Good in Bed

by Jennifer Weiner

  “Oh!” said Adrian, sounding like he felt himself to be on firmer ground. “So, your partner’s back there?”

  I laughed. I couldn’t help it. “No partner, either. Just your classic single unwed mother.” I gave him the briefest bare-bones outline of the story: me and Bruce, our breakup and twenty-minute-long reconciliation, the pregnancy, the screenplay, and my flight to California a scant twelve hours ago.

  Adrian nodded, but didn’t ask any questions, and I couldn’t look at him to read his face. I just kept driving. Finally, after a series of twists and turns I knew I couldn’t hope to remember, let alone repeat on my own, we found ourselves parked on a bluff overlooking the ocean. And in spite of the smog, it was magnificent: the smell of salt water, the rhythmic sound of the waves on the shore, the feel of all that water, all that power and motion, so close to us…

  I turned toward Adrian. “Isn’t this great?” I asked. He didn’t answer. “Adrian?”

  No movement. I leaned toward him slowly, like a big-game hunter approaching a lion. He didn’t stir. I edged closer still. “Adrian?” I whispered. No murmured endearments, no inquiries as to the subject of my screenplay, or the nature of my life in Philadelphia. Instead, I heard snoring. Adrian Stadt had fallen asleep.

  I couldn’t help but laugh at myself. It was a classic Cannie Shapiro moment: out on the beach with a gorgeous movie star, with the wind whipping the waves and the moonlight gleaming on the water and a million stars in the sky, and he’s passed out.

  Meanwhile, I was stranded. And getting cold, too, with the wind blowing off the water. I looked in the car in vain for a blanket or a stray sweatshirt. Nothing doing. It was four in the morning, according to the glowing green hands of my watch. I decided I’d give him half an hour, and if he didn’t wake up and start moving I’d… well, I’d figure something out.

  I turned the engine on so I’d have heat, and music from the Chris Isaak CD he had in the CD player. Then I sat back, wishing I’d worn a jacket, keeping one eye on Adrian, who was snoring to beat the band, the other on my watch. It was… well, pathetic, really, but also a little bit funny. My big trip to Hollywood, I thought ruefully. My romance. Maybe I was the kind of girl who deserved to be mocked in magazines, I thought… then I shook my head. I knew how to take care of myself. I knew how to write. And I had one of the things that I wanted most in the world – I’d sold my screenplay. I’d have money, comfort, some measure of fame. And I was in Hollywood! With a movie star!

  I glanced to my right. Said movie star was still not moving. I leaned closer. He was breathing harshly, and his forehead was covered in sweat.

  “Adrian?” I whispered. Nothing. “Adrian?” I said in a normal voice. I didn’t see as much as an eyelid twitch. I bent over and shook his shoulders lightly. Nothing happened. When I let him go he flopped bonelessly back into the bucket seat. Now I was getting worried.

  I slipped one hand into his pocket, trying not to think of the potential tabloid headlines (“Saturday Night! Star Molested by Wannabe Screenwriter!”) and found his cell phone. After a little fumbling, I produced a dial tone. Great. So now what?

  Then it hit me. I reached into my purse and pulled Dr. K’s business card out of my wallet. He’d told us in one Fat Class session that he didn’t sleep much, and was usually in the office by 7 A.M., and it was later than that on the East Coast by now.

  I held my breath and punched his numbers. “Hello?” said his deep voice.

  “Hey, Dr. K. It’s Cannie Shapiro.”

  “Cannie!” he said, sounding happy to hear from me, and not at all alarmed by the fact that I was calling long-distance in what was, for me, the wee hours of the morning. “How was your trip?”

  “Just fine,” I said. “Well, so far so good. Except now I seem to have a problem.”

  “Tell me,” he said.

  “Well, I, um…” I paused, thinking. “I made a new friend,” I said.

  “That’s good,” he said encouragingly.

  “And we’re at the beach, in his car, and he’s kind of passed out, and I can’t get him to wake up.”

  “That’s bad,” he said.

  “Yeah,” I agreed, “and it’s not even the worst date I’ve been on. So normally I’d just let him sleep, except he told me before he’d been drinking and also taking Ecstasy…”

  I paused, and heard nothing. “It’s not what you think,” I said weakly, even though I had no real idea what he was thinking, except that it was probably some combination of my name and words like “flaky.”

  “So he’s passed out?” asked Dr. K.

  “Well, yeah. Basically.” I sighed. “And I thought I was being fairly amusing.”

  “But he’s breathing?”

  “Breathing, but sweating,” I elaborated. “And not waking up.”

  “Touch his face, and tell me how his skin feels.”

  I did. “Hot,” I reported. “Sweaty.”

  “Better than cool and clammy. We don’t want that,” he told me. “Try this. I want you to make a fist…”

  “Done,” I reported.

  “Now rub your knuckles along his sternum. His breastbone. Do it pretty hard… we’re trying to see if he reacts.”

  I leaned over and did as he instructed, pressing hard. Adrian flinched and said a word that might have been “mother.” I re-settled myself in my seat and told Dr. K. what had happened.

  “Very good,” he said. “I think your gentleman caller is going to be just fine. But I think you should do two things.”

  “Go ahead,” I said, tucking the phone under my chin and turning back to Adrian.

  “First, turn him on his side, so in case he does vomit, he won’t be in danger of aspirating any.”

  I nudged Adrian until he was semi-sideways. “Done,” I said.

  “The other thing is just to stay with him,” he said. “Check on him every half hour or so. If he turns cool or starts shaking, or if his pulse becomes irregular, I’d dial 911. Otherwise, he should be fine in the morning. He might feel nauseous, or achy,” he cautioned, “but there won’t be any permanent damage done.”

  “Great,” I said, cringing inwardly as I imagined what the morning would be like, when Adrian woke up with the mother of all hangovers and found himself beside me.

  “You might want to take a washcloth, dip it in cool water, wring it out, and put it on his forehead,” said the doctor. “That is, if you’re feeling merciful.”

  I started laughing. I couldn’t help it. “Thank you,” I said. “Really. Thanks a lot.”

  “I hope things improve,” he said cheerfully. “But it sounds like you’ve got this situation in hand. Will you call me and let me know how it turns out?”

  “Absolutely. Thank you again,” I said.

  “Take care of yourself, Cannie,” he said. “Call if you need anything else.”

  We hung up, and I considered. Washcloth? I looked in the glove compartment and found only a car lease agreement, a few CD jewel boxes, and two pens. I looked in my own purse: lipstick that Garth had given me, wallet, keys, address book, a panty liner that What to Expect When You’re Expecting told me to carry.

  I looked at Adrian. I looked at the panty liner. I figured that what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him, so I got out of the car, made my way carefully to the water, dipped the panty liner, walked back up, and laid it tenderly upon his forehead, trying not to giggle while I did it.

  Adrian opened his eyes. “You’re so sweet,” he slurred.

  “Hey, Sleeping Beauty!” I said. “You’re awake! I was getting worried…”

  Adrian appeared not to hear me. “I bet you’ll be a terrific mother,” he said, and closed his eyes again.

  I smiled, settling myself back in my seat. A terrific mother. It was the first time I’d really thought about it – the actual act of mothering. I’d thought about giving birth, sure, about the logistics of caring for a newborn, too. But I’d never given much consideration to what kind of mother I, Cannie Shapiro, age almost twenty-nine, woul
d be.

  I cupped my hands around my belly as Adrian snored softly beside me. A good mother, I thought, bemused. But what kind? Would I be one of those cool mothers that all the kids in the neighborhood liked, the ones who served sweetened fruit punch and cookies instead of skim milk and fruit, who wore jeans and funky shoes and could actually talk to her kids, instead of just lecture them? Would I be funny? Would I be the kind of mom they’d want to be the room mother, or show up on Career Day? Or would I be one of those worried mothers, always hovering by the door, waiting for my child to come home, always running after it, clutching a sweater, a raincoat, a handful of tissues?

  You’ll be you, said a voice in my head. My own mother’s voice. I recognized it instantly. I would be me. I had no other choice. And that wouldn’t be so bad. I’d done all right by Nifkin, I reasoned. That was something.

  I leaned my head against Adrian’s shoulder, figuring that he wouldn’t mind. And that was when I thought of something else.

  I plucked his phone out of my purse, then dug out the napkin with Maxi’s number, and held my breath until I heard her bright, British, “Hello.”

  “Hey, Maxi,” I whispered.

  “Cannie!” she cried. “Where are you?”

  “On the beach,” I said. “I’m not sure exactly where, but…”

  “You’re with Adrian?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I whispered. “And he’s kind of passed out.”

  Maxi started laughing… and in spite of myself, I started laughing, too. “So help me out. What’s the etiquette here? Do I stay? Do I go? Do I, like, leave him a note?”

  “Where are you, exactly?” asked Maxi.

  I looked around for a sign, for a light, for something. “I remember the last street we were on was Del Rio Way,” I said. “And we’re right on a bluff, maybe twenty-five yards over the water”

  “I know where that is,” Maxi said. “At least, I think I do. It’s where he shot the love scene for Estella’s Eyes.”

  “Great,” I said, trying to remember whether anyone had passed out during that particular scene. “So what should I do?”

  “I’m going to give you directions to my house,” she told me. “I’ll be waiting.”

  Maxi’s directions were perfect, and in twenty minutes’ time we were pulling into the driveway of a small, gray-shingled house on the beach. It was the kind of place I might have picked out, given my druthers, and probably several million dollars.

  Maxi herself was waiting in the kitchen. She’d swapped her dress and updo for a pair of black leggings, a T-shirt, and pigtails, which would have looked ridiculous on 99.9 percent of the female population, but looked adorable on her. “Is he still passed out?”

  “Come see,” I whispered. We walked back to the car where Adrian still lay in the passenger’s seat, his mouth gaping open, his eyes sealed shut, and my panty liner still perched on his forehead.

  Maxi burst out laughing. “What is that?”

  “It was the best I could do,” I said defensively.

  Still giggling, Maxi grabbed a copy of Variety from what I took to be her recycling bin, rolled it up, and poked Adrian in the arm. Nothing. She moved the magazine lower and poked him in the belly. No response.

  “Huh,” said Maxi. “Well, I don’t think he’s dying, but maybe we should bring him inside.”

  Slowly and carefully, with much grunting and giggling, we maneuvered Adrian out of the car and onto Maxi’s living room couch – a gorgeous white leather construction that I very much hoped Adrian would not defile.

  “We should turn him on his side, in case he throws up…” I suggested, and stared at Adrian. “Do you really think he’s okay?” I asked. “He was taking Ecstasy…”

  “He’ll probably be fine,” she said dismissively. “But maybe we should stay with him.” She peered at me. “You must be exhausted.”

  “You, too,” I said. “I’m sorry about this…”

  “Cannie, don’t worry! You’re doing a good deed!”

  She looked at Adrian, then at me. “Slumber party?” she asked.

  “Sounds like a plan,” I said.

  While Maxi went off, presumably to gather bedding material, I took off Adrian’s shoes, then socks. I slid his belt out of its loops, unbuttoned his shirt, pulled off the panty liner and replaced it with a dishtowel I’d found in the kitchen.

  Then while Maxi piled blankets and pillows on the floor, I washed the makeup off my face, struggled into a Maxi-provided T-shirt, and thought of what I could do to make myself useful.

  There was a fireplace in the center of the living room – a perfect-looking, pristine fireplace with a stack of birch logs in the grate in its center. And I knew how to make fires. This was good.

  I couldn’t find newspaper, so I tore pages of Variety, twisted them into pretzels, put them underneath the wood, checked to make sure the flue was open, checked to make sure that the wood was actual wood, and not some decorator’s ceramic critique of wood, then lit a match from the matchbook I’d grabbed at the Star Bar, in hopes of proving to Samantha and Andy and Lucy that I’d actually been there. The paper flared, then the logs started burning, and I rocked back on my heels, satisfied.

  “Wow,” said Maxi, snuggling into her pile of blankets, turning her face toward the fire’s glow. “How’d you learn to do that?”

  “My mother taught me,” I said. She looked at me expectantly, so I told the story… to Maxi, and, I thought, to my baby, too, of how we’d all go fishing on Cape Cod, and how my mother would build a fire to keep us warm… how we’d sit in a circle – my father, my sister, my brother, and me – roasting marshmallows and watching my mother standing in the water, tossing the silvery filament of line out into the gray-black water, with her shorts rolled up and her legs strong and tanned and solid.

  “Good times,” Maxi repeated, rolling over and falling asleep. I lay there for a while, my eyes wide open in the darkness, listening to her deep, quiet breaths and Adrian’s snoring.

  Well, here you are, I told myself. The fire was dying down to embers. I could smell the smoke on my hands and in my hair, and I could hear the waves moving on the shore, and see the sky lightening from black to gray. Here you are, I thought. You Are Here. I cupped my hands around my belly. The baby turned, swimming in her sleep, executing what felt like a backflip. Her, I thought. A girl, for sure.

  I sent out a good-night prayer to Nifkin, who I figured would be fine for one night on his own in a luxury hotel. Then I closed my eyes and conjured my mother’s face over those Cape Cod fires, so happy and at peace. And, feeling happy and at peace myself, I finally fell asleep.

  SIXTEEN

  When I woke up it was 10:30 in the morning. The fire was out. So were Ad rian and Maxi.

  As quietly as I could I made my way to the second floor. Polished hardwood floors, modern maple shelves and dressers, mostly empty. I wondered how Maxi felt, inhabiting and abandoning a series of houses, like a caterpillar casting aside its cocoon. I wondered if it bothered her at all. I knew it would bother me.

  The bathroom brimmed with all manner of plush towels and fancy soaps and shampoos in sample-sized bottles. I took a long, hot shower, brushed my teeth with one of the brand-new, still-wrapped toothbrushes I found in the medicine cabinet, then got dressed in the T-shirt and clean pajama bottoms I’d found in one of the dresser drawers. I was sure I’d need a blow dryer and possibly an assistant to even attempt to replicate what Garth had done to my hair the night before, but I didn’t see either one nearby. So I pulled back sections of my hair, pinning them with the bobby pins, cementing the whole thing with a dime-sized dollop of some rich and delicious-smelling French styling potion. At least that’s what I hoped it was. At my father’s insistence, I’d taken Latin in high school. Useful for acing the SATs, not any good for those mornings after when you found yourself unexpectedly having to translate the names of movie star’s toiletries.

  When I came back downstairs Maxi was still asleep, curled like an adorable kitten on top of
a pile of blankets. But where Adrian had slumbered, there was only a single sheet of notepaper.

  I picked it up. “Dear Cassie,” it began, and I snorted laughter. Well, I thought, at least he was close. And I’d certainly been called worse. “Thank you very much for taking care of me last night. I know that we don’t know each other well…”

  And here I snorted again. Don’t know each other well! We’d barely exchanged five sentences before he’d passed out!

  “… but I know that you’re a kind person. I know you’ll be a wonderful mother. I’m sorry I had to leave in such a hurry, and that I won’t get to see you again any time soon. I’m off to location, in Toronto, this morning. So I hope you’ll enjoy this while you’re in California.”

  This? What was this? I unfolded the note completely, and a silver key fell into what remained of my lap. A car key. “The lease is up next month,” Adrian had written on the back of the piece of paper, along with the name and address of a Santa Monica car dealership. “Drop it off when you’re ready to go home. And enjoy!”

  I got slowly to my feet, walked to the window, and held my breath as I raised the blinds. Sure enough, there was the little red car. I looked from the key in my hand to the car in the driveway, and pinched myself, waiting to wake up and find that this was all a dream… that I was still asleep in my bed in Philadelphia, with a pile of pregnancy planning books on my beside table and Nifkin curled on the pillow next to my head.

  Maxi yawned, rose gracefully off the floor, and came to stand at the window beside me. “What’s going on?” she asked.

  I showed her the car, and the key, and the note. “I feel like I’m dreaming,” I said.

  “Least he could do,” said Maxi. “He’s just lucky you didn’t go through his pockets and take pictures of him naked.”

  I gave her a wide-eyed innocent look. “Was I not supposed to do that?”

  Maxi grinned at me. “Sit tight,” she said. “I’m going to fetch your dog, and then we’ll plan your conquest of Hollywood.”

  I’d expected Maxi’s cupboards to be bare, except maybe for the foods I thought that starlets subsisted on – Altoids, fizzy water, perhaps some spelt or brewer’s yeast or whatever the diet gurus had decreed they should be eating.