the house would be the library he would make for me inside my expansive closet.
Nor could Dad have known that my whole world would end up next door, held in the palm of a skinny nerd named Elliot Lewis Petropoulos.
now
tuesday, october 3
If you drew a straight line from my apartment in San Francisco to Berkeley, it would only be ten and a half miles, but even in the best commuting window it takes more than an hour without a car.
“I caught a bus at six this morning,” I say. “Two BART lines, and another bus.” I look down at my watch. “Seven thirty. Not too bad.”
Sabrina wipes a smudge of foamy milk from her upper lip. As much as she understands my avoidance of cars, I know there’s a part of her that thinks I should just power through it and get a Prius or Subaru, like any other self-respecting Bay Area resident. “Don’t let anyone tell you you’re not a saint.”
“I really am. You made me leave my bubble.” But I say it with a smile, and look down at her tiny daughter on my lap. I’ve only ever seen the princess Vivienne twice, and she seems to have doubled in size. “Good thing you’re worth it.”
I hold babies every day, but it never feels like this. Sabrina and I used to live across a dorm room from each other at Tufts. Then we moved into an apartment off-campus before quasi-upgrading to a crumbling house during our respective graduate programs. By some magic we both ended up on the West Coast, in the Bay Area, and now Sabrina has a baby. That we are old enough now to be doing this—birthing children, breeding—is the weirdest feeling ever.
“I was up at eleven last night with this one,” Sabrina says, looking at us fondly. Her smile turns wry at the edges. “And two. And four. And six . . .”
“Okay, you win. But to be fair, she smells better than most of the people on the bus.” I plant a small kiss on Viv’s head and tuck her more securely into the crook of my arm before carefully reaching for my coffee.
The cup feels strange in my hand. It’s ceramic, not a paper throwaway or the enormous stainless steel travel mug Sean fills to the brim for me each morning, assuming— not incorrectly—that it takes a hulking dose of caffeine to get me ready to tackle the day. It’s been forever since I had time to sit down with an actual mug and sip any- thing.
“You already look like a mama,” Sabrina says, watching us from across the small café table.
“The benefit of working with babies all day.”
Sabrina is quiet for a breath, and I realize my mistake. Ground rule number one: never reference my job around mothers, especially new mothers. I can practically hear her heart stutter across the table from me.
“I don’t know how you do it,” she whispers.
The sentence is a repeating chorus to my life right now. It seems to boggle my friends over and over again that I made the decision to go into pediatrics at UCSF—in the critical-care track. Without fail, I catch a flash of suspicion that maybe I’m missing an important, tender bone, some maternal brake that should prevent me from being able to routinely witness the suffering of sick kids.
I give Sabrina my usual refrain of “Someone needs to,” then add, “And I’m good at it.”
“I bet you are.”
“Now pediatric neuro? That I couldn’t do,” I say, and then pull my lips between my teeth, physically restraining myself from saying more.
Shut up, Macy. Shut your crazy babble mouth.
Sabrina offers a small nod, staring at her baby. Viv smiles up at me and kicks her legs excitedly.
“Not all the stories are sad.” I tickle her tummy. “Tiny miracles happen every day, don’t they, cutie?”
The subject change rolls out of Sabrina, loud enough to be a little jarring: “How’s wedding planning coming?”
I groan, pressing my face into the sweet baby smell of Viv’s neck.
“That good, huh?” Laughing, Sabrina reaches for her daughter, as if she’s unable to share her any longer. I can’t blame her. She’s such a warm and shapable little bundle in my arms.
“She’s perfect, honey,” I say quietly, handing her over. “Such a solid little girl.”
And, as if everything I do is somehow hardwired to my memories of them—the raucous life next door, the giant, chaotic family I never had—I am hit with nostalgia, of the last non-work-related baby I spent