Bed Rest

by Sarah Bilston

In the air, unsaid, was our shared knowledge of Lara’s pregnancy. Mark will be back here in five months to meet his own son, a child who will enter the world one parent down, so to speak. I know Tom was thinking the same thing, because when he took Samuel from Mark he gave our little boy a surreptitious kiss on the head and held him extra close.

  As Mark, Tom, and I talked about the birth, about breast-feeding, about the curious mixture of elation and exhaustion that succeeds the arrival of a child, Brianna seemed uncomfortable. Eventually she lapsed into a distressed silence. I tried to talk to her about things she could discuss—work, friends—but her eyes kept turning wistfully to Mark’s preoccupied face (“After Edward’s birth Lara could barely stand for a week, it’s appalling to see the woman you love in so much pain, but at least Ed was a placid kid, not like Lucy, who howled from the moment her head popped out”). I told Brianna we’d take her out for a meal soon to thank her for her friendship and support these last few months, but I’m not sure she even heard me. They left us after half an hour in two very separate worlds.

  Fay was next. “Just in between clients, shouldn’t be here really, but I wanted to give you this”—this being a ridiculously enormous bouquet of hothouse flowers tied with a blue satin ribbon—“from the office. And to tell you we’re looking forward to having you back, of course.”

  Of course.

  “And to say that Randalls are folding like a pack of fucking—ah, Tom!”—as Tom arrived back with a fresh pitcher of ice water—“ahem, well, Q, you’ll hear it all from your friends, no doubt, but I think you’re going to approve of how that little matter has resolved itself. Incidentally when you get back to work we should talk about your pro bono cases, I’m willing to make space for you to take on more in the future. But look, I must get back, I have to file these goddam papers—where the hell’s my briefcase—”

  And off she went, into her own busy, lonely little world.

  Ten minutes later, while I was in the middle of trying to force my left nipple into Samuel’s resisting mouth, Mrs. G and Alexis appeared. Mrs. G watched the two of us fighting ineffectually for a few moments, then walked over, squeezed my nipple into a bullet shape, and rubbed it along Samuel’s upper lip. He opened his mouth like a tiny baby bird and clamped down hard; a few seconds later I heard a swallowing sound. Once upon a time I might have found someone’s grabbing my nipple a touch intrusive, but today, after sixteen hours of struggling to feed my child myself, I felt only gratitude. Alexis stared with the appearance of great interest at something out the window while my son nourished himself.

  Mrs. G settled down onto the plastic chair beside me and produced a box of chocolates and a paper plate of Greek spoon sweets. Then, when Samuel slipped off my breast into a milky coma, she enfolded me in an enormous hug and told me her friends in the building opposite are saved—or, at least, that Randalls has begun to make some exorbitant buyout offers. Some of the tenants, she tells me, are likely to accept immediately, in order to put the whole experience at an end; others are talking about fighting to get more. But whatever happens, and whether the building is ultimately demolished or not, the rent-regulated tenants are going to get enough money out of this to find good accommodations for the rest of their lives. “And I know I have to thank you,” Mrs. G said solemnly. “You do this. You sweet girl. You know, they make me good offer too, they want my place, and I think I’m gonna take it, move to the country, you know? I’m pretty tired of all this. Buy myself nice place, cook, enjoy my days. I miss you, though!”

  And I’m going to miss her. She’s my best—only—friend in the neighborhood. We hugged each other again, and she dropped a kiss on Samuel’s cheek as she left. Alexis smiled vaguely at me as he backed out the door; I watched him go with a feeling of some regret. I quite enjoyed ogling him these last few weeks, and I don’t suppose I’ll see much of him once Mrs. G’s gone. He’ll be one of those people you smile at cheerily on the street, until one day you don’t anymore. Mind you, I thought to myself, as my husband uncrossed his legs and rose with a smile from his perch on the hospital windowsill, now that’s what I call a bulge…

  Lara came an hour later, Edward and Lucy in tow. She looked wan, her cheeks hollow. “He’s a beautiful baby, Q, I’m so pleased everything worked out okay,” she said. “Your mother has been fantastic, she brought me dinner these last two nights, which is totally amazing, given that she has a new grandson, and she even offered to help me with the shopping. You’re lucky to have someone like that, you know. My mother barely notices my existence, never did. Lucy, stop pulling Edward’s pants down—for Chrissakes, stop it! Have you guys seen Mark? No, I shouldn’t ask that, I’m sorry—LUCY! I’ve told you once already! He called me last night to say that he and the girl plan to get married as soon as our divorce is through. Hard to hear your husband talking about marrying someone else. I’m sorry, Tom, I probably shouldn’t criticize your friend, but I don’t know if I can bear—LUCY! STOP IT! I should go, they’re getting hungry again, and it’s been a hard couple of weeks for them. I’ll come and see you when you get home, that is if you don’t mind, maybe you’d rather just see Mark in the future—?”

  Tom and I both hastily assured her that we would stay friends with her, although truthfully I wonder if we will. It’s hard to be friends with the spouse you were less close to when a couple separates. But still, remembering my mother’s words, I told her if she needed someone to be with her during labor I’d be happy to partner her. She thanked me, although I’m not sure she really heard what I said because Lucy had finally managed to get Edward’s pants down and was trying to stuff ice cubes into the legs.

  Jeanie and Alison have both called in the last few hours to say congratulations. Jeanie put Dave on the phone for a few moments, and we exchanged grudging civilities; Alison put Serena and Geoffrey on the line and—well, I did my best to be nice to them. You have a new cousin, I told them, and he’s going to enjoy playing with you very much. You’re all going to be very, very good friends.

  My mother spent much of the day here, although she periodically beetled off to do odds and ends of shopping. (“You’ll want to come back to a well-stocked fridge, Q, and I’m hoping to get some meals in the freezer for you for after I’ve gone. I know I’m not a brilliant cook, but you’ll be pleased to have a few spare veggie cobblers, won’t you?”) She did cause a mild fracas at one point by accusing a nurse of mishandling Samuel—“I’m sorry, dear, but she wasn’t supporting his head properly, what would you have me do? Sit still and watch my grandson’s neck get broken?”—but apart from that she has behaved in an exemplary fashion. It can’t last, of course.

  Peter and Lucille phoned a few hours ago to say they’re on their way up from Baltimore to see us later this evening—“Peter has a tremendous amount of work this week, really, you’ve no idea, but he’s going to make time to come up and see the—what is this, let me think, ah yes, his fourth grandchild,” Lucille told me, blandly (lest I should flatter myself that I’m a bigger fixture in Peter’s mental landscape than I really am). “But we knew you’d be desperately disappointed if we couldn’t make it to see you and the little one, so we’re pulling out all the stops—” Tom took over the phone just as I was starting to choke. “Really, Mom, it’s fine, we won’t be offended if—no, but Mom, you see—really—yes, okay, okay. Yes. We’ll see you at nine, then. Great.” He put down the phone with such a chagrined expression, I laughed. Lightly, happily. Peter and Lucille—bring them on. I can deal with them. Tom will have to tell them about Crimpson, he’ll have to explain he’s not making partner—but not today. We’ve agreed, it won’t be today. Maybe we’ll go a very long, long way away first (one of the Poles, perhaps), and then we’ll call them.

  Tom and I sit here and stare at Samuel, then at each other, and we look into the future. I don’t know where we will go from here. We haven’t talked about the kind of job he wants next, and we haven’t begun to discuss my career. Where will we be a year from now? Will we still be living in Manhattan, r
aising our son while juggling two crazy professions? Or will we finally move to the ’burbs and turn our fantasy of Viking stove–ownership into reality? Or will we take a huge cut in pay, go somewhere totally new, and cultivate a slower way of life and perhaps a small vegetable garden? I don’t know. But for the first time in months, when I look ahead, I see the three of us living together, and I like what I see. I’m putting a new item on the Modern Woman’s List of Things to Do Before Hitting Thirty. Don’t get too hung up on getting the boxes checked. Let the future take care of itself. ()

  I listen to my son breathe. In, out. In, out. His chest rises and falls. I trace the tiny veins in his wrists that carry blood through his body, to his lungs, to his heart. I watch his eyelids flicker, his nostrils twitch. I nuzzle his ears, an incomprehensibly delicate arrangement of skin and cartilage. I pull his curled-up body, light and warm and wrinkly pink, into my arms, where he fits perfectly, like a cup in a saucer. And I think to myself—I created him! I did it!

  acknowledgments

  Thanks to Daniel Markovits and Sharon Volckhausen, who provided incredibly helpful suggestions and advice on law firm life and landlord-tenant law. Daniel read and commented on about seventeen drafts of this novel, encouraged me to write it in the first place, and (as always) sustained me throughout. My mother, Barbara, has also helped me more than I can say.

  In addition I want to thank my agents, Kathy Anderson at Anderson Grinberg and Kevin Conroy Scott at Conville and Walsh, for their superb guidance over the past few years. I’m indebted to Benjamin Markovits for his thoughtful and practical advice on writing and publishing, and to Sheila Fisher and my colleagues at Trinity College for generously granting me leave to work on the book and for providing such a happy and stimulating work environment.

  Finally, I want to thank Alison Callahan, Jeanette Perez, and everyone at HarperCollins for their wonderful editorial guidance and warm, unstinting support.

  About the Author

  Sarah Bilston, originally from England, is married to an American and teaches at Trinity College in Hartford. Bed Rest is her first novel, and she is at work on the sequel, Sleepless Nights. She lives in Connecticut.

  www.BedRestDiary.com

  www.SarahBilston.com

  Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.

  Credits

  Jacket illustration by Helen Chapman

  Copyright

  Excerpt from “This Be the Verse” from Collected Poems by Philip Larkin. Copyright © 1988, 2003 by the Estate of Philip Larkin. Reprinted by permission of Farrar, Straus, and Giroux, LLC.

  BED REST. Copyright © 2006 by Sarah Bilston. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books™.

  HarperCollins e-books™ and the HarperCollins e-books™ logo are trademarks of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc.

  Mobipocket Reader April 2006 ISBN 0-06-117183-2

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Bilston, Sarah.

  Bed rest / by Sarah Bilston.—1st ed.

  p. cm.

  ISBN-10: 0-06-088993-4 (acid-free paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-0-06-088993-7

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  About the Publisher

  Australia

  HarperCollins Publishers (Australia) Pty. Ltd.

  25 Ryde Road (PO Box 321)

  Pymble, NSW 2073, Australia

  http://www.perfectbound.com.au

  Canada

  HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.

  55 Avenue Road, Suite 2900

  Toronto, ON, M5R, 3L2, Canada

  http://www.perfectbound.ca

  New Zealand

  HarperCollinsPublishers (New Zealand) Limited

  P.O. Box 1

  Auckland, New Zealand

  http://www.harpercollins.co.nz

  United Kingdom

  HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.

  77-85 Fulham Palace Road

  London, W6 8JB, UK

  http://www.uk.perfectbound.com

  United States

  HarperCollins Publishers Inc.

  10 East 53rd Street

  New York, NY 10022

  http://www.perfectbound.com