In her New York years, Fiona had lost touch with Jane. She wondered now if it had been on purpose, the way she let the time between returning Jane’s phone calls, her emails, stretch out languorously. In truth, didn’t she believe her life, the choices she made possible for herself, superior to Jane’s? The odd jobs Jane worked, and often lost, carelessly, after they graduated high school. Of course, Jane didn’t really have to work, did she? Her mother always floated her money anyway. Then her father died, the way he did. Fiona had left California that year.
“Did I ever tell you,” Fiona said quietly into the phone, “about the time—Jasper and me, we accidentally . . .” She couldn’t bring herself to say the words. Was it bad luck to bring it up now?
“What happened?” Jane said.
“Nothing,” Fiona said. She touched a hand to her belly. If she hadn’t done it, that child would be—how old? Almost a teenager.
“Hey. You okay?” Jane said. “I was joking. About Jasper, winning—”
“I had an abortion. Years ago,” Fiona said. “Obviously, I had to. I mean, we talked about it. What if we—Jasper wanted to keep it, more than me.”
Jane was quiet.
“It happened right after we moved to New York. We didn’t even have a sofa yet.” Fiona shook her head. “It’s not like I regret it or anything.” She thought of that apartment on Mulberry Street and recalled the scent of almond cookies from the Italian bakery on the ground floor. “It was the right decision.”
“Of course it was,” Jane replied.
“But it just makes me think,” Fiona said after a moment. “And seeing his dumb wedding photos—”
“Think what?”
“I don’t know,” said Fiona. “That some part of me still—I remember thinking, when I took that pill to make the abortion happen—we’ll get to do it for real one day, you know? Me and him.”
“Part of you still, what?”
“Loves him.”
“No—”
“It doesn’t mean anything,” Fiona said. “I’m happy.” She laughed, though she didn’t know why. “I’m happy, I mean it. Everything’s great.”
“What’s going on?” Jane asked. “Seriously—is Bobby—”
“Nothing,” Fiona said. “I swear. I’m fine.” She laughed again, and this time it felt like she’d pressed a valve, pressure alleviated. “Janie,” she said. “Don’t you ever think about what other lives you could be living?”
“Hell no,” said Jane. “What’s the point of that? Once it’s done, I’m over it. No regrets.”
“You weren’t always like that—”
“I learned from Won.”
“Now we know where you went wrong,” said Fiona, and then they both laughed. After a moment, Fiona said, “I was thinking about my mom this week.”
Jane made a noise, half grunt and part moan. A comforting sound. “I know.” She was quiet. “I miss her, too,” she said finally. It had been two years since Auntie Wendy passed. “I think she would’ve liked Bobby,” Jane said.
“You think so?” Fiona wanted to believe her.
“Tell him I said congrats, too,” Jane said, and Fiona promised she would.
“Can I tell you something?” Fiona said suddenly. Jane waited for her to go on. “I’ve never told you about my dad.” She paused a moment. “My biological father. Back in Taiwan.” She took a breath. “I can finally talk about it, now that Mom’s . . .”
Jane listened to her best friend tell the story of how her mother became a mother, at sixteen. Her father, Fiona said, was an older boy—a college student, studying under Fiona’s grandfather. In all the years they’d been friends, Jane had never asked Fiona about her father. It wasn’t that she hadn’t been curious; some things, even between friends like they were, remained unspoken, passed over in silence. Fiona talked on. Jane could hardly imagine it; Auntie Wendy, a scandalized teenage mother, all on her own. And yet, she could see it all so clearly: Fiona as a little girl, her mother’s treasure, protected at all cost. They were happy, Jane knew without Fiona saying so, mother and daughter close in a way that had always felt foreign to Jane.
Growing up, Jane preferred playing at Fiona’s house, where there were no restrictions on what they could watch on TV, how long the set stayed on, or whether they’d finished their homework first; where their afternoon snacks were pepperoni Hot Pockets heated up in stiff paper sleeves, fried shrimp and teriyaki hot wings from the casino buffet in Styrofoam takeout containers; where all sorts of kids in the apartment complex dropped by to ask if Fiona wanted to go ride bikes, if they’d heard the ice-cream truck go past yet today. And when they were teenagers, Fiona’s mother was more like a friend than a parent. She gossiped with the girls, told them outrageous stories about the casino regulars. Auntie Wendy never scolded, unlike Jane’s mother, who was always breathing down her daughter’s neck, finding fault.