Good in Bed (32 page)

But I didn't ask. I just started the car and drove down the driveway, waving back at her until she disappeared.

Back in Philadelphia, everything looked different. Or maybe it was just that I was seeing it differently. I noticed the overflow of Budweiser cans in the recycling bin in front of the second-floor apartment as I made my way upstairs, and heard the shrill laugh track of a sitcom seeping beneath the door. Out on the street, somebody's car alarm went off, and I could hear glass breaking somewhere nearby. Just background noise, stuff I'd barely notice most of the time, but I'd have to start noticing now … now that I was responsible for somebody else.

Up on the third floor, my apartment had grown a thin layer of dust in the five days I'd been away, and it smelled stale. No place to raise a child, I thought, opening windows, lighting a vanilla-scented candle, and finding the broom.

I gave Nifkin fresh food and water. I swept the floors. I sorted my laundry to wash the next day, emptied the dishwasher, put the leftovers in the freezer, then rinsed and hung my bathing suit to dry. I was halfway through making a grocery list, full of skim milk and fresh apples and good things to eat, before I realized I hadn't even checked my voice mail to see if anyone … well, to see if Bruce … had called me. A long shot, I knew, but I figured I'd at least give him the benefit of the doubt.

And when I found that he hadn't called, I felt sad, but nothing like the sharp, jittery, anxious-sick sadness I'd had before, nothing like the overwhelming certainty that I would die if he didn't love me that I'd felt that night in New York with Maxi.

“He loved me,” I whispered to the neatly swept room. “He loved me, but he doesn't love me anymore, and it's not the end of the world.”

Nifkin raised his head from the couch, looked at me curiously, then fell back asleep. I picked up my list.
Eggs
, I wrote.
Spinach. Plums.

“You're what?!?”

I bowed my head over my decaffeinated skim-milk latte and toasted bagel. “Pregnant. With child. Expecting. In a delicate condition. Bun in the oven. PG.”

“Okay, okay, I've got it.” Samantha stared at me, full lips parted, brown eyes shocked and wide awake, even though it was only 7:30 in the morning. “How?”

“The usual way,” I said lightly. We were in Xando, the neighborhood coffee shop that turned into a bar after six at night. Businessmen perused their
Examiner
s, harried moms with strollers gulped coffee. A good place, clean and bright. Not a place for making scenes.

“With Bruce?”

“Okay, maybe it wasn't the usual way. It was right after his father died. …”

Samantha gave a great exasperated sigh. “Oh, God, Cannie … what did I tell you about sex with the bereaved?”

“I know,” I said. “It just happened.”

She allowed herself another sigh, then reached for her DayTimer, all brisk efficiency, even though she was still wearing black leggings
and a T-shirt from Wally's Wings advising “We Choke Our Own Chickens.” “Okay,” she said. “Did you call the clinic?”

“No, actually,” I said. “I'm going to keep it.”

Her eyes got very wide. “What? How? Why?”

“Why not? I'm twenty-eight years old, I've got enough money …” Samantha was shaking her head. “You're going to ruin your life.”

“I know my life's going to change. …”

“No. You didn't hear me. You're going to ruin your life.”

I set down my coffee cup. “What do you mean?”

“Cannie …” She looked at me, her eyes beseeching. “A single mother …I mean, it'shardenough to meet decent men as it is … do you know what this is going to do to your social life?”

Truthfully, I hadn't given it much thought. Now that I'd gotten my mind around losing Bruce irrevocably, I hadn't even started thinking about who I might wind up with, or whether there'd ever be anybody else.

“Not just your social life,” Samantha continued, “your whole life. Have you thought about how this is going to change everything?”

“Of course I have,” I said.

“No more vacations,” said Samantha.

“Oh, come on … people take babies on vacations!”

“Are you going to have money for that? I mean, I'm assuming you'll work …”

“Yeah. Part-time. That's what I'd figured. At least at first.”

“So your income will go down, and you'll still be spending money on child care for when you are at work. That's going to have a major impact on your standard of living, Cannie. Major impact.”

Well, it was true. No more three-day weekends in Miami just because USAir had a cheap flight and I felt like I needed some sun. No more weeks in Killington in a rented condo, where I'd ski all day and Bruce, a nonskiier, would smoke dope in the Jacuzzi and wait for my return. No more $200 pairs of leather boots that I absolutely had to have, no more $100 dinners, no more $80 afternoons at the spa where I'd pay some nineteen-year-old to scrub my feet and tweeze my eyebrows.

“Well, people's lives change,” I said. “Things happen that you don't plan for. People get sick … or lose their jobs …”

“But those are things they don't have any control over,” Samantha pointed out. “Whereas this is a situation you can control.”

“I've made up my mind,” I said quietly.

Samantha was undeterred. “Think about bringing a child into the world with no father,” she said.

“I know,” I told her, holding up my hand before she could say anything else. “I've thought about this. I know it's not ideal. It's not what I'd want, if I could choose. …”

“But you can choose,” said Samantha. “Think about everything you're going to have to manage by yourself. How every single responsibility is going to be on your shoulders. Are you really ready for that? And is it fair to have a baby if you're not?”

“But think of all the other women who do it!”

“What, like welfare mothers? Teenage girls?”

“Sure! Them! There're lots of women who have babies, and the babies' fathers aren't around, and they're managing.”

“Cannie,” said Samantha, “that's no kind of life. Living hand-to-mouth …”

“I've got some money,” I said, sounding sullen even to my own ears.

Samantha took a sip of coffee. “Is this about Bruce? About holding on to Bruce?”

I looked down at my clasped hands, at the wadded-up napkin between them. “No,” I said. “I mean, I guess it involves that … somewhat by default … but it's not like I set out to get pregnant so I could get my hooks back in him.”

Samantha raised her eyebrows. “Not even subconsciously?”

I shuddered. “God, I hope my subconscious isn't as unenlightened as that!”

“Enlightenment has nothing to do with it. Maybe, deep down, some part of you was hoping … or is hoping … that once Bruce finds out, he'll come back to you.”

“I'm not going to tell him,” I said.

“How can you not tell him?” she demanded.

“Why should I?” I shot back. “He's moved on, he's found somebody else, he doesn't want to be involved with me, or my life, so why should I tell him? I don't need his money, and I don't want whatever scraps of attention he'd feel obligated to throw me. …”

“But what about the baby? Doesn't the baby deserve to have a father in its life?”

“Come on, Samantha. This is Bruce we're talking about. Big, dopey Bruce? Bruce with the ponytail and the ‘Legalize It' bumper sticker …”

“He's a good guy, Cannie. He'd probably be a really good father.”

I bit my lip. This part hurt to admit or even to think about, but it was probably the truth. Bruce had been a camp counselor for years. Kids loved him, ponytail or not, dopiness or not, dope or not. Every time I'd seen him with his cousins or his former campers, they were always vying with each other to sit next to him at dinner, or play basketball with him, or have him help them with their homework. Even when our relationship was at its worst, I never doubted that he'd be a wonderful father.

Samantha was shaking her head. “I don't know, Cannie. I just don't know.” She gave me a long, sober look. “He's going to find out, you know.”

“How? We don't know any of the same people anymore … he lives so far away …”

“Oh, he'll find out. I've seen enough soap operas to guarantee you that. You'll run into him somewhere … he'll hear something about you … he'll find out. He will.”

I shrugged, trying to look brave. “So he finds out I'm pregnant. It doesn't mean I have to tell him that it's his. Let him think I was sleeping around on him.” Even though I felt struck through with grief at the thought that Bruce would ever have cause to think that. “Let him think I went to a sperm bank. The point is, he doesn't have to know.” I looked at Samantha. “And you don't have to tell him.”

“Cannie, don't you think he's got a right to know? He's going to be a father. …”

“No, he's not. …”

“Well, there's going to be a child born that's his. What if he wants to be a father? What if he sues you for custody?”

“Okay, I saw that
Sally Jessy
, too. …”

“I'm serious,” said Samantha. “He could do that, you know.”

“Oh, please.” I shrugged, trying to look less worried than I was. “Bruce can barely keep track of his rolling papers. What would he want with a baby?”

Samantha shrugged. “I don't know. Maybe nothing. Or maybe he'd think that a child needs … you know … amalerole model.”

“So I'll let it hang around Tanya,” I joked. Samantha wasn't laughing. She looked so upset I felt like offering her a hug, until I realized I'd sound just like Tanya at her most Anonymous. “It's going to be okay,” I said, keeping my voice light and convincing.

Samantha looked at me. “I hope so,” she said quietly. “I really do.”

“You're what?” asked Betsy, my editor. To her credit, she recovered a lot faster than Samantha did.

“Pregnant,” I repeated. I was getting a little tired of playing this particular cut on the sound track of my life. “With child. Knocked up. Bun in the oven …”

“Oh. Okay. Oh, my. Um. …” Betsy peered at me from behind her thick glasses. “Congratulations?” she offered tentatively.

“Thanks,” I said.

“Is there, um, going to be a wedding?” she asked.

“Not in the forseeable future, no,” I said briskly. “Will that be a problem?”

“Oh, no, no! Of course not! I mean, of course, the paper would never discriminate, or anything. …”

I was suddenly very, very tired. “I know,” I said. “And I know it's going to be weird for people …”

“The less explaining you do, the better,” said Betsy. We were in the conference room with the door closed and the shades pulled, which meant I could only see my colleagues from the knees down. I recognized Frank the copy editor's beat-up loafers slowing as they made
their way to the mailroom, followed closely by Tanisha the photo clerk's stack-heeled Mary Janes, moving at a ridiculously snail-like pace. I was sure, if I had the full-body view, their heads would all be swiveling toward me, trying to figure out why Betsy and I were in here, whether I was in some kind of trouble, and what the trouble was. I was sure that once they'd made the obligatory stop at their mailboxes, they'd make a sharp right to the desk of Alice, longtime departmental secretary and depository of all things juicy and scandalous. Heck, if someone else were in here with Betsy right now, I'd be doing the exact same thing. It's the downside of working with people who poke and pry and investigate for a living. You don't wind up with much of a private life.

“If I were you I wouldn't say a word,” Betsy said. She was in her forties, a short, quick-witted woman with a shock of white-blond hair who'd lived through sexism, corporate takeovers, budget cutbacks, and half a dozen different editors in chief, all men, and all with their own unique visions of what the
Examiner
should do. She was a survivor, and my mentor at the paper, and I trusted her to give me good advice.

“Well, eventually I'm going to have to say something. …”

“Eventually,” she said. “But for now I would say nothing.” She looked at me, not unkindly. “It's hard, you know,” she said.

“I know,” I said.

“Will you have any … help?”

“If you mean, is Bruce going to ride in on a white horse and marry me, probably not. But my mother and Tanya will help out … and maybe my sister, too.”

Betsy had come prepared. She pulled a copy of the union contract out of her briefcase, then a notebook and a calculator. “Let's see what we can do for you.”

What she came up with sounded more than fair—six weeks of paid leave after the birth, and if I wanted, six more weeks of unpaid leave after that. Then I'd have to work three days a week to keep my health benefits, but Betsy said she'd be amenable to having me work one of the days from home, as long as I was reachable. She tapped out my new salary-to-be on a calculator. Oof. Worse than I thought it would
be … but still livable. At least, that's what I hoped. How much would day care cost? And baby clothes … and furniture … and food. I saw my carefully maintained nest egg—the one I'd built up, figuring I'd need it someday to pay for a wedding, or maybe a house—dwindling down to nothing before my eyes.

“We'll work it out,” Betsy told me. “Don't worry.” She gathered up her papers and sighed. “At least, try not to worry more than you absolutely have to. And let me know if I can help.”

“Eight weeks,” said my gynecologist, in her melodious clipped British voice. “Or perhaps nine.”

“Eight,” I said faintly. It's hard to be emphatic when you're flat on your back, with your feet up in stirrups and your legs spread.