Good In Bed Part 30

"I don't understand this," said my mother, who was checking in with her daily afternoon phone call/interrogation session. "And I've got five minutes to figure it out."

"Five minutes?" I tucked the phone closer to my chest and squinted at my toes, trying to decide whether it was possible to survive in Hollywood with badly chipped toenail polish, or if I'd be fined by the pedicure police. "Why are you in such a hurry?"

"Preseason softball," my mother said briskly. "We're scrimmaging the Lavender Menace."

"Are they any good?"

"They were last year. But you're changing the subject. Now, you're living with Maxi...," my mother began, her voice trailing off hopefully. Or at least I thought that's what I detected.

"We're just friends, Ma," I said. "The platonic kind."

She sighed. "It's not too late, you know."

I rolled my eyes. "Sorry to disappoint."

"So what are you doing?"

"I'm having fun," I said. "I'm having a great time." I barely knew where to start. I'd been in California for almost three weeks, and every day, it seemed, Maxi and I went on some adventure, some little trip in Adrian's red convertible, which felt more and more like an enchanted chariot, or a magic carpet, every day. Last night after dinner we'd walked all the way to Santa Monica Pier, and bought greasy, salty-sweet french fries and frozen pink lemonade, which we'd eaten while dangling our feet in the water. The day before we'd gone to a farmer's market downtown, where we'd filled a backpack with raspberries and baby carrots and white peaches, which Maxi distributed to her fellow cast members (except for her costar because, she reasoned, he'd see the peaches as an invitation to make Bellinis- "and I don't want to be the one responsible for his falling off the wagon this time").

There were things in California that I still hadn't gotten used to- the uniform beauty of the women, for one, the way every other person I saw in the coffee bars or gourmet grocery stores looked vaguely familiar, like they'd played the girlfriend or the second banana's buddy on some quickly cancelled sitcom from 1996. And the car culture of the place astonished me- everyone drove everywhere, so there weren't any sidewalks or bicycle lanes, just endless traffic jams, smog as thick as marmalade, valet parking everywhere- even, unbelievably, at one of the beaches we'd visited. "I have now, officially, seen everything," I told Maxi. "No, you haven't," she'd replied. "On the Third Street Promenade there's a dachshund dressed up in a sequined leotard that's part of a juggling act. Once you've seen that, you've seen everything."

"Are you working at all?" asked my mother, who didn't sound impressed with tales of juggling dachshunds and white peaches.

"Every day," I told her, which was true. In between adventures, and outings, I was spending at least three hours a day on the deck with my laptop. Violet had sent me a script so larded with notes it was practically unreadable. "DO NOT PANIC," she'd written in lavender-colored ink on the t.i.tle page. "Purple notes are mine, red notes are from a reader the studio hired, black from the guy who may or may not wind up directing this- and most of what he says is bulls.h.i.t, I think. Take everything with a grain of salt, they are SUGGESTIONS ONLY!" I was gradually working through the thicket of scribbled marginalia, cross-outs, arrows, and Post-it addenda.

"So when are you coming home?" my mother asked. I bit my lip. I still didn't know, and I'd have to make up my mind- and soon. My thirtieth week was quickly approaching. After that, I'd either have to find a doctor in Los Angeles and have the baby here, or find a way to get home that didn't involve an airplane.

"Well, please let me know your plans," my mother said. "I'd be delighted to give you a ride home from the airport, and maybe even look at my grandchild before his or her first birthday..."

"Ma..."

"Just a motherly reminder!" she said, and hung up.

I got to my feet and walked down to the sand, Nifkin bouncing at my heels, hoping he'd get to chase his tennis ball into the waves.

I knew that I'd have to figure it out eventually, but things were going so well that it was hard to think of anything but the next perfect, sunny day, the next delicious meal, the next shopping trip or picnic or walk on the beach under the starry sky. Aside from the occasional memory of Bruce and our happier times together, and absent the uncertainty of not knowing what would happen next in my life, my time at the beach house was basic unmitigated bliss.

"You should stay here," Maxi would say. I never said yes, but I never said no, either. I tried to figure it out the way I'd once investigated my brides, turning the question over and over in my mind: Could this life fit me? Could I really live this way?

I thought about it at night, when my work was done and the food was cooking, and Nifkin and I would stroll along the water's edge. "Stay or go?" I'd ask, waiting for an answer- from the dog, from the baby, from the G.o.d who had failed to instruct me back in November. But no answer came- just the waves and, eventually, the starlit night.

On my third Sat.u.r.day morning in California Maxi walked into the guest bedroom, flinging open the curtains and snapping her fingers at Nifkin, who darted to her side, ears p.r.i.c.ked up alertly, like the world's smallest guard dog. "Up and at 'em!" she said, bouncing on the b.a.l.l.s of her feet. "We're going to the gym!"

I struggled to sit up. "Gym?" I asked. She was dressed for it, I saw. Her auburn curls were drawn up into a high ponytail, and she was wearing a form-fitting black unitard, bright white socks, and pristine white sneakers.

"Don't worry," Maxi told me. "Nothing too exerting." She sat on the side of my bed and pointed at a schedule from someplace called the Inner Light Education Center. "See... here?"

"Self-actualization, meditation, and visualization," read the course description.

"To be followed by masturbation?" I asked.

Maxi gave me an evil look. "Don't knock it," she said. "This stuff really works."

I went to the dresser and started searching for appropriate self-actualization wear. I figured I'd tag along, and use the meditation session to see if I couldn't come up with a plausible bit of dialogue between Josie, the heroine of my screenplay, and her soon-to-be-ex boyfriend. Or I'd contemplate my future, and what I'd do with it. Self-actualization and visualization sounded like New Age foolishness to me, but at least it wouldn't be a waste of my time.

The Inner Light Education Center was a low-slung white wood building perched on top of a hill. There were wide gla.s.s windows, and a deck lined with sea gra.s.s 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 b.r.e.a.s.t.s, 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." n.o.body did. Abigail smiled at us and hit a b.u.t.ton 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 Sat.u.r.day, 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 gla.s.s 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, b.r.e.a.s.t.s 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 & 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 h.e.l.lo." 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.