A few people jokingly booed.
“We did it for green card purposes,” Paul added. “So take it up with the government.”
“But,” said Abby, “I think that is important to say because we also wanted to share that we are expecting a baby. And it will not be a shotgun wedding because we were technically married. So this is a celebration of our life together but also the fact that we have a baby due in October.”
The room erupted with cheers, and Sarah took photos. She took photos of the joy and laughter on Abby’s and Paul’s faces. She took photos of the little girl Hannah jumping up and down and then hugging her mother. She took photos of Laura and her boyfriend Ollie applauding.
When the applause finally ended, Sarah lowered her camera. She felt unable to move for a moment. As soon as she could slip away without drawing attention, she slid outside the doors into the gusty evening and walked out of sight, where she leaned against the side of the hotel, her back pressed against the shingles, her eyes on the soft green haze of the horizon.
Her chest hurt like someone had kicked it with a boot.
There was a sound of a door opening and closing. She didn’t dare to look up and see who it was, but a moment later, Ren was beside her, leaning next to her against the wall, blocking the gusty summer wind. His presence felt like the thing she most desperately wanted and exactly what she didn’t need right then.
“Hey,” he said, “everything okay?”
Sarah nodded, carefully composing herself so her voice wouldn’t shake. “Yes.”
He let out a slow breath, looking out at the indigo blue of night. “Can I ask a personal question?” His eyes were serious.
Oh God. What had Paul told Ren? She hadn’t even told the whole story of her divorce to Paul, too afraid of upsetting him. “Go ahead,” she said, feeling suddenly bone tired.
“You and your husband,” he said gently, and her heart was throbbing like it was trapped in a vise, “did you have different perspectives on having kids?”
“No.” Her voice sounded empty. “We had the same perspective.”
“Okay.”
She wanted him to leave, but he wasn’t leaving.
“We had fertility issues,” she said finally.
“Ah.” Ren nodded. “I’m sorry.”
She looked away into the darkness. She had a sudden, horrible sense that she might throw up right there in front of him.
A look came into Ren’s eyes. She saw exactly the moment he put it together. “So your photoseries with the babies…”
She nodded. “That was where all my work was. That was my entire income.”
“Shit,” he said quietly.
She was glad he could see the implications without her needing to spell it out. He understood, but he hadn’t been there. He hadn’t lived it.
All day, every day, shooting photos of people’s babies. All night, every night, editing photos of babies on her computer. Babies floating in space. Babies surrounded by fields of wheat. Babies drifting down rivers with the flow of the current. Babies in factories, in old cars, in deserts and swamps and abandoned steamships.
All of her money had come from that one photo series, and all her money went into her attempts to get pregnant, then into a possible adoption that fell through. And there were miscarriages. One and then another, until Danny came home one day with a heartbreaking look in his eyes and said, “Something has happened.”
And like a fool, Sarah saw his face and assumed that someone was hurt. “Is everyone okay?” she asked him, not yet realizing that the injured party was her.
Ren could guess at it, but he didn’t know.
“I’m so sorry,” he said.
She felt sick all over again. “Please stop. The one thing I have never wanted from you is pity, and that is what you always seem to give me.”
“I don’t pity you.” He stared at her.
“I am not pathetic,” she said. “I had some bad luck and then I got divorced and stopped doing photography. And that’s okay. There’s only a tiny fraction of people who can make a living at it anyway. And I’m employed. I have friends. I’m not a cautionary tale.”
