Jennifer Weiner - Good in Bed

“Are you okay?” she asked, and touched my shoulder. I nodded, and turned toward the door.

“I’ll be back later,” I told her. “I’m going for a walk.”

That afternoon, I walked for hours, until the streets, the sidewalks, the buildings turned into a grayish blur. I remember that I bought a Snapple lemonade somewhere, and a few hours later I stopped at a bus station to pee, and I remember that at one point the ankle I’d had the cast on started throbbing. I ignored it. I kept walking. I walked south, then east, through strange neighborhoods, over trolley tracks, past burned-out drug houses, abandoned factories, the slow, brackish twist of the Schuylkill. I thought maybe, somehow, I would walk all the way to New Jersey. Look, I would say, standing in the lobby of Bruce’s high-rise apartment building like a ghost, like a guilty thought, like a wound you’d thought had scabbed over that had suddenly started to bleed. Look at what’s become of me.

I walked and walked until I felt something strange, an unfamiliar sensation. A pain in my foot. I looked down, lifting my left foot, and watched in dumb confusion as the sole slowly peeled off the bottom of my filthy sneaker and flopped onto the street.

A guy sitting on a stoop across the street whooped laughter. “Hey!” he shouted, as I stared stupidly from shoe to sole and back again, trying to make sense of it. “Baby needs a new pair of shoes!”

My baby needs a new pair of lungs, I thought, limping and looking around. Where am I? The neighborhood wasn’t familiar. None of the street names rang any bells. And it was dark. I looked at my watch. 8:30, it said, and for a minute I didn’t know whether it was morning or night. I was sweaty and grimy and exhausted… and lost.

I dug in my pockets, looking for answers, or at least cab fare. I found a five-dollar bill, a fistful of change, and some assorted lint.

I looked for landmarks, for a pay phone, for something.

“Hey,” I called to the guy on the stoop. “Hey, where am I?”

He cackled laughter, rocking back on his heels. “Powelton Village! You in Powelton Village, baby!”

Okay, then. That was a start.

“Which way’s University City?” I called.

He shook his head. “Girl, you lost! You all turned around!” His voice was deep and resonant, and sounded Southern. He lifted himself off his stoop and walked over to me – a middle-aged black man in a white undershirt and khakis. He peered closely at my face. “You sick?” he finally asked.

I shook my head. “Just lost,” I said.

“You go to the college?” he continued, and I shook my head again, and he moved even closer, his expression growing more concerned.

“Are you drunk?” he asked, and I had to smile.

“No, really,” I said. “I just went for a walk and got lost.”

“Well, you better get found,” he said. For one sick, terrifying moment I was absolutely certain he was going to start talking to me about Jesus. But he didn’t. Instead, he took a long, careful inventory of me, from my falling-apart sneakers, up my scabby, bruised shins, to the shorts that I’d folded over twice at the waistband so they wouldn’t slide down off my hips, and the T-shirt I’d been wearing for five days running, and my hair that had grown past my shoulders for the first time in more than a decade, and was doing a sort of impromptu dread-lock thing in the absence of being washed and brushed.

“You need help,” he finally said.

I bowed my head and nodded. Help. This was true. I needed help.

“You got people?”

“I do,” I told him. “I have a baby,” I began, and then my throat closed up.

He raised his arm and pointed. “University City that way,” he said. “You go to the corner of 45th Street, the bus take you straight there.” He dug in his pocket, found a slightly tattered bus transfer pass, and pressed it into my hand. Then he bent and looked at my shoe. “Stay here,” he said. I stood, stock-still, afraid to move so much as a muscle. Afraid of what, exactly, I wasn’t sure.

The man came out of his house with a silver roll of duct tape in his hand. I lifted my foot, and he wrapped tape around and around it, holding the sole in place.

“Be careful,” he said. Keffel, the word sounded like. “You a mother now, you need to be careful.”

“I will,” I said. I started limping off toward the corner he’d pointed at.

As filthy as I was, with duct-taped shoes and tears cutting slow tracks through the grime on my cheeks, nobody spared me so much as a glance on the bus. Everyone was too wrapped up in their own private coming-home-from-work thoughts – dinner, children, what was on TV, the minutiae of normal lives. The bus heaved and groaned its way across town. Things started looking familiar again. I saw the stadium, the skyscrapers, the far-off glimmering white tower of the Examiner building. And then I saw the University of Philadelphia’s Weight and Eating Disorders office, where I’d gone a million years ago. When the only thing I thought I had to worry about was not being thin.

Get found, I thought, and pulled the “Stop Requested” cord so hard I thought for a moment I’d yanked it off. I took an elevator up to the seventh floor, thinking that I’d find all the lights out and the doors locked, wondering why I was even bothering.

But his light was on, and his door was open.

“Cannie!” said Dr. K., beaming. Beaming until he stood up, came around the desk, and got a good whiff of me. And a good look.

“I’m a success story,” I said, and tried to smile. “Look at me! Forty pounds of ugly flab gone in just months!” I swiped one hand across my eyes. “I’m thin,” I said, and started crying. “Yay, me.”

“Sit down,” he said, and closed the door. He put his arm around my shoulders and eased me toward his couch, where I sat, sniffling and pathetic.

“Cannie, my God, what happened to you?”

“I went for a walk,” I began. My tongue felt thick and furry, and my lips felt cracked. “I got lost,” I said. My voice had gone strange and croaky. “I went for a walk, and I got all turned around. I got lost, but now I’m trying to be found.”

He put his hand on my head, stroking gently. “Let me take you home.”

I let him lead me to the elevator, out the door, into his car. On the way out, he stopped at a soda machine and bought a cold can of Coke. I grabbed it without asking and guzzled the whole thing down. He didn’t say a word, not even when I burped hugely. He pulled into a convenience store and came out with a quart of water and an orange Popsicle.

“Thanks,” I rasped, “that’s very nice of you.” I drank the water, sucked on the Popsicle.

“I’ve been trying to call you,” he said. “At work and at home.”

“I’m very busy,” I recited.

“Is Joy home yet?”

I shook my head.

He looked at me. “Are you okay?”

“Busy,” I croaked again. My breasts were aching. I looked down and was unsurprised to see two circular stains beneath the V of sweat from my collarbone down.

“Busy with what?” he asked.

I shut my mouth. I hadn’t really planned any dialogue beyond “busy.”

At a stoplight, he looked over at me, staring at my face. “Are you okay?”

I shrugged. The car behind us honked, but he didn’t move. “Cannie,” he said kindly. A single tear trickled down my cheek. He reached out to brush it away. I jerked back as if I’d been burned.

“No!” I shrieked. “Don’t touch me!”

“Cannie, my God, what’s the matter?”

I shook my head, stared at my lap, where the ruins of the Popsicle were melting. We drove in silence for a while, the car purring beneath us, cool air whispering from the air conditioner over my knees and my shoulders.