Good in Bed (48 page)

“I can believe it, after what you've been through. How is …”

“Joy,” I said. Using her name felt strange … presumptuous somehow, as if I was testing fate by saying it out loud. “She's small, and her lungs are a little underdeveloped, and she's breathing with a ventilator …” I paused and swiped a hand across my eyes. “Also, I had a hysterectomy, and I seem to be crying all the time.”

He cleared his throat.

“Was that too much information?” I asked through my tears.

He shook his head. “Not at all,” he told me. “You can talk to me about anything you want to.”

The black duffel bag practically lurched off his lap. It looked so funny I almost smiled, but it felt as if my face had forgotten how. “Is that a perpetual motion machine in your bag, or are you just glad to see me?”

Dr. K. glanced over his shoulder at the closed door. Then he leaned close to me. “This was kind of a risk,” he whispered, “but I thought …”

He lifted the bag onto the bed and eased the zipper open. Nifkin's nose popped out, followed by the tips of his oversize ears, and then, in short order, his entire body.

“Nifkin!” I said, as Nifkin scrambled onto my chest and proceeded to give my entire face a tongue-bath. Dr. K held him, lifting him clear of my various tubes and attachments, as Nifkin licked away. “How did you … where was he?”

“With your friend Samantha,” he explained. “She's outside.”

“Thank you,” I said, knowing that the words couldn't begin to express how happy he'd made me. “Thank you so much.”

“No problem,” said the doctor. “Here … look. We've been practicing.” He lifted Nifkin and set him on the floor. “Can you see?”

I propped myself up on my elbows and nodded.

“Nifkin …SIT!” said Dr. K., in a voice every bit as deep and authoritative as James Earl Jones's telling the world that this … is CNN. Nifkin's butt hit the linoleum at lightning speed, his tail wagging triple-time. “Nifkin … DOWN!” And down went Nifkin, flat on his belly, looking up at Dr. K. with his eyes sparkling and his pink tongue curled as he panted. “And now, for our final act … PLAY DEAD!” And Nifkin collapsed onto his side as if he'd been shot.

“Unbelievable,” I said. It really was.

“He's a fast learner,” said Dr. K., loading the now-squirming terrier back into the duffel bag. He bent back to me. “Feel better, Cannie,” he said, and rested one of his hands on top of mine.

He walked out and Samantha walked in, hurrying over to my bed. She was in full lawyer garb—a sleek black suit, high-heeled boots, a caramel-colored leather attaché case in one hand and her sunglasses and car keys in the other. “Cannie,” she said, “I came …”

“… as soon as you heard,” I supplied.

“How do you feel?” asked Sam. “How's the baby?”

“I feel okay, and the baby … well, she's in the baby intensive-care place. They have to wait and see.”

Samantha sighed. I closed my eyes. I suddenly felt completely exhausted. And hungry.

I sat up, tucking another pillow behind my back. “Hey, what time is it? When's dinner? You don't have, like, a banana in your purse or something?”

Samantha rose to her feet, grateful, I thought, to have something to do. “I'll go check … hey, what's this?” She pointed at the bakery box that Dr. K. had left behind.

“Don't know,” I said. “Dr. K. brought it. Take a look.”

Sam ripped through the string and opened the box, and there, inside, was an éclair from the Pink Rose Pastry Shop, a wedge of chocolate bread pudding from Silk City, a brownie still in its Le Bus wrapping paper, and a pint of fresh raspberries.

“Unbelievable,” I murmured.

“Yum!” said Samantha. “How does he know what you like?”

“I told him,” I said, touched that he'd remember. “For Fat Class, we had to write down what our favorite foods were.” Sam cut me a sliver of éclair, but it tasted like dust and stones in my mouth. I swallowed to be polite, sipped some water, then told her that I was tired, that I wanted to sleep.

I stayed in the hospital another week, healing, while Joy got bigger and stronger.

Maxi showed up every morning for a week and sat beside me and read from
People, InStyle
, and
Entertainment Weekly
magazines, embroidering each story from her own personal stash of anecdotes. My mother and sister stayed with me in the daytime, making conversation, trying not to linger too long at the pauses that came where I would normally be saying something smart-ass. Samantha came every night after work and regaled me with Philadelphia gossip, about the antiquated former stars Gabby had interviewed and how Nifkin had taken to stopping, mid-walk, and planting himself in front of my apartment building and refusing to budge. Andy came with his wife and a box of Famous Fourth Street chocolate chip cookies and a card that everyone in the newsroom had signed. “Get Well Soon,” it read.
I didn't think that would be happening, but I didn't tell him that.

“They're worried about you,” Lucy whispered when my mother was in the hall, talking about something with the nurses.

I looked at her and shrugged. “They want you to talk to a psychiatrist.”

I said nothing. Lucy looked very serious. “It's Dr. Melburne,” she said. “I had her for a while. She's horrible. You better cheer up and start talking more, or else she's going to ask you about your childhood.”

“Cannie doesn't have to talk if she doesn't want to,” said my mother, pouring a cup of ginger ale that nobody would drink. She straightened my flowers, plumped my pillows for the fourteenth time, sat down, then got up again, looking for something else to do. “Cannie can just rest.”

Three days later, Joy took her first breaths without the ventilator.

Not out of the woods yet, the doctors warned me. Have to wait and see. She could be fine, or things could go wrong, but probably she'll be okay.

And they let me hold her, finally, lifting up her four-pound-six-ounce body and cradling her close, running my fingertips over each of her hands, each fingernail impossibly small and perfect. She clutched at my finger fiercely with her own tiny ones. I could feel the bones, the push of her blood beneath her skin. Hang on, I thought to her. Hang in there, little one. The world is hard a lot of the time, but there're good things here, too. And I love you. Your mother loves you, baby Joy.

I sat with her for hours until they made me go back to bed, and before I left, I filled out her birth certificate, and my handwriting was clear and firm. Joy Leah Shapiro. The Leah was for Leonard, Bruce's father's middle name. Leah, the second sister, the one Jacob didn't want to marry. Leah, the trick bride, the one her father sent down the aisle in disguise.

“I bet Leah had a more interesting life anyhow,” I whispered to my baby, holding her hand, with me in my wheelchair and her in her glass box that I forced myself not to see as a coffin. “I bet Leah went on hiking trips with her girlfriends and had popcorn and margaritas for dinner,
if that's what she wanted. I'll bet she went swimming naked and slept under the stars. Rachel probably bought Céline Dion CDs and those Franklin Mint collectible plates. She was probably boring, even to herself. She never went on an adventure, never took a chance. But you and me, baby, we're going to go on adventures. I will teach you how to swim, and how to sail, and how to build a fire … everything my mother taught me, and everything else I've learned.” Just make it out of here, I thought, as hard as I could. Come home, Joy, and we'll both be fine.

Two days later, I got part of my wish. They sent me home, but decided to keep Joy. “Just for another few weeks,” said the doctor, in what I'm sure he imagined was a comforting tone. “We want to make sure that her lungs are mature … and that she's gained enough weight.”

I burst into bitter laughter at that one. “If she takes after her mother,” I announced, “that shouldn't be a problem. She'll gain weight like a champ.”

The doctor gave me what he no doubt believed was a comforting pat on the shoulder. “Don't worry,” he said. “Things should be fine.”

I limped out of the hospital, blinking in the warm May sunshine, and eased myself into my mother's car, sitting quietly as we drove back home. I saw the leaves, the fresh green grass, the St. Peter's schoolgirls in crisp plaid jumpers. I saw, but didn't see. To me, the whole world looked gray. It was as if there was no room inside of me for anything except fury and fear.

My mother and Lucy unloaded my bags from the trunk and walked me to my building. Lucy carried my bags. My mother walked slowly beside me, and Tanya huffed behind us. My leg muscles felt wobbly and underused. My stitches ached, my ankle itched in its walking cast. It turned out that I'd only sprained my ankle when I'd fallen, but nobody had thought to look at my legs until days later, so the foot had stayed bent, and the tendons had stayed torn, which meant a walking cast for six weeks: small potatoes, in relation to everything else I was dealing with.

I fumbled through my purse. My wallet, the half-empty pack of
chewing gum, a ChapStick, and a book of matches from the Star Bar looked like relics from another life. I was groping for my keys when Lucy put her key into the first-floor door.

“I don't live here,” I said.

“You do now,” said Lucy. She was beaming at me. My mother and Tanya were, too.

I limped across the threshold, my cast thumping on the hardwood floors, and stepped inside, blinking.

The apartment—a twin of mine up on the third floor, all dark wood and circa 1970s fixtures—had been transformed.

Sunlight streamed in from windows that hadn't been there before, sparkling on the pristine, polished maple floors that had been neither pristine nor polished nor maple when I'd last seen the place.

I walked slowly into the kitchen, moving as if I were underwater. New cabinets stained the color of clover honey. In the living room were a new couch and love seat, overstuffed and comfortable, upholstered in buttery yellow denim—pretty, but sturdy, I remembered telling Maxi as I pointed out things I coveted in the latest issue of
Martha Stewart Living
one lazy afternoon. A beautiful woven rug in garnet and dark blue and gold covered the floor. There was a flat-screen TV and a brand-new stereo in the corner, stacks of brand-new baby books on the shelves.

Lucy was practically dancing, beside herself with joy. “Can you believe it, Cannie? Isn't it amazing?”

“I don't know what to say,” I told her, moving down the hall. The bathroom was unrecognizable. The Carter administration-era pastel wallpaper, the ugly dark wood vanity, the cheap stainless steel fixtures, and the cracked toilet bowl—all gone. Everything was white tile, with gold and navy accents. The tub was a whirlpool bath, with two showerheads, in case, I guessed, I wanted to bathe with a partner. There were new glass-fronted cabinets, fresh lilies in a vase, a profusion of the thickest towels I ever felt, stacked on a brand-new shelf. A tiny white tub for giving the baby a bath sat on one counter, along with an assortment of bath toys, little sponges cut into the shapes of animals, and a family of rubber duckies.

“Wait until you see the baby's room!” Lucy crowed.

The walls were painted Lemonade Stand yellow, just the way I'd done them upstairs, and I recognized the crib that Dr. K. had put together. But the rest of the furniture was new. I saw an ornate changing table, a dresser, a white wood rocking chair. “Antiques,” Tanya breathed, running one thick fingertip along the curved whitewashed wood that was tinged very faintly pink. There were framed pictures on the walls—a mermaid swimming in the ocean, a sailboat, elephants marching two by two. And in the corner was what looked like the world's smallest branch of Toys “R” Us. There was every toy I'd ever seen, plus a few I hadn't. A set of building blocks. Rattles. Balls. Toys that talked, or barked, or cried, when you squeezed them, or pulled their strings. The exact same rocking horse I'd admired in a shop in Santa Monica two months ago. Everything.

I sank slowly down into the yellow denim love seat, underneath the hanging mobile of delicate stars and clouds and crescent moons, next to a three-foot-high Paddington Bear.

“There's more,” said Lucy.

“You won't even believe it,” said my mother.

I wandered back to the bedroom. My plain metal bedframe had been replaced with a magnificent wrought-iron canopy bed. My pink sheets had been swapped for something gorgeous—rich stripes of white and gold, tiny pink flowers.

“That's two-hundred-thread-count cotton,” Lucy boasted, ticking off the merits of my new linens, pointing out the pillow shams and dust ruffle, the hand-knotted carpet (yellow, with a border of pink roses) on the floor, opening the closet to show off yet more of the pinkish-whitewashed antique furniture—a nine-drawer dresser, a bedside table topped with a gorgeous spray of daffodils in a blue ginger jar.

“Open the blinds,” said Lucy.

I did. There was a new deck outside the bedroom window. There was a big clay pot of geraniums and petunias, benches and a picnic table, a gas grill the size of a Volkswagen Bug in the corner.

I sat down—collapsed, really—onto the bed. There was a tiny
card on the pillow, the kind you'd get with a bouquet of flowers. I slid it open with my thumbnail.

“Welcome home,” it read on one side. “From your friends,” said the other.

My mother and Lucy and Tanya stood in a line, regarding me, waiting to hear my approval.

“Who …” I started. “How …”

“Your friends,” said Lucy impatiently.

“Maxi?”

The three of them exchanged a sneaky look.

“Come on, you guys. It's not like I've got other friends who could afford all this.”

“We couldn't stop her!” Lucy said.

“Really, Cannie, that's true,” said my mother. “She wasn't taking no for an answer. She knows all of these contractors … she hired a decorator to find you all these things … there were people working in here, like, around the clock …”