The Big Nap

by Ayelet Waldman

  It was almost eleven o’clock when Peter and I were ready to go. I hugged my new best friend, extended a warm if somewhat phony thanks to Miraculous Mindy, and went in search of Anat. I found her in the kitchen, washing dishes with another young woman in a caterer’s jacket.

  “Anat,” I said. She turned to look at me. “We’re heading home,” I continued. “You have my number in case anything comes up.”

  “I have it,” she replied. “Bye.”

  “Bye.” As I was heading out the door I heard the second girl murmur something in Hebrew. Anat shrugged her shoulders in reply.

  When Peter and I got home we found Ruby and Isaac asleep in their respective beds and Angelika lying stretched out on the couch. She jumped up when we came in.

  “How were they?” I asked.

  “Great! Really great,” she answered. “Ruby’s a doll. She worked on her project for the longest time and then she helped clean up everything without my even asking. She took a bath and didn’t cry when I washed her hair. The baby slept for most of the evening, although he was up for the last hour or so. He crashed just about ten minutes ago.”

  Peter turned around and started walking back down the stairs.

  “Hey!” I called. “Where are you going?”

  “Home,” he answered. “This is not our house.”

  “So, Angelika, what are you doing for the next, oh, eighteen years?” I asked.

  I pressed some money into the girl’s hand, over her strenuous objections. The only way I got her to accept it was by insisting that if she didn’t take money from us I would feel uncomfortable asking her to baby-sit again. Peter walked her to her car and when he came back into the house, he found me lying in our bed. I’d somehow managed to cram myself into a black satin teddy he’d bought me as an anniversary present the year after we’d had Ruby. He crossed the room in about two steps and scooped me up in his arms. Then, we did something we hadn’t done more than a couple of times since Isaac was born. And it was wonderful. Maybe, I thought, things were getting back to normal.

  Ten

  INSPIRED by my invigorating night, I decided that Isaac and I were going to get back into shape. I dressed him in his cutest outfit, a blue velour number with a purple collar and matching purple socks. I dressed myself in a less cute pair of leggings and a huge, ancient T-shirt of Peter’s that said “Starfleet Academy” on the front and “Cadet” on the back. After dropping Ruby off at school, Isaac and I drove to Santa Monica to Yoga on Montana, the yoga studio where I’d done prenatal yoga during my pregnancy. I’ve always enjoyed yoga, particularly the position called savasana, which consists of lying on your back on the floor without moving, and I’d really meant to start doing it again as soon as the baby was born. The road to Weight Watchers is paved with good intentions.

  I pulled into the parking lot and squeezed my Volvo station wagon in between a Mercedes wagon and a Land Rover. The Mercedes had a child’s car seat in the back and a bumper sticker that read “My Child Made the Honor Roll at the Oakville School.” The Land Rover sported a bumper sticker with the slogan “My Kid Beat Up Your Honor Student.” In Los Angeles people sometimes just let their cars do their fighting for them.

  I walked into the class with Isaac balanced on my hip. He stared around the room, which was filled with other babies and their mothers. His eyes widened and he began to giggle. I wasn’t sure what exactly had tickled his fancy, but I didn’t care. I was just relieved that we seemed to be getting off to a good start. Maybe we could do this exercise thing after all. Grabbing a yoga mat for myself and a blanket for Isaac, I found myself a place on the floor. I rolled one end of the blanket and propped Isaac up on the roll. He smiled at me and I smiled back. Then I looked around the room. All the good cheer drained out of me as I realized the truth. I was a hippo in a herd of gazelles.

  Yoga on Montana is very popular with the Hollywood crowd. The classes are usually chock-full of actresses, agents, and studio executives. Looking good is a primary occupation for these women, so, unsurprisingly, each and every member of my parental class had looked like a toothpick with an olive stuck on it. Now it was obvious that they’d all managed to get back to their pre-pregnancy weight before they’d even left the hospital.

  I tucked my stomach in and tried to refrain from doing a self-hating body-fat comparison with every woman in the room. It was a challenge. And I failed. But who can blame me? As soon as I sat down I heard a minuscule blonde a few mats down from me say, “My trainer measured the circumference of my thighs the day I told him I was pregnant. It was sixteen inches. We remeasured every week throughout my pregnancy, and if it went up at all, we modified my workout regime and carb intake to deal with it.” She gave her perfectly dyed hair a toss and patted her perfectly flat, lycra-enclosed belly. Her baby, also blond and about two months old, chose that moment to belch. At least I knew someone in that family was human.

  A gamine-faced redhead with a made-over nose sitting next to the blonde squealed, “What a totally awesome idea! I can’t believe I didn’t think to do that! What was your final measurement?”

  The blonde looked confused. “Final? What do you mean final? I told you. We never allowed it to increase.”

  At this point I glanced down at my legs. My ankles had a circumference of sixteen inches. I moved a little so that my legs were out of the stick figures’ line of sight.

  A third woman, wearing a leotard and tights in an acid green that perfectly matched both her headband and her son’s jumpsuit, leaned over excitedly. “My secret was to have a nutritionist work with our cook so that every morsel that passed my lips was carefully vetted for fat and caloric content. I’m still doing it. Before we go out to eat, I have the restaurant fax the nutritionist a menu so that she can decide what I’m going to order. It’s been working out so well. I only gained fourteen pounds in my entire pregnancy and I lost that within two weeks!”

  The two others positively cooed in admiration.

  I was just about ready to gather up my baby and head for the nearest Dunkin’ Donuts when the instructor walked into the room. Valerie was actually a human being, with a stomach and legs instead of the washboard and pencils that were de rigueur in her classes. She was certainly not fat, but her body had a heft to it. Her muscles were strong and obvious and her belly looked round and soft. She was incredibly sexy, although I was sure that the other women in the class probably couldn’t see that, since their ideal of physical attractiveness hovered somewhere between Kate Moss and Bergen-Belsen.

  “Hello, ladies; hello, babies. Let’s start with a meditation.”

  Isaac and I had a terrific time, despite my generalized misanthropy and tremendous feelings of insecurity. I did my Downward Dog and Warrior Stance with a flexibility that surprised the heck out of me. Isaac stared happily around and chewed on his blanket. At one point, Valerie picked him up and perched him on a big rubber ball, gently bouncing him up and down. About twenty minutes into the class I managed to forget about the way I looked and just enjoy the feeling of having my body move again. My muscles felt sore and kind of achy, but in a good way.

  After the class was over, I picked up an oversized Smoothie made with blueberries and bananas and loaded Isaac into the car. I backed out of my parking space, missing the Mercedes in the next spot by a rather terrifying half an inch, and pulled onto Montana and headed for home. I’d been driving about five minutes when I began thinking about Fraydle again. Keeping my eyes on the road, or trying to, I groped in my bag for my cell phone. I spent a frustrating minute trying to remember what number I’d entered for Al Hockey on my speed-dial. I had no idea, but decided to take a stab at number 3. It seemed as likely as any other number. I got my mother instead.

  “Hello?”

  “Mom? Damn it.”

  “Juliet? What damn it?” she said, obviously a little confused about why her daughter would be calling and swearing at her.

  “Nothing. I just meant to dial another number. I got you by accident.”

  �
�Of course. Why should you ever call your mother on purpose, God forbid?” Were we really having this conversation or was this a scene from a Woody Allen movie? My mother and I have always had a complicated relationship. We spend almost as much time talking to each other as we spend complaining about each other. I hold her responsible for all my various neuroses, and she holds herself responsible for all my good qualities. We fight constantly, but that never seems to keep us from being completely and totally wrapped up in one another’s lives. I’ve been known to call her from a department store to describe an outfit so that she can weigh in on whether I should buy it. I never take her advice.

  “Oh, Mom. Please. I call you all the time.”

  “When? When do you call me?”

  “Yesterday! I talked to you yesterday.”

  “Yesterday? I called you yesterday. You did not call me.”

  “Oh what difference does that make? I talked to you yesterday. Anyway, Ma, I’ve got to go. I have to talk to Al Hockey.”

  “That nice man you used to work with? Why? Are you going back to work?” She sounded excited. No one had been more surprised than my mother when I’d quit work to stay home with my kids. For months she treated me to long, tearful conversations about my betrayal of everything she and her fellow bra-burners had suffered in order to make it possible for me to have the opportunities that I was throwing away so blithely. She reminded me of how she had always wanted to be a lawyer and had had to satisfy herself with a career as a legal secretary because she’d married so young and had to work to put my dad through school. She wept about my lost chance to make it to the United States Supreme Court.

  “No. I’m not going back to work. Al is just helping me out with something.”

  “Helping you? With what? Oh, darling. Tell me you’re not trying to get yourself shot again!” In the wake of the rather terrifying end to my last experience with private detection my mother had made me swear never to do anything like that as long as she lived.

  “Give me a break, Ma. Okay? I’m not trying to get shot. I never tried to get shot to begin with. My baby-sitter ran away from home and Al is helping me find her. That’s all.”

  “Your baby-sitter? Who knew you had a baby-sitter? I didn’t, that’s for sure. Why’d she run away?”

  “I have no idea. Anyway, I have to go. I’ve got to call Al.”

  “When are we going to see you, Juliet? I wish we could come to California, but we can’t leave Bubba.”

  “How is she?”

  “Not so great. I don’t think she’s going to last long, honey. You should visit soon.”

  “I’m going to get there. I promise.” I wasn’t so sure that my grandmother wouldn’t, in fact, live forever. She’d turned ninety-five the year before and gave no signs of throwing in the towel any time soon. “It’s just a bad time for us, what with Peter’s TV pilot. He’s working all the time nowadays. There’s just no way he can take the time off.”

  “So, you come. You come and bring my babies with you. It’ll be a vacation for you. Daddy and I will take care of them, and you’ll just relax. What could be better?”

  “I’ll think about it, Ma. Okay? I’ve really got to go.”

  “Okay, darling. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

  I hung up the phone and sighed. I knew I should visit my grandmother. And it would be lovely to have my mother help me with the kids. I’d been pretty disappointed when she’d decided that she couldn’t leave Bubba to come stay with us after Isaac was born. When I’d had Ruby, my mother had taken a leave of absence from her job and showed up in our apartment within hours of the birth. She cooked and cleaned for us for a solid month. It had been bliss and I’d really missed her this time around.

  I gave up on my pathetic attempts to remember Al’s number and called Directory Assistance. What is it about motherhood that causes women to get so dense? I used to be one of those organized people who could remember names, numbers, and even the occasional birthday. Now I was the kind of person who answered the door naked. It was as if every contraction had killed off a few hundred thousand brain cells. By the time both babies were out, I was left with the IQ of a ficus.

  Al was out of the office when I called, but the receptionist put me through to his cell phone.

  “Hey, Detective!” he greeted me.

  “Cute. So, anything?”

  “Nope. Nothing. One Jane Doe turned up in the past three days, but she’s middle-aged and African-American. Not yours, I take it.”

  “Not mine. Mine’s young and white.”

  “So you said. Anyway, I told my old sergeant to keep me posted if he hears anything. What else can I do for you?”

  “Nothing right now, Al, but I might be calling you soon.”

  “I’ll be expecting it.”

  At that moment I pulled into the intersection of Beverly Boulevard and Santa Monica. Home was to the right, but I continued straight and turned onto Melrose. I had an hour before I had to pick up Ruby. Just enough time to check out Yossi’s apartment. Maybe I’d luck out and find Fraydle there.

  I cruised down Melrose Avenue and started looking for a parking space as soon as I saw Anat and Yossi’s building. After a frustrating few minutes, I pulled into the parking lot of a Baby Gap. I slipped on Isaac’s Baby Bjorn and, after scraping off some mysterious yellow gunk that had managed to adhere itself to the front, strapped him into it facing outward. He immediately began fussing, so I slipped my pinky into his mouth. Sucking vigorously, he quieted down. I walked briskly by the sign informing me that cars belonging to those other than Gap customers would be promptly towed. I was about to head down Melrose Avenue when I heard a terrifying trumpeting sound.

  “Isaac! Are you kidding?” I pulled my smelly son out of his Baby Bjorn and held him at arm’s length. The little wretch had managed to burst through his diaper yet again. I looked back at the car. I’d remembered Barney tapes. I’d remembered diapers. I’d remembered wipes. I’d even brought the Baby Bjorn. But I’d forgotten a spare outfit. Once again, my place in the pantheon of bad mothers was assured.

  Still holding Isaac out in front of me, I hustled into the Baby Gap and was immediately greeted by a smiling Gen-Xer. I responded to her “Hi! How are you?” with a wave of my malodorous child. She pointed to someone whose job actually consisted of helping people and not just welcoming them. I balanced Isaac precariously on my hip, trying to touch as little of his body as possible, reached into my purse, and tossed my credit card at the salesclerk.

  “What can I get for you?” she asked.

  “Something clean,” I said.

  She directed me to a bathroom where I stripped the baby down and washed him in the sink. I looked at what had once been my favorite baby outfit, now stained a horrifying shade of yellow, and debated throwing it out. I couldn’t bring myself to part with it, so I shoved it into a sanitary napkin disposal bag and hid that in the bottom of my diaper bag.

  Isaac and I found our salesclerk standing at the register holding a miniature pair of jeans, a rugby shirt, and matching socks. I dressed the baby, using my teeth to tear the price tags off. I handed the damp pieces of paper back to the be-pierced salesclerk, who gingerly scanned them into the register. We were in and out in less than five minutes. And we managed to spend less than seventy dollars. A miracle.

  From the outside, the building where I hoped to find Fraydle hiding out was fairly nondescript. It was Spanish-style in the way that most Los Angeles houses of the 1930s are, that is to say it was stucco with wrought-iron railings. The façade was thickly covered in ivy that had been inelegantly hacked away from the windows. The entry was through an archway whose stone-faced interior walls were covered in brightly colored graffiti, some of it in Hebrew.

  Isaac and I passed under the arch and into a courtyard. Once, it must have been beautiful. A stone fountain dominated the center of the yard. In its large oval pond, a mermaid balanced on her tail, her face raised to the sky. Her nose was chipped off, and there was a rusted pipe poking out of
the top of her head. At one time water probably cascaded down in a lovely mist. Now, the bone-dry pond was filled with cigarette butts and the odd beer bottle.

  The ground-floor apartments opened out into the courtyard, two on each side. The tenants of each of the eight apartments were obviously responsible for taking care of the area immediately in front of their front doors. One had decorated carefully, with colorful flowers growing in large tubs and a pair of Adirondack chairs. Most of the others had at least a folding lawn chair or two. One or two were barren of porch accessories.

  In the back corner of the courtyard, I noticed a flight of stairs leading up to the second-floor apartments. These were accessible by a long exterior hallway, like a wraparound porch, that circled the second floor.

  Number 4 had in front of it a pair of beat-up lounge chairs with webbing that might have once been red but had faded to a rusty pink. There was a green window box propped against the wall next to the door and a tomato plant climbed out of the box and up the wall. I glanced down at Isaac. He had spat out my finger and was busily sucking on the folded front of his Baby Bjorn. I kissed the top of his head and knocked on the door to Yossi’s apartment.

  Within moments the door opened. Yossi stood there wearing only a pair of low-slung jeans. His bare chest was covered with a thatch of black hair that thinned down to a line as it crept down his flat stomach into the top of his pants. The button of his jeans was undone. It was everything I could do not to stare at him. It had been a while since I’d seen a bared twenty-something chest in the flesh. I looked up into his blue eyes. He didn’t look particularly happy to see me.

  “Hi,” I said.

  “She is not here.”

  “But she’s been here before.”