Jennifer Weiner - Good in Bed

Samantha offered to let us stay with her. She’d take leave from work, she said, she had weeks built up, she’d do whatever it took to get her house ready. Maxi volunteered to fly in or, alternately, to fly us both up to Utah, where she was shooting a cowgirl epic with the unwieldy title Buffalo Girls 2000. Peter, of course, was first in line to tell us that we could stay with him or that, if I wanted, he could stay at my place with us.

“Forget it,” I told him. “I’ve learned my lesson about giving men the milk for free and then expecting them to buy the cow.”

He turned a gratifying shade of crimson. “Cannie,” he began, “I didn’t mean…”

And I laughed, then. It was still feeling good to laugh. I’d gone too long without it. “Kidding,” I said, and looked at myself ruefully. “Believe me, I’m in no shape to think about that for a while.”

In the end, I decided to go home – home to my mother and horrible Tanya, who’d agreed to put her loom in storage for the duration and give me and Joy back the Room Formerly Known as Mine. Actually, they were both glad to have us. “It’s so nice to hold a baby again!” said my mother, considerately ignoring the fact that tiny, bristly, sickly Joy, with her sleep apnea monitor and myriad health concerns, was not exactly the sort of baby a grandmother would dream about.

I thought it would be for a week or two – just a chance for me to regroup, to rest, to get used to taking care of a baby. In the end, we stayed for three months, me in the bed that had been mine when I was a girl, and Joy in a crib beside me.

My mother and Tanya let me be. They brought trays of food to my door and cups of tea to my bedside. They retrieved my CDs and a half-dozen books from my apartment, and Tanya presented me with an afghan in purple and green. “For you,” she said shyly. “I’m sorry about what happened.” And she was, I realized. She was sorry, and she was trying – she’d even managed to quit smoking. For the baby, my mother had told me. That was nice.

“Thanks,” I said, and wrapped it around me. She smiled like the sun coming out.

“You’re welcome,” she said.

Samantha came a few times a week, bringing me treats from the city – grilled grape leaves from the Vietnamese food stall in the Reading Terminal, fresh plums from a farm in New Jersey. Peter visited, too, bringing books, newspapers, magazines (never Moxie, I was pleased to note), and little gifts for Joy, including a tiny T-shirt that read “Girl Power.”

“That is so great,” I said.

Peter smiled, and reached into his briefcase. “I got you one, too,” he said.

“Thanks,” I said.

Joy stirred in her sleep. Peter looked at her, then at me. “So how are you really?”

I stretched my arms over my head. I was very very tan, from all that time walking in the sun, but things had started to change. I was taking showers, for one thing. I was eating, for another. My hips and breasts were coming back, and I felt okay with it… like I recognized myself again. Like I was reclaiming not only my body, but the life I’d left behind. And all things considered, it hadn’t been such a bad life. There were things that I had lost, true, and people who wouldn’t ever love me again, but there was also… potential, I thought, and I smiled at Peter. “Better,” I told him. “I guess I’m doing better now.”

Then one morning in September, I woke up and felt like walking again.

“Do you want some company?” Tanya rasped.

I shook my head. My mother watched me lace up my sneakers, her brow furrowed. “Do you want to take the baby?” she asked.

I stared at Joy. I hadn’t even considered it.

“She might like some fresh air,” said my mother.

“I don’t think so,” I said slowly.

“She won’t break,” said my mother.

“She might,” I replied, feeling my eyes fill. “She almost did before.”

“Babies are stronger than you give them credit for,” she said. “Joy’s going to be okay… and you can’t keep her inside forever.”

“Not even if I home-school?” I asked. My mother grinned and handed me the Snugli baby carrier. Awkwardly, I strapped it over my chest, and lifted Joy inside.

She was so small, still, so small, she felt like an autumn leaf against me. Nifkin looked at me and pawed my leg, whining softly. So I hitched him to his leash and took him, too. We walked slowly, down to the edge of the driveway, then out onto the street, moving at a pace that would have made an arthritic snail look speedy. It was the first time I’d been out on the street since I’d arrived, and I felt terrified – of the cars, of the people, of everything, I thought ruefully. Joy nestled against me with her eyes closed. Nifkin marched beside me, growling at cars that went by. “Look, baby,” I whispered against Joy’s downy head. “Look at the world.”

When we got back from our morning walk Peter’s car was parked in the driveway. Inside, my mother and Tanya and Peter were sitting around the kitchen table.

“Cannie!” said my mother.

“Hello,” said Peter.

“We were just talking about you,” Tanya said. Even after close to a month smoke-free, she still sounded like Marge Simpson’s sisters.

“Hey,” I said to Peter, pleased to see him. I gave a genial wave, then unstrapped Joy, wrapped her in a blanket, and sat down with her in my lap. My mother poured me tea as Joy stared at Peter, wide-eyed. He’d been over before, of course, but she’d always been asleep. So this was their first real meeting.

“Hello, baby,” Peter said solemnly. Joy screwed up her face and started to cry. Peter looked distressed.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he began.

“Don’t worry about it,” I told him, turning Joy so that she faced me, and rocking her until her sobs subsided into whimpers, then hiccoughs, then quiet.

“She isn’t used to men,” said Tanya. I thought of at least six snappy comebacks to that, but prudently kept my mouth shut.

“I think babies are scared of me,” Peter said, sounding mournful. “I think it’s my voice.”

“Joy’s heard all kinds of voices,” I said tartly. My mother shot me an evil look. Tanya didn’t seem to notice.

“She’s not scared,” I said. She was, in fact, asleep, her lips slightly parted and her eyelashes long and dark against her rosy cheeks where there were still tears drying. “Here,” I said, “see?”

I wiped her face and tilted Joy toward him so he could see. He leaned down, looking at her. “Wow,” he said reverently. He reached out one long, slender finger and gently touched her cheek. I beamed down at Joy, who promptly woke up, took one look at Peter, and started bawling again.

“She’ll get over it,” I said. “Rude baby!” I whispered in her ear.

“Maybe she’s hungry,” said Tanya.

“Wet diaper,” suggested my Mom.

“Disappointed with ABC’s prime-time lineup,” I said.

Peter cracked up.

“Well, she’s a very discerning viewer,” I said, bouncing Joy against my shoulder. “She really liked Sports Night.” Once she’d settled down, I helped myself to tea, and to a fistful of the chocolate-chip cookies in the center of the table. I added an apple from the fruit bowl and went to work.

Peter looked at me approvingly. “You look much better,” he pronounced.

“You say that every time you see me,” I told him.

“You do,” he insisted. “Much healthier.”

And it was true. With three meals a day, plus snacks, I was quickly regaining my old prediet Anna Nicole Smith proportions. And I continued to welcome the changes. I could see it all differently now. My legs were sturdy and strong, not fat or ungainly. My breasts now had a purpose besides stretching out my sweaters and making it hard to find a non-beige bra. Even my waist and hips, riddled with silvery stretch marks, suggested strength, and told a story. I might be a big girl, I reasoned, but it wasn’t the worst thing in the world. I was a safe harbor and a soft place to rest. Built for comfort, not for speed, I thought, and giggled at myself. Peter smiled at me. “Much healthier,” he said again.