Good in Bed (36 page)

“I'm actually doing better,” I said. “I'm trying to be proactive. Whenever I think of him, I force myself to think of something about the baby. Something that I have to do, or buy, or sign up for.”

“Sounds good. How's work going?”

“Not bad,” I said. Truthfully, work was a little weird. It was strange to be doing things that would have had me so excited … or nervous … or upset … or happy, just a year ago, and have them feel like they barely mattered. A personal audience with Craig Kilborn over lunch in New York, to discuss his show's new direction? Eh. A
nasty spat with Gabby over which one of us was going to get to write the postmortem on
The Nanny
? Whatever. Even my coworkers' increasing and not-so-surreptitious glances, from my belly (burgeoning) to my third left finger (bare) didn't seem to matter. Nobody'd worked up the nerve to actually ask me anything yet, but I was ready for the questions when they came. Yes, I'd say, I'm pregnant. No, I'd tell them, not with the father anymore. That, I thought, would maybe hold them … provided I could change the subject to their own pregnancy/birth/child-rearing stories.

“So what's on the agenda for today?” Samantha asked.

“More shopping.”

Samantha groaned.

“I'm sorry, but I really just need a few more things from the maternity place. …”

I knew that Samantha was trying to be a good sport about shopping with me. But I could tell it wasn't easy. For one thing, unlike any other woman I'd ever known, she loathed shopping. For another, I was pretty sure she was getting sick of everybody assuming we were lesbian lovers.

While Samantha was extolling the virtues of mail-order catalogs and Internet shopping, a guy jogged by us. Tall, lean, shorts and a ratty-looking sweatshirt advertising some college or another. Typical jogger on Kelly Drive on a Saturday. Except that this one stopped.

“Hi, Cannie!”

I stopped and squinted, my hands resting protectively on my belly. Samantha stopped, too, gaping. The Mystery Jogger pulled off his baseball cap. It was Dr. K.

“Hey!” I said, smiling. Wow. Outside of that horrible fluorescentlit building, outside of his white lab coat and glasses, he was kind of cute … for an older guy.

“Introduce me to your friend,” Samantha practically purred.

“This is Dr. Krushelevansky.” I pronounced it slowly and correctly, I think, because he smiled at me. “From the University of Philadelphia program I was doing.”

“Peter. Please,” he said.

Handshakes all around, as two rollerbladers almost crashed into us.

“We'd better get moving,” I said.

“I'll walk with you,” he said, “if that's okay. I need to cool down. …”

“Oh, sure! Absolutely!” said Samantha. She gave me a short but significant look, which I took to mean “Is he single, and is he Jewish, and if he is, what possible excuse could you have for not mentioning him to me?”

I gave her a brief shrug and raised eyebrows, which I was certain she would understand as “I have no idea if he's single, and aren't you supposed to be taken?” Samantha seemed to have broken her bad-luck streak of third-date lunacy and was still with her yoga instructor. Many of our non-Bruce discussions revolved around whether he was too Zen to consider marrying.

Meanwhile, completely oblivious to our eyebrow-encrypted messages, Dr. K. was introducing himself to Nifkin, who'd been the object of several discussions during Fat Class.

“So you're the famous little guy,” he said, as Nifkin demonstrated his vertical leap, bouncing higher and higher each time. “He should be in the circus,” Dr. K. told me, rubbing Nifkin vigorously behind his ears as Nifkin preened.

“Yeah, well, a few more pounds and I'll go, too. They still hire fat ladies, right?”

Samantha glared at me.

“You look very healthy,” Dr. K. pronounced. “How's work?”

“Good, actually.”

“I read your piece on
The View
,” he said. “I thought you were absolutely right … it does remind me of Thunderdome.”

“Five girls enter, one girl leaves,” I intoned. He laughed. Samantha looked at him, looked at me, did a few quick equations in her head, and grabbed Nifkin's leash.

“Well!” she said cheerfully. “Thanks for walking with me, Cannie, but I really need to get going.” Nifkin whined as she started dragging him toward where she'd parked her car. “I'll see you later,” she said. “Have fun shopping!”

“You're going shopping?” asked Dr. K.

“Yeah, I need some …” What I actually needed was new underwear, as my Jockey For Her briefs were no longer covering the water-front, but I was damned if I was going to tell him that. “Groceries,” I said weakly. “I was heading over to Fresh Fields. …”

“Would you mind if I came?” he asked. “I actually need to pick up a few things. I could drive you,” he offered.

I squinted up at him in the sunshine. “Tell you what. If you can meet me in an hour, we can get breakfast, then shop,” I said.

He told me that he'd lived in Philadelphia for seven years but had never been to the Morning Glory diner, my absolute favorite breakfast spot. If there's one thing I love, it's introducing people to my food finds. I walked home, took a quick shower, pulled on a variation on my standard outfit (black velvet leggings, giant tunic top, lace-up Chuck Taylor low-tops in a subtle shade of periwinkle that I'd bought for $10), then met him at the diner, where, blessedly, there wasn't even a line—a total fluke on a weekend. I was feeling pretty good about things as we slid into a booth. He looked nice, too—he'd showered, I thought, and changed into khakis and a button-down plaid shirt.

“I'll bet it's weird for you, going out to eat with people,” I said. “They probably feel very self-conscious about ordering what they really want.”

“Yes,” he said, “I have noticed some of that.”

“Well, you're in for a treat,” I told him, and flagged down a dread-locked waitress in a halter top with a tattoo that snaked across her exposed belly. “I'll have the neighborhood frittata with provolone cheese and roasted peppers, a side of turkey bacon, a biscuit, and would it be possible to get potatoes and grits instead of just one or the other?”

“Sure thing,” she said, and wiggled her pen toward the doctor.

“I'll have what she's having,” he said.

“Good boy,” she said, and twitched off toward the kitchen.

“It's brunch,” I said, by way of explanation.

He shrugged a little bit. “You're eating for two,” he said. “How have … things … been?”

“If by ‘things' you mean my situation, it's going fine. I'm actually feeling a lot better now. Still kind of tired, but that's about it. No more dizzy, no more barfing, no being so exhausted that I fall asleep on the toilet at work. …”

He was laughing. “Did that happen?”

“Just once,” I said. “But it's better now. Even though I realize that my life has turned into one of the lesser songs in the Madonna catalog, I limp along.” I passed a hand dramatically across my brow. “Eh-lone.”

He squinted at me. “Was that supposed to be Garbo?”

“Hey, don't hassle the pregnant lady.”

“That was the worst Garbo imitation I have ever heard.”

“Yeah, well, I do it better if I've been drinking.” I sighed. “God, do I miss tequila.”

“Tell me about it,” said our waitress as she deposited our heaping plates on the table. We tucked in.

“This is really good,” he said between mouthfuls. “Isn't it?” I said. “They make the best biscuits. The secret is lard.”

He looked at me. “Homer Simpson.”

“Very good.”

“You do Homer much better than you do Garbo.”

“Yeah. Wonder what that says about me?” I changed the topic before he could answer. “Do you ever think about cheese?”

“Constantly,” he said. “I'm tormented, really. I lie awake at night, just thinking … about cheese.”

“No, seriously,” I said, and poked at my frittata. “Like, who invented cheese? Who said, ‘Hmm, I'll bet this milk would taste really delicious if I let it sit until a rind of mold grew around it'? Cheese had to be a mistake.”

“I never thought about that,” he said. “But I have wondered about Cheez Whiz.”

“Philadelphia's official food!”

“Have you ever looked at the list of ingredients for Cheez Whiz?” he asked. “It's frightening.”

“You want to talk about frightening, I'll show you the fact sheet on episiotomies my doctor gave me,” I said. He swallowed hard.
“Okay, not while you're eating,” I amended. “But seriously, what is it with the medical profession? Are you guys trying to scare the human race into celibacy?”

“Are you nervous about labor?” he asked.

“Hell, yes. I'm trying to find a hospital that'll give me that Twilight Sleep thing.” I looked at him hopefully “You can prescribe stuff, right? Maybe you could slip me a little something before the fun starts.”

He was laughing at me. He really did have a very nice smile. His full lips were bracketed by deep laugh lines. I wondered idly how old he really was. Younger than I'd thought at first, but still probably fifteen years older than me. No wedding ring, but that didn't mean anything. Plenty of guys didn't wear them. “You'll do fine,” he said.

He gave me the rest of his biscuit and didn't even flinch when I ordered hot chocolate, and insisted that brunch was his treat, and that, in fact, he really owed me for introducing him to the diner.

“Where to next?” he said.

“Oh, you can just drop me off at Fresh Fields. …”

“No, no. I'm at your disposal.”

I looked at him sideways. “Cherry Hill Mall?” I proposed, barely hoping. The Cherry Hill Mall was over the river in New Jersey. It had a Macy's, two maternity shops, and a M.A.C. counter. And my own car was on a weekend loan to Lucy, who'd gotten a job as a singing flower delivery girl on her heartfelt assurances that yes, she could provide her own transportation, while waiting for her spokesmodel career to take off.

“Let's go.”

His car was a sleek silver, some kind of heavy sedan-type thing. The doors closed with an authoritative chunk, and the motor sounded much more ostentatious than my modest little Honda ever had. The inside was immaculate, and the passenger seat looked … under-utilized. Like the upholstery was still untouched by human buttocks.

We got on 676 and drove over the Ben Franklin Bridge, over the Delaware River, which sparkled in the sun. The trees were covered
with the faintest green fuzz, and the sun was shining off the water. My legs were pleasantly tired from the walk, and I was pleasantly full from the food, and as I rested my hands on my belly, I felt something that it took me a minute to identify. Happy, I finally figured out. I felt happy.

I warned him in the parking lot. “When we go into the stores, they might think that you're the, uh …”

“Father?”

“Um, yeah.”

He smiled at me. “How do you want me to handle it?”

“Hmm.” I actually hadn't thought that part through, so enraptured was I with being in this big, steady, powerful-sounding car, looking at springtime through the window and feeling happy. “Let's just play it by ear.”

And it wasn't bad, really. At the department store, where I purchased a Pregnancy Packables kit (long dress, short dress, skirt, pants, tunic top, all in some engineered, indestructible, stretchy, and guaranteed stainproof black fabric), the aisles were crowded and we were pretty much ignored. Same deal at Toys “R” Us, where I bought blocks, and at Target, where I had coupons for buy-one-get-one-free baby wipes and Pampers. I could feel the girl at Baby Gap looking from him to me and back again as she rang up my stuff, but she didn't say anything. Not like the woman at Pea in the Pod, who'd told me and Samantha last week that she thought we were both very brave, or the woman the week before at Ma Jolie who'd assured me that “Daddy will just love!” the leggings I was trying on.

Dr. K. was very nice to shop with. Quiet, but willing to offer an opinion when asked, and to carry all my packages and even hold my backpack. He bought me lunch at the food court (sounds tacky, but the Cherry Hill food court is actually quite nice) and didn't seem perturbed at my four bathroom stops. During the last one, he even ducked into a pet store and bought a rawhide bone at least as long as Nifkin was. “So he won't feel neglected,” he explained.

“He's going to love you,” I said. “That's going to be a first. Nifkin
usually works as my first line of elimination with …” Dates, I was thinking. But this wasn't a date. “New friends,” I finally said.

“Did he like Bruce?”

I smiled, remembering how the two of them had existed in a fragile détente that felt like it would rupture into full-scale war if I'd only turn my back long enough. Bruce had grudgingly agreed to let Nifkin sleep in my bed, like he was used to, and Nifkin had reluctantly conceded that Bruce had a right to exist at all, but there'd been any number of raised voices, insults, and chewed shoes, belts, and wallets in between. “I think Bruce was always about two minutes from drop-kicking Nifkin somewhere far away. He wasn't exactly a dog person. And Nifkin isn't easy.” I leaned back in the new-smelling car seat, feeling the late-afternoon sunshine streaming through the sunroof, warming my head.

He smiled at me. “Tired?”

“A little bit,” I said, and yawned. “I'll take a nap when I'm home.”

I gave him directions to my street, and he nodded approvingly as he turned onto it. “Pretty,” he said. I looked at it, trying to see what he saw: the just-budding trees arcing over the sidewalks, the pots full of flowers in front of the brick town houses.

“Yeah,” I said. “I was lucky to find it.”