Good in Bed

by Jennifer Weiner

  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 oversized T-shirt, which was becoming less oversized 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 had 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 cap-pucinos 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 who 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, sounded 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 amp; 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 were 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 farmer’s 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…”

  “No problem,” he said. “Call me any time.”

  I hung up the phone smiling. I wondered how old he was, really. I wondered if he liked me as more than a patient, as more than just another one of the big girls shuttling in and out of his office, each with her own tale of heartache. And I decided that I’d like to see him again.

  The next morning Maxi proposed another trip.

  “I still can’t believe that you have a plastic surgeon,” I grumbled, heaving myself into the low-slung little car, thinking that only in this city, at this moment in time, would a twenty-seven-year-old actress with perfect features keep a plastic surgeon on retainer.

  “Necessary evil,” Maxi said crisply, powering past several lesser vehicles and zooming into the fast lane.

  The surgeon’s office was a study in gray and mauve, all cool marble floors and glossy walls and even glossier receptionists. Maxi pulled off her oversized sunglasses and had a quiet talk with the woman behind the desk while I strolled, examining the poster-sized photographs of the doctors that lined the wall, wondering which one would have the pleasure of plumping up Maxi’s lips and erasing the invisible lines around her eyes. Dr. Fisher was a Ken doll-looking blond. Dr. Rhodes was a brunette with arched eyebrows who looked about my age, but probably wasn’t. Dr. Tasker was the jovial Santa Claus of the bunch – minus, of course, the roly-poly cheeks and double chin. And Dr. Shapiro…

  I stood there, frozen, staring up at the larger-than-life picture of my father. He was thinner, and he’d shaved off his beard, but it was unquestionably him.

  Maxi strolled over, her heels clicking on the floor. When she saw the look on my face, she grabbed my elbow and led me to a chair. “Cannie, what is it? Is it the baby?”

  I tottered back to the wall on legs that felt like lengths of ossified wood, and pointed. “That’s my dad.”

  Maxi stared at the picture, then at me. “You didn’t know he was out here?” she asked. I shook my head.

  “What should we do?”

  I nodded toward the door and started walking as fast as I could. “Leave.”

  “So that’s what’s become of him,” I said. Maxi and Nifkin and I were out on the deck, drinking raspberry iced tea. “Liposuction in L.A.” I worked my tongue around it, trying the concept on for size. “Sounds like the beginning of a bad joke, doesn’t it?”

  Maxi looked away. I felt sorry for her. She’d never seen me this upset, and she didn’t have any idea of how to help me. And I didn’t know what to tell her.

  “Sit tight,” I said, getting to my feet. “I’m going to go for a walk.”

  I walked down by the water, passed the rollerbladers in bikinis, the volleyball games, the screaming, Popsicle-sticky kids. I passed the vendors on stilts, the piercing parlors, and the four-pairs-for-ten-dollars sock vendors, and the dreadlocked teenagers sitting on park benches, playing their guitars, and homeless people in layers and layers of clothes, splayed like corpses underneath the palm trees.

  As I walked I tried to lay things out in front of me, to organize them, like they were pictures at an exhibition, framed and hung on a gallery wall.

  I pictured my family as it had once been – the five of us on the lawn at Rosh Hashanah, posing in our best clothes: my father with his
beard neatly trimmed and his hands on my shoulder; me with my hair twisted back in barrettes, the barest buds of breasts pushing at the front of my sweater, both of us smiling.

  I pictured us all five years later: my father gone; me, fat and sullen and scared; my mother, frantic; my brother, miserable; and Lucy with her Mohawk and her piercings and late-night telephone callers.

  More pictures: my college graduation. My mother and Tanya, their arms around each other’s shoulders, at their softball league championship game. Josh, six feet tall and thin and solemn, carving a turkey at Thanksgiving. Years of holidays, the four of us arrayed around the dining room table, my mother at the head and my brother opposite her, various boyfriends and girlfriends showing up, fading out, all of us trying hard to look like there was nothing missing there.

  I moved on. There I was, standing proudly in front of my first apartment, holding a copy of my first newspaper story, pointing at the headline “Budget Debate Postponed.” Me and my first boyfriend. Me and my college sweetheart. Me and Bruce in the ocean, laughing at the camera, squinting in the sun. Bruce at a Grateful Dead concert, in a hackey-sack circle, one foot extending in mid-kick, a beer in his hand and his hair flowing loose over his shoulders. Then I made myself step back and move on.

  I stood and let the ocean cool my feet and felt… nothing. Or maybe it was the end of love that I was feeling, the cool empty place that’s left inside you where all that heat and pain and passion used to be, the slick of wet sand after the tide finally rolls back out.

  Okay, I thought. Here you are. You Are Here. And you move forward because that’s the way it works; that’s the only place you can go. You keep going until it stops hurting, or until you find new things to hurt you worse, I guess. And that is the human condition, all of us lurching along in our own private miseries, because that’s the way it is. Because, I guess, God didn’t give us any choice. You grow up, I remembered Abigail telling me. You learn.

  Maxi was sitting on the deck where I’d left her, waiting.

  “We need to go shopping,” I said.