Chapter 15
Erin’s pregnancy pulled us back into each other’s orbits—not as kids, teens, or young twentysomethings—but as two grown women standing on the edge of something huge.
I still didn’t have much time to talk—some days I barely had time to pee—but we texted often, and I fielded her constant flood of questions. Can I eat sushi? Is it okay to do hot yoga? Should I get a doula? What about a water birth?
Sometimes she’d apologize for “bothering me,” but I reassured her that I wanted to be her go-to person. I could tell she needed me, but I needed her, too. I adored Lesli and Greer, but there was no substitute for Erin. No one else knew every version of me.
—
At her twenty-week ultrasound, Erin and Joan called me from the exam room, putting me on speakerphone. When the sonographer said, “It’s a girl,” I heard Erin gasp.
I’d spent weeks trying to convince her that the gender didn’t matter, reminding her of how devoted boys were to their mothers, telling her that Gus still rested his head on my mom’s lap. But I secretly wanted a girl, too, longing to re-create some of the magic of our own childhood.
“It’s a girl!” she sobbed into the phone. “I’m so happy!”
“Congratulations!” I said. “We’re going to have so much fun! All four of us.”
“Yes, we are,” Joan said, her voice breaking.
—
For days afterward, Erin bombarded me with offbeat baby names. Juniper. Birdie. Petal. I told her they were all pretty but pointed out that Petal might not strike the right chord on a résumé.
Erin laughed and said, “I need your help.”
A few nights later, as I was watching a rerun of Friends, I called her.
“What about Phoebe?”
“Phoebe,” she repeated. “Feebs.”
A long pause. Then—“That’s it, Billie. It’s perfect.”
—
Cara, Anna, and Lucy planned Erin’s baby shower, but my name was on the invitation, too.
I chipped in for the cost, then flew home for the weekend.
On the flight, I stared out the window, bracing for the bittersweet mix of feelings that came with going back to Wisconsin.
It would always be the home I loved, yet with every passing year, I felt increasingly removed.
When I got to Cara’s house, her living room looked like a Pinterest board. The buffet was decked out with a pink chevron table runner, a diaper cake wrapped in satin ribbon, and a tower of cupcakes. Tissue paper pom-poms drooped from the ceiling like oversize carnations.
Women I didn’t recognize cooed over Erin’s belly and made small talk about mahjong and reality television. I hovered at the edge of the circle, sipping a mimosa and smiling at the right moments. I had Lucy and Anna—thank goodness—but I still felt like I’d crashed a reunion I wasn’t really part of.
An hour into the mingling, the doorbell rang.
“That’s gotta be Russ!” Erin said. “He wanted to stop by.”
I exchanged a look with Anna. Given Erin’s pregnancy, we were surprised that Russ was back in the picture—and frankly disappointed.
A second later, he swaggered in with a bottle of Maker’s Mark and a proud grin.
“What’s going on in here?” he said, glancing at the pink streamers and paper fans. “Looks like a bottle of Pepto-Bismol exploded!”
Erin laughed too quickly. “Russ, it’s a shower—not a tailgate.”
“Okay, everyone!” Cara announced. “Time to open pressies!”
She pulled Erin onto the sofa beside her, a clipboard in hand.
Erin scanned the room, meeting my eyes. “Billie. Come sit here,” she said, patting the other side of her. I slipped into the spot she’d saved.
She started in on her pile of gifts, each tiny pink outfit and adorable stuffed animal earning a chorus of oohs and aahs.
She opened my gift last: a basket stocked with unglamorous essentials—a thermometer, nail clippers, diaper cream, and plain white onesies.
My cheeks burned as I watched her pull out each embarrassingly practical item.
Then Erin opened my big-ticket item—the latest and greatest breast pump.
Her face lit up as she held it to her chest like it was gold.
“This is perfect,” she whispered to me.
Then she lifted her chin and grinned toward the room. “Dr. Billie Wright,” she said, gesturing my way. “Always on call for me.”