A Good Sale

One of the stores in town that I love has a sale twice a year and during that sale the owner puts out basket after basket of beautiful children’s clothes and sells them for what my friend Alisa refers to as “Old Navy prices.”  I wait all year for those two sales, often just casually stopping by the store when the owner (who I know) isn’t in and asking one of the Smith girls who work there if the sale will be happening soon.  I don’t like to ask the owner about the sales because I don’t want to admit to her how profoundly cheap I am.  Of course she knows how cheap I am, of course she knows how cheap everyone around here is, but still I like to pretend that I buy more than just wrapping paper from her at full price.  (OK, I’ll be honest.  I don’t buy the wrapping paper at full price.)

Anyway, the sale started last week so I arranged my day without the girls to allow for some shopping.

There is so much inventory at these sales (Did I mention how cheap everyone here is?)  that you could spend hours going through all the baskets.  It takes a long time to unfold each piece, hold it up to an imaginary baby, and refold it.  But the clothes are so soft and colorful and smell so good that sorting through the baskets is actually rather relaxing.  Soon enough the whole process becomes something of a ritual and it is easy to do it–to decide if this shirt has enough purple in it for Grace or if that dress will still fit June when she’s walking–while you are talking a mile a minute to the other shoppers.

This time I am chatting with the store owner and then a woman, who I will call Gaby, comes into the store.   It is clear that she and the owner are friends.  Gaby has some news to share.  Her baby, who I will call Rosie, has arrived.  She has arrived early.  She has arrived 16 weeks early.  Sixteen weeks.  Which means that Rosie was born at 24 weeks gestation.  Which means that even though she has been alive for nearly two months she is still two months shy of her due date.

There is much sighing and “oh my God”-ing and “Oh Gaby! How hard for you!”  And then there are pictures on Gaby’s iphone and questions about how much Rosie weighs (she is up to three pounds) and there I am, standing right next to Gaby, folding and unfolding while she folds and unfolds and tells her story.  And then she starts talking about the nurses in the NICU and I can’t help but say something.

“My sister was a nurse in that NICU,”  I say.

Gaby turns to me, a huge smile on her face.  “I love those nurses!”

“My sister took care of lots of 24 weekers,”  I tell her.  “Lots.”  This is my way of telling Gaby that I know something of what it means to have a baby at 24 weeks, that I know that 24 weeks is the edge of the cusp of possibility, and that her baby is as fragile as spun sugar.

Of course I don’t say any of those things.  Instead I hand her a 3-6 month purple sundress.  “My girls wear those all winter,”  I tell her.  “You can just put a long-sleeve onesie and some tights under it.”

She puts it on her pile.

Then she tells us about a trip to Boston for heart surgery, and about the four hours a day she spends holding Rosie.  She tells us about the cable channels at the Ronald McDonald house where she and her husband sleep, and about how she didn’t know she was in labor until just a few minutes before Rosie was born.  All the while we unfold and fold.  She tells us that her husband doesn’t want too much pink and I tell her I think it’s smart to steer clear of pink in the beginning because eventually it’s all Rosie will want to wear.  Gaby tells us that this is the very first time she’s bought clothes for Rosie, and I wonder what it is about this day that makes the risk of the grief these clothes might bring her someday worth the joy that choosing them is bringing her today.  Because clearly she is happy.  She is happy to be standing here talking about her baby’s body and her baby’s preferences, yet to be revealed.

Finally the time comes when I cannot in good conscience stay any longer.  As it is I have lost my chance to go to the grocery store or take a shower before I have to pick up the girls.  I scoop up my pile and say my goodbyes.  I thank the owner for the sale, and I turn to Gaby.

“I’ll be thinking of Rosie,”  I tell her, “and maybe this summer I’ll run into you on the street and she’ll be sleeping on your chest and we’ll remember this day.”

“Oh I hope so,”  Gaby says, and I know her hope is for the baby sleeping on her chest and not the running into me.  I think she knows mine is, too.

On the way out I grab something I have folded and refolded a dozen times.  It is a yellow onesie with a small green bird silk-screened across the front, sewn out of the softest cotton I have ever felt.  I hadn’t been able to think of a single baby in my life that it would fit, but I also couldn’t put it down.  I hand it to the girl at the counter.  “This one is for her,”  I say softly, pointing to Gaby, who has her back to me.  “Will you wrap it up and give it to her when she is ready to go?”

The sales girl smiles and tells me that I have made her day.  “Just for that,” she says, “I’m giving you all of this for 50% off even though some of it is only marked for 25%.”

But of course that’s not the real reward, even for a cheapskate like me.