Джули Салливан - Friends and Strangers

Even in her moments of deepest regret, Elisabeth remained pleased that sending the money had kept Charlotte on her side in the family war. This was the only thing she really liked about her sister, but it mattered more than everything else combined.

—

That night, she couldn’t sleep.

Andrew snored beside her. She picked up her phone, went straight to BK Mamas.

Someone had asked for recommendations for a coffee shop to write in. A topic she knew well.

Café Harmony is my go-to, Elisabeth responded. Perfect ambience, best latte in Brooklyn, and they never rush you out.

She posted her reply, picturing herself there, alone in a rush of bodies.

Mimi Winchester responded right away. Harmony closed two weeks ago. Try Kelly’s on Court.

Elisabeth had known Mimi a bit in her twenties, when they both worked in magazines. Mimi was a hustler then, but she had married a hedge-fund guy and now only wrote an article every six months or so, usually a puff piece about a cosmetics line or clothing company run by one of her friends. She would post a link on BK Mamas saying something like Just for funsies!

Once, Mimi had come upon Elisabeth sitting alone on a bench in Carroll Park. Elisabeth was shaking a can of formula, pouring the thick grayish liquid into a bottle for Gil, who was crying in the stroller.

“Oh my gosh, you adopted? That’s so admirable!” Mimi said.

Elisabeth was almost certain she wasn’t trying to be awful. It just had not occurred to her that a biological mother would do anything but breastfeed.

She wanted to say every mean thing she’d ever thought about Mimi then.

She had hoped the pettiest parts of her, all her foolish insecurities, would somehow be erased by motherhood. At first, she thought it had happened. But they returned when Gil was eight weeks old, like so many uninvited guests.

Café Harmony had closed, and Mimi needed her to know. Why should something as small as that unnerve her? But it did. Elisabeth felt like she’d had her hand slapped.

4 Sam

AT THE END OF EVERY HALLWAY in the dorms was a short flight of stairs that led to four rooms—two large doubles on either side. These were called the platforms. Only seniors were allowed to live in platform rooms, and only they got invited to platform preparties on Friday nights.

Tonight, their platform was hosting. Isabella had made sangria in the recycling bin ahead of time. The too-sweet smell of it filled the room.

Hosting was supposed to be a big deal, but Sam hadn’t given it a moment’s thought. Clive’s flight from London was due in at ten.

Isabella had offered to let Sam take her car to the airport, but it was too nice. It made Sam nervous. Instead she had begged Steph, who managed the basketball team, to let her use the beat-up van they took to away games. Sam had never driven a van, but this she had not mentioned when she made the request.

All week, she had been nervous and excited in equal parts. Her palms hadn’t stopped sweating since Tuesday. Her stomach was a mess. It was impossible to imagine Clive here, among her friends. As Isabella had put it, “You simply cannot bring a six-foot-five British man into the dining hall without raising eyebrows.”

Sam didn’t want to be a topic of conversation. And yet, she couldn’t wait to see him. She had missed him so much.

After dinner, Isabella did her makeup for her, and flat-ironed her hair.

Then it was Sam’s turn to help Isabella.

It was a comfort, having something to take her mind off Clive for a minute.

Sam opened the mini-fridge and pulled out a vial of clear liquid. She filled a syringe.

“Ready?” she said.

“Ready.”

Isabella held up the hem of her blue tank top with one hand and tipped back a tequila shot with the other. Sam poked the needle straight into her taut abdomen, as if throwing a dart.

Isabella winced—from the drink or the pain, Sam wasn’t sure.

She counted to five, pulled out the needle, and dabbed an alcohol swab over the drop of blood that bubbled up.

The process had been a shock the first time they did it three weeks ago, the two of them screaming, bouncing around the room for several minutes beforehand.

Finally, Sam had said, “We have to get it together. Trust me. I can do this. My mother’s a nurse.”

Isabella was selling her eggs to a couple who had advertised in the student paper. They wanted a donor with brown hair and blue eyes, and a grade point average of 3.7 or higher. Isabella had all three, though if they had requested transcripts, they might have noticed that most of her classes were taken in the film department.

She would never meet the couple. The transaction was handled through an agency. Isabella had to provide pictures from various stages of her life.

Sam heard her on the phone.

“Mommy, can you email me some photos from when I was a baby? It’s for a class project thingy.”

Sam didn’t understand why she was doing it. Isabella was wealthier than anyone she’d ever met.

“I’m not rich, my parents are,” Isabella often said, which made no sense.

Sam suggested a campus job if she wanted to earn extra money.

Isabella seemed aghast. “It would take me a year to make what I’m making in less than a month. Besides, this isn’t only about the money. I’m doing it to give back. To share something I have, that someone else needs. Like giving blood. But a much bigger sacrifice, obviously.”

Isabella told anyone who would listen how selfless she was being.

The two of them were randomly assigned to be roommates their first year. Early on, they couldn’t stand each other. But by the time they were deciding who to live with sophomore year, they stayed together by choice. Sam had once thought of her as just an annoying drama queen, but now Isabella was her annoying drama queen.

Perhaps she was donating her eggs for the same reason she did most things. Whenever possible, Isabella needed to be engaged in something exciting, extreme, that superseded the rhythm of her ordinary life. Sam never pointed this out. Their friendship was built on a foundation of mutual acceptance. They supported each other’s decisions, no matter how stupid. So Sam didn’t say that if all went according to plan, a baby would exist who was one-half Isabella’s.

Isabella, in turn, didn’t question Sam’s relationship with Clive . Other friends made it clear that they thought it was odd. Either by asking too many questions, or by never mentioning Clive at all.

Isabella was voluntarily spending the next four nights across the hall in Lexi and Ramona’s room. Ramona hardly ever slept at home. Her girlfriend had a single in the vegan house on Reed Street, so Ramona’s bed was always free. Still, Isabella was making a sacrifice.

Sam had been counting down to those nights alone with Clive, but now that he was almost here, she thought she’d miss Isabella a little. It was like with Gil. When she was babysitting, Sam only ever wanted to get him down for a nap so she could do schoolwork or watch TV. But as soon as he was asleep, she had the urge to wake him, craving his company.

—

At eight-fifteen, Isabella stood in the crowded hall, scooping sangria from the recycling bin into red plastic cups, using a coffee mug that said WHAT WOULD BEYONCÉ DO? as a ladle.

She rocked back and forth to the music, eyelids at half-mast. She took a swig of sangria straight from the mug whenever she thought no one was looking.

Sam watched her as she sipped a beer. She kept checking the time, as if she might somehow forget Clive’s arrival.

Even just last year, hearing the music coming from such a party, she had wished to be included. But now, it seemed kind of pointless. It was the same thing they had done last Friday, and the Friday before that. At ten-thirty, they would go as a group to the actual party downstairs, never as much fun as the hours spent preparing for it. Tomorrow, they would wake up late, hungover or still slightly drunk, and stumble down to the dining hall for bagels.