Good in Bed (43 page)

I struggled to sit up. “Gym?” I asked. She was dressed for it, I saw. Her auburn curls were drawn up into a high ponytail, and she was wearing a form-fitting black unitard, bright white socks, and pristine white sneakers.

“Don't worry,” Maxi told me. “Nothing too exerting.” She sat on the side of my bed and pointed at a schedule from someplace called the Inner Light Education Center. “See … here?”

“Self-actualization, meditation, and visualization,” read the course description.

“To be followed by masturbation?” I asked.

Maxi gave me an evil look. “Don't knock it,” she said. “This stuff really works.”

I went to the dresser and started searching for appropriate self-actualization wear. I figured I'd tag along and use the meditation session to see if I couldn't come up with a plausible bit of dialogue between Josie, the heroine of my screenplay, and her soon-to-be-ex-boyfriend. Or I'd contemplate my future and what I'd do with it. Self-actualization and visualization sounded like New Age foolishness to me, but at least it wouldn't be a waste of my time.

The Inner Light Education Center was a low-slung white wood building perched on top of a hill. There were wide glass windows and a deck lined with sea grass and pots of impatiens. There was, thankfully, no valet parking.

“You're really going to like this,” said Maxi as we made our way to the door. I'd wriggled into Maxi's oversize T-shirt, which was becoming less oversize by the day, plus a pair of leggings and sneakers, and
the obligatory baseball cap and shades—the one part of her look I'd been able to adapt for myself.

“You know, in Philadelphia this place would be a cheesesteak stand,” I grumbled.

We entered a large, airy room with mirrors on the walls, a piano in one corner, and the smell of sweat and, faintly, sandalwood incense. Maxi and I found spots near the back, and when Maxi went to fetch us folding foam mats, I checked out the crowd. There was a pack of supermodel-looking stunners in the front, but also a few older women—one with actual undyed gray hair—and a guy with a long, flowing white beard and a T-shirt reading “I Got the Crabs at Jimmy's Crab Shack.” Definitely a long way from the Star Bar, I thought happily as the instructor walked through the door.

“Let's all get to our feet,” she said, bending to put a compact disc into the player.

I stared, and blinked, for there, in front of me, was a bona fide Larger Woman … in a shiny electric-blue leotard and black tights, no less. She was maybe ten years older than me, with a deep tan, and brown hair that fell halfway down her back, held off her wide, unlined face with a band that matched her leotard. Her body reminded me of those little fertility dolls that archeologists dug out of ruins—sloping breasts, wide hips, unapologetic curves. She wore pink lipstick and a tiny diamond stud in her nose, and she looked … comfortable. Confident. Happy with herself. I stared at her, unable to help myself, wondering if I'd ever looked that happy, and whether I could ever learn how, and how I'd look with a nose piercing.

“I'm Abigail,” she announced. Abigail! I thought. My top female-baby name contender! This had to be a sign. Of what, I wasn't sure, but definitely something good. “And this is self-actualization, meditation, and visualization. If you're in the wrong place, please leave now.” Nobody did. Abigail smiled at us and hit a button on the stereo. The sound of flutes and soft drumming filled the room. “We're going to start off with some stretching and deep breathing, and then we're going to do what's called a guided meditation. You'll all sit in whatever position you find comfortable, and you'll close your eyes, and I'm
going to guide you through imagining different situations, different possibilities. Shall we begin?”

Maxi smiled at me. I smiled back. “Okay?” she whispered, and I nodded, and before I knew it, I was sitting cross-legged on a cushioned mat on the floor, with my eyes closed and the flutes and drums ringing faintly in my ears.

“Imagine a safe place,” Abigail began. Her voice was low and soothing. “Don't try to choose it. Just close your eyes and see what comes.”

I thought for sure I'd see Maxi's deck, or maybe her kitchen. But what I saw as Abigail repeated “safe place” was my bed … my bed at home. The blue comforter, the brightly colored pillows, Nifkin perched on top like a small furry hood ornament, blinking at me. I could tell by the slant of the light through the blinds that it was evening, when I'd come home from work. Time to walk the dog, time to call Samantha to see when she wanted to head to the gym, time to flip through my mail and hang up my clothes and settle in for the night. … And suddenly I was swept up in a wave of such wretched homesickness, such longing for my city, my apartment, my bed, that I felt faint.

I struggled to my feet. My head was full of pictures of the city—the coffee shop on the corner, where Samantha and I shared iced cappuccinos and confidences and horror stories about men … the Reading Terminal in the morning, full of the smell of fresh flowers and cinnamon buns …Independence Mall on my way home from work, the wide green lawns crammed with tourists craning for a glimpse of the Liberty Bell, the dogwood trees full of pink blossoms …Penn's Landing on a Saturday, with Nifkin straining at his leash, trying to catch the seagulls that skimmed and dipped low over the water. My street, my apartment, my friends, my job … “Home,” I whispered, to the baby—to myself. And I whispered “bathroom” to Maxi and made my way outside.

I stood in the sunshine, breathing deeply. A minute later I felt a tap on my shoulder. Abigail was standing there with a glass of water in her hand.

“Are you okay?”

I nodded. “I just started feeling a little … well, homesick, I guess,” I explained.

Abigail nodded thoughtfully. “Home,” she said, and I nodded. “Well, that's good. If home's your safe place, that's a wonderful thing.”

“How do you …” I couldn't find the words for what I wanted to ask her. How do you find happiness in a body like yours … like mine? How do you find the courage to follow anything anywhere if you don't feel like you fit in the world?

Abigail smiled at me. “I grew up,” she said, in response to the question I hadn't asked. “I learned things. You will, too.”

“Cannie?”

Maxi was squinting at me in the sunlight, looking concerned. I waved at her. Abigail nodded at both of us. “Good luck,” she said, and walked back inside, hips churning, breasts wobbling, proud and unashamed. I stared after her, wishing I could whisper
role model
to the baby.

“What was that about?” asked Maxi. “Are you okay? You didn't come back, I thought you were giving birth in the stall or something …”

“No,” I said. “No baby yet. I'm fine.”

We drove back home, Maxi chattering excitedly about how she'd visualized herself winning an Oscar and tastefully, graciously, and very emphatically denouncing every single one of her rotten ex-boyfriends from the podium. “I almost started laughing when I visualized the look on Kevin's face!” she crowed, and shot me a glance at the next red light. “What'd you see, Cannie?”

I didn't want to answer her … didn't want to hurt her feelings by telling her that I thought my happiness lay approximately three thousand miles from the beach house and the California coastline, and from Maxi herself. “Home,” I said softly.

“Well, we'll be there soon enough,” Maxi said.

“Can-nie,” Samantha wailed on the phone the next morning, sounding decidedly unlawyerly. “This is ridiculous! I insist that you come back.
Things are happening. I broke up with the yoga instructor and you weren't even here to hear about it. …”

“So tell me,” I urged her, staving off a pang of guilt.

“Never mind,” Sam said airily. “I'm sure whatever I'm enduring isn't as interesting as your movie-star friends and their breakups …”

“Now, Sam,” I said, “you know that isn't true. You're my absolute best friend, and I want to hear all about the evil yoga guy …”

“Never mind that,” said Sam. “I'd rather talk about you. What's the deal? Are you, like, on permanent vacation? Are you going to stay there forever?”

“Not forever,” I said. “I just …I'm not sure what I'm doing, really.” And I was desperate, at that moment, not to have to talk about it anymore.

“I miss you,” Sam said plaintively. “I even miss your weird little dog.”

“I won't be gone forever,” I said. It was the only thing I knew for sure was true.

“Okay, subject change,” said Samantha. “Guess who called me? That hunky doctor we ran into on Kelly Drive.”

“Dr. K.!” I said, feeling a sudden rush of happiness at his name, along with a twinge of guilt that I hadn't called him since the day I'd signed with Violet. “How'd he get your number?”

Samantha's voice turned chilly. “Evidently,” she said, “and despite my explicit request, you once again listed me as your emergency contact when you filled out some kind of form for him.”

This was a point of some contention. I always listed Samantha as my emergency contact when I went on bike trips. Samantha had been less than delighted to learn this.

“Honestly, Cannie, why don't you just list your mother?” she asked now, reiterating the complaint she'd made many times before.

“Because I'm worried that Tanya would answer the phone and have my body buried at sea,” I said.

“Anyhow, he called because he wanted to know how things were going, and if I had your address; I guess he wants to send you something.”

“Great!” I said, wondering what it was.

“So when are you coming home?” Sam asked again.

“Soon,” I told her, relenting.

“Promise?” she demanded.

I laid my hands on my belly. “I promise,” I said, to both of them.

The next afternoon, the mailbox yielded a box from Mailboxes & More on Walnut Street, Philadelphia.

I carried it out onto the deck and opened it. The first thing I saw was a postcard with a picture of a small, wide-eyed, anxious-looking Nifkin-esque dog on the front. I turned it over. “Dear Cannie,” it read. “Samantha tells me you'll be in Los Angeles for a while, and I thought you might like something to read. (They do read out there, right?) I've enclosed your books, and a few things to remind you of home. Feel free to call me if you want to say hello.” It was signed “Peter Krushelevansky (from the University of Philadelphia).” Under the signature was a postscript: “Samantha also tells me that Nifkin's gone West Coast, so I've sent a little something for him, too.”

Inside the box I found a postcard of the Liberty Bell, and one of Independence Hall. There was a small tin of dark-chocolate-covered pretzels from the Reading Terminal, and a single, slightly squashed Tastykake. At the bottom of the box my fingers encountered something round and heavy, wrapped in layers and layers of the
Philadelphia Examiner
(“Gabbing with Gabby,” I noted, was devoted to Angela Lansbury's latest made-for-TV movie). Inside I found a shallow ceramic pet food bowl. The letter
N
was emblazoned on the inside, painted bright red and outlined in yellow. And around the outside of the bowl was a series of portraits of Nifkin, each accurate right down to his sneer and his spots. There was Nifkin running, Nifkin sitting, Nifkin on the floor devouring a rawhide bone. I laughed delightedly. “Nifkin!” I said, and Nifkin barked and came running.

I set the bowl down for Nifkin to sniff. Then I called Dr. K.

“Suzie Lightning!” he said, by way of greeting.

“Who?” I said. “Huh?”

“It's from a Warren Zevon song,” he said.

“Huh,” I said. The only Warren Zevon song I knew was the one about lawyers, guns, and money.

“It's about a girl who … travels a lot,” he said.

“Sounds interesting,” I said, making a mental note to look up the lyrics. “I'm calling to thank you for my presents. They're wonderful.”

“You're welcome,” he told me. “I'm glad you like them.”

“Did you paint Nifkin from memory? It's amazing. You should have been an artist.”

“I dabble,” he acknowledged, sounding so much like Dr. Evil, of
Austin Powers
fame, that I burst out laughing. “Actually, your friend Samantha lent me some pictures,” he explained. “But I didn't use them much. Your dog has a very distinctive look.”

“You're too kind,” I said truthfully.

“They opened up a paint-your-own-pottery studio around the corner from campus,” he explained. “I did it there. It was some kid's fifth birthday party, so there were eight five-year-olds painting coffee mugs, and me.”

I grinned, picturing it—tall, deep-voiced Dr. K. folded into a chair, painting Nifkin as the little kids gawked.

“So how are things going out there?”

I gave him the condensed version, telling him about shopping with Maxi—the cooking I'd been doing, the farmers' market I'd found. I described the little house on the beach. I told him that California felt both wonderful and unreal. I told him that I was walking every morning and working every day and how Nifkin had learned to retrieve his tennis ball from the surf.

Dr. K. made interested noises, asked pertinent follow-up questions, and proceeded directly to the big one. “So when are you coming home?”

“I'm not sure,” I said. “I'm on leave right now, and I'm still fine-tuning a few things with the screenplay.”

“So … will you give birth out there?”

“I don't know,” I said slowly. “I don't think so.”

“Good” was all he said. “We should have breakfast again when you come back.”

“Sure,” I said, feeling a pang for Sam's Morning Glory. There was no place like it out here. “That would be great.” I heard Maxi's car in the garage. “Hey, I've kind of got to run. …”