Full Bloom

Chapter One

Iris Sunnegren hadn’t planned to host her best friend’s baby shower one hour after learning that her own fertility was alarmingly low, it just happened that way. She jogged up the red-carpeted steps of the Plaza with the cold squick of ultrasound jelly in her underwear and three bags of decorations under her arms. With some effort, she checked the time on her phone. She was running behind schedule.

The Plaza was Iris’s favorite building in New York City, a pedestrian pick for someone who works in architecture and design, but Iris had never lost the fondness formed from reading Eloise as a child, a book that made being a little girl with missing parents seem enviable, glamorous, and free, instead of lonely or sad. The baby shower plan was to celebrate with a classic tea service in the hotel’s famed Palm Court. The dining room was part jewel box, part botanical garden, with a dated glamor that made Iris nostalgic for her and Hannah’s millennial childhood. Huge potted palms bordered the room, and neoclassical pillars held up the greenhouse-like stained-glass ceiling. A large circular bar plaited with white trellis detail burst with a profusion of orange tiger lilies, filling the room with their elegant fragrance.

Iris hustled to the maître d’ and introduced herself. “I have a reservation for fifteen, the baby shower.”

“Welcome, and congratulations!”

“I’m the host, I’m not preg—”

“You’re early. Your reservation is for two o’clock, and it’s one forty-five. But you’re welcome to wait by the bar.”

“I’m sorry, but when I spoke with your events team, they said I could have the table at one-thirty to have time to set up my decorations. I’m actually late.”

The maître d’ said he’d see what he could do.

I’m actually late.

She hadn’t meant to repeat the phrase from her fertility appointment, but the conversation with the doctor lingered in her ears. After her blood tests came back from her regular gynecologist in the “yellow to red” zone of fertility freakout, Iris had been desperate to get in to see booked-for-months Dr. Alsarraj of Family Tree Fertility, so when a cancellation opened up this morning, she’d grabbed it.

“So I’m actually late to do this?” she had asked, after he’d laid out a rather bleak assessment of her stats and ultrasound.

“You’re not early. Your follicles are underproducing for your age by at least two standard deviations. And you haven’t checked your AMH levels or anything fertility-related before this, correct?”

“Well, I was in a long-term relationship, but it ended unexpectedly—”

“I don’t mean to pry, I only ask to see if these levels are stable for you or if we’re on a downward trajectory. But in reality, all fertility is a downward trajectory.” A smile equal parts polite and patronizing crossed his face. “Women today are living modern lives with old-fashioned biology. Why should you be ruled by a primitive timetable? Why should you have to be on a different schedule than your male peers? You shouldn’t. And we have a modern solution with egg freezing—”

The maître d’ returned, interrupting her rumination. “Follow me.”

Iris hiked the bags up on her shoulder and opened her iPhone party checklist. She loved plans, checklists, blueprints—in her work or personal life, they were how she made sense out of the unpredictable, or tried to. Today she had ten minutes and a plan. Iris confirmed the tea platter choices with the server—check. She tied pink and blue ribbons on every chairback—check. Hannah had requested no gifts but children’s books, which had given Iris the idea for the library theme. She laid out the name cards she’d made to look like library ID cards on each plate, along with a mini pencil, a stick-on manila sleeve, and a borrowing card for the guests to write Baby Lefebvre a sweet message in their gift book—check, check, check. And she unpacked the retro Polaroid camera she’d bought so they could take pictures to tuck into the books as well. Iris knew how precious old photos could become.

Iris was loading the film cartridge into the camera to test it, the final task on her list, when she heard Hannah’s voice and looked up to see her waving eagerly alongside her mom, Cathy. Iris waved back and held up the camera to snap a picture of their smiley approach; the camera gave a nostalgic click and whirr as it spat out an undeveloped picture—check. She lowered it and smiled, though it still took her aback to see Hannah so pregnant. Iris knew the outline of her friend’s five-foot-three body at so many life stages; she’d looked for it in classrooms and horse shows and concert crowds since they became friends in sixth grade, after Iris came to live with her grandparents, and it had always changed in step with her own. But now Hannah looked so different and her life was about to change forever.

“Iris, honey, it’s so good to see you!” Cathy said, giving her a squeeze. She had been like a surrogate mother to Iris growing up.

Hannah hugged her next and squealed over her shoulder. “Omigod, look at this table!” She and her mother cooed over the decorations, gushing over every thoughtful detail.

When Cathy went to the ladies’ room, Hannah pulled Iris aside. “How did this morning go? You okay?”

“Oh, fine. But I’ve never been so dressed up for a gyno appointment, I had my feet in the stirrups in heels. I was afraid they’d think I have some kind of fetish.”

Hannah snorted, but she was Iris’s best friend because she laughed at her jokes as easily as she saw through them. “But for real, are you up for all this baby stuff today? Because I get it if not. My mom and I can take it from here if you want to go home.”

“No! I want to be here to celebrate you and the baby! I told you the one thing I don’t want—”

“Is for me to feel weird, I know. But just do a gut check for me. You’re allowed to change your mind.”

“Gut’s good. Promise.”

Hannah hugged her. “So did you like the doctor? What did she say?”

“It was a he, and he was nice, but he told it to me straight. If I want to have a biological child, I should probably freeze my eggs, soon. Ideally, like yesterday.”

Dr. Alsarraj’s blunt words still rang in her ears: “Egg quality begins to decline at age thirty-five, it’s not the so-called fertility cliff as was once believed, but the likelihood of getting and staying pregnant does drop.” He glanced down at her paperwork while her stomach dropped, too. “And you’re thirty . . .”

“Four,” Iris answered too quickly. “I turn thirty-five in a few days.”

Dr. Alsarraj looked up. “Happy birthday.”

Hannah brought her back to the present. “Shit. Okay. Well, at least you have clarity.”

Iris sighed. “I guess. I still have to figure out how I’m going to pay for it.” The consultation alone was $650, which Iris found to be both outrageous and typical. Her regular gynecologist had prepared her that the full process of freezing her eggs would cost over ten thousand dollars, and the health insurance from her lighting design firm wouldn’t cover it. According to Blue Cross, a man’s wilting erection was a medical problem, but Iris’s waning fertility was because she didn’t smile more.

“Did Frank give you a timeline on your promotion?” Hannah asked.

“I didn’t ask yet. But I will soon, I swear.”

“Do it! He’s gonna say yes. You’ve earned that raise.”

“I know. Who else would wait in the office on a Saturday to receive his Peloton?”

Hannah tilted her head. “And because you’re excellent at your job! Doesn’t he call you the ‘client whisperer’?”

“Yes, for my preternatural ability to take shit from angry architects and developers without showing any emotion beyond reassuring detachment. Thank you, childhood trauma.”

Hannah laughed. “Just don’t sell yourself short when you talk to Frank, okay?”

“I won’t. With this egg freezing, I’m officially too broke for self-deprecation.”

The shower guests arrived in a steady stream of hugs, introductions, and squealing over the setup, until the table was filled with girlfriends from every stage of Hannah’s life. Iris knew most but not all; she was the only friend from middle school.

Once everyone was seated and drinks had been served, the waiter came over to explain the tea service. “As you see, we have the étagère of finger sandwiches, cucumber mint and crème fraîche, smoked salmon and lemon butter with dill, Canadian ham and Manchego with Dijon, as well as deviled eggs with salmon roe.”