices all over, to do it equipped with the knowledge she has now, twice over. She could scour the apartment, change the diapers. She could hold the baby very tight up on her chest and let it sleep.
The door opens behind them. “Someone let me in.” The voice is familiar. Maya turns. She almost drops her wine glass: Charles. Caitlin seems to hesitate before deciding how to greet him. She reaches her hand up to his shoulder, but he loops his arm around her waist and hugs her close.
“Hi,” Caitlin says, a little breathless, Charles’s arms still around her waist.
Maya averts her eyes, her whole head turning toward the window, as Charles frees himself from Caitlin and catches sight of her.
“Hi.” his voice is very close, and when she looks back he’s right in front of her. Alana and Bryant have slipped past her to the bed.
Charles looks back at Caitlin. “You didn’t tell me. .”
Caitlin shrugs, blushing slightly. “It’s not your party.”
They’re friends, Maya sees, of course. They’re close. Perhaps what might be inside of Caitlin belongs to Charles. He stands a minute, quiet. He finally leans in close to her, his arms stick straight, and brushes her cheek with his.
“It’s really wonderful to see you,” he says. He smells exactly like he tasted when they kissed.
“You too,” Maya says.
Charles’s eyes stay on her a moment longer.
“Hey, you.” It’s Alana behind her. “Come meet her.”
Charles looks at Maya one last time.
“Baby,” whispers Charles, taking three big steps, then leaning in to see the child. He’s awkward with Bryant. He shakes his hand brusquely, his eyes already stuck on the infant. He sidles up close to Alana on the bed and peers in at the baby. “She’s wonderful,” he says.
Alana grabs hold of his arm. “I know,” she says.
Charles grins and leans in once more and nuzzles the top of the baby’s head.
Maya wants to stand next to him and do the same. She can nearly conjure it standing here: that baby feel and smell, the weight of it against her. She wonders if later she could ask to hold her. She wants to settle her, feet curled up underneath, breathing quickly, onto her chest.
Maya has no idea why she’s so sure. The proximity of this other just-formed baby, the sheen of Caitlin’s skin. Her hair is thick like it gets in those months when the body’s so slow to let go of things, keeping everything just in case. She wonders again who the father is, but only briefly. Perhaps Caitlin’s gotten one of those procedures where the father is never a person. In many ways this would be easiest. Or he was a one-night stand. She looks around the room. She can’t imagine Bryant has offered his sperm so freely. That leaves only Charles. She breathes in quickly, then thinks it couldn’t possibly be. Charles catches her eye and she feels her face get warm.
They all settle in their chairs. Caitlin’s just finished grilling the steaks and the air’s still filled with the smell and smoke of it as she comes to pass around the salad. Pomegranates and large chunks of avocado, crumbled walnuts, a homemade vinaigrette. Maya cuts her lettuce into tiny pieces. She has a small mouth, a tendency to get food stuck around its edges. She’s self-conscious like she hasn’t been in years. She feels Caitlin’s eyes on her and looks up, smiling. She drops her fork, picks up her wine glass, and nods at Caitlin, who grins, shoveling a large piece of avocado into her mouth.
Bryant holds the baby, who has begun to stir again but seems content once repositioned, and Alana sits back, weightless suddenly. Maya watches Alana watching Charles. She’s very still and seems to be willing him to look at her again as her husband caters to their baby. She twists her hair around her hand and knots it on top of her head. It stays that way only a few seconds, then slowly, over the next few minutes, loosens and unfurls itself, finally falling down her back in heavy clumps.
Maya turns toward Bryant. He’s settled into the chair next to her and he’s still careful, a little awkward, cradling the girl.
“How is it so far?” Maya asks. She nods toward the child.
She realizes she’s whispering. “You know,” he says. The baby squirms and she watches Bryant try to keep her steady. Her eyes are open, big and blue, long lashes. For a moment Maya doesn’t envy them the years ahead. “All the adjectives are shit in trying to describe it,” he says. “My wife has become this other person. I sleep a little and she doesn’t sleep at all.” He’s old, Maya thinks, older than Maya, and he’s starting this. He looks as if he’s lived as much life as his years suggest, if not more. But he has somehow just now discovered there’s something to be made here. He’s like a person who’s been trapped inside a darkened room and not allowed to interact with others, now suddenly trying to live in the world, to help to teach someone else. “Every second,” he says, “is consumed by this thing that really contributes nothing to the conversation. And yet, when I really look at her, I think, how did I live so long without her? And I mind much less how long the days feel.”