Then I thought back to the man carrying the wine, coming up the path of the next-door neighbor’s as I’d left for the pretend fortieth birthday party. I remembered how he’d looked at me as if he knew me.

I morphed together the two images from my memory and saw that they could easily be the same person. It gave me a peculiar feeling, as if I needed to go back and examine my whole life and look for all the things I’d missed.

“But he’s got a girlfriend,” I said, remembering the way he’d put his arm around the woman he was with, and how bereft I’d felt when I’d seen it.

“He just broke up with someone,” said Tammy. “He’s back on the market. You’ll have to move fast before he’s snapped up by someone else.”

“What’s he do for a living?” said Kate. “Or is that a superficial question? What are his dreams, his hopes?”

“Wait for it,” said Tammy dramatically. “He’s a … carpenter.”

“He is not.” Kate dropped her knitting.

“He is!”

“Be still my beating heart!”

I laughed at them. I’d forgotten that sort of laughter. Silly, girly, helpless giggling. I thought I’d grown too old for giggling, but actually you never really grow out of it. I should have known that. When Mum was in her seventies she used to meet up with her old tennis club once a month for lunch. I was staying with her once when it was her turn to host, and I remember walking in the front door and hearing peals of laughter coming from the living room. They sounded like teenagers.

I’d forgotten that the best part of dating wasn’t the actual dating at all but the talking about it: the analysis of potential new boyfriends with your girlfriends.

“Can I come to this party?” said Kate. “So I can meet the carpenter?”

“Of course,” said Tammy. “I wonder if we could think up an excuse so he’ll need to do some actual carpentry at the party?”

“Like putting up a bookshelf?”

“Ideally something that makes Saskia seem helpless and vulnerable.”

“So much for feminism,” I said.

Kate snapped her fingers. “A disabled ramp! For her wheelchair!”

“They say I’ll be walking by the time I go home,” I said. They were going to try to get me on crutches next week.

“Oh,” said Kate, disappointed. “Are you sure?”

I forgot about the envelope with the familiar handwriting until later that night after they’d left. I turned it over and saw the sender’s details on the back:

Mrs. Maureen Scott.

Patrick’s mother. Of course. She was like my own mother. A card sender. When I was with Patrick, Maureen had sent countless cards for the smallest of reasons. Dear Patrick, Saskia and Jack, Thank you for the lovely evening on Saturday night. We thoroughly enjoyed Saskia’s “Thai Beef Salad.” It was delicious.

Why was she writing to me now? To tell me, enough was enough? You broke my grandson’s arm, you evil bitch?

I opened it. The pale purple stationery with a border of lavender sprigs looked familiar. She’d probably been using the same notepaper for years.

I read:

Dear Saskia,

Jack wanted to send you this “get well card” (he bought it himself with his own money) and I promised I would find your address and post it to you. Patrick doesn’t know he has written to you, so I would be very grateful (given the current circumstances) if you didn’t write back. I should have said this before, Saskia, but you were a wonderful mother to Jack, and as his grandmother, I should have done more to make sure you stayed in touch. I’m very sorry. I will always regret this. Jack has grown into a lovely young boy. He is a credit to you.

I hope and I pray that you can find a way to move on with your life now, and be happy. I know that’s what your own mum would have wanted.

With love,

Maureen

The card showed a picture of a giraffe sitting up in bed with a thermometer in its mouth. Jack had written:

Dear Saskia,

Get well soon. I’m OK. My cast comes off next week.

Dad won’t let me visit you. Sorry about that.

Love from Jack

P.S. I remember the cities we made out of Play-Doh. They were awesome.

P.P.S. Here is another lucky marble for you to make up for the one I lost.

At the bottom of the envelope was a marble.

I held it up to the light and studied the intricate, intertwined paint splashes of color, and my eyes blurred.

I cried for such a long time. There were no wrenching, painful sobs, just quiet, cleansing tears, like a long, soft rainfall on a Sunday afternoon.

When the tears finally stopped, I blew my nose and turned off the light, and I slept more deeply than I think I’d slept in years. I don’t think I dreamed at all. It was like I was an animal that had gone into hibernation for the winter. Waking up was like emerging from a deep, dark cave into the fresh spring air.

I rubbed my eyes with the heels of my hands and smelled undercooked bacon and bad coffee. Sally, the wonderfully grumpy aide who brought in my breakfast most mornings, was standing at the end of my bed. She dumped the tray on my table with her usual ungracious clatter and raised her eyebrows at me.

“Sleep well?” she said.

“Wonderfully,” I said.

Chapter 27

Before meeting your baby it is impossible to know how profound the feeling of love is and how intense the anxious feelings about your baby’s survival and well-being can be.

—Baby Love, “Australia’s Baby-Care Classic,”

by Robin Barker

Yes, that is my nose, and yes, it’s very funny. Now could you focus?”

The baby let go of Ellen’s nose and placed her palm over Ellen’s mouth.

Ellen pretended to eat it. “Umm, umm.”

The baby grinned. She turned her head and fastened her mouth back around Ellen’s nipple, sucking with greedy concentration, one finger lifted in the air, as if to say: Hold that thought. I’ll be right back with you.

Ellen closed her eyes briefly as she felt the tingling warm rush of a thousand tiny magnets pulling down the milk. Six months ago she’d never felt this; now it was as familiar a sensation as a sneeze.

Except that every time, it still felt marginally extraordinary.

For a few minutes Grace fed, her tiny hand circling as if she were conducting a symphony. She tipped her head back and her eyelids fluttered as though the music was touching her soul.