SIXTEEN. SEVENTEEN

SIXTEEN

When I woke up it was 10: 30 in the morning. The fire was out. So were Adrian and Maxi.

As quietly as I could I made my way to the second floor. Polished hardwood floors, modern maple shelves and dressers, mostly empty. I wondered how Maxi felt, inhabiting and abandoning a series of houses, like a caterpillar casting aside its cocoon. I wondered if it bothered her at all. I knew it would bother me.

The bathroom brimmed with all manner of plush towels and fancy soaps and shampoos in sample-sized bottles. I took a long, hot shower, brushed my teeth with one of the brand-new, still-wrapped toothbrushes I found in the medicine cabinet, then got dressed in the T-shirt and clean pajama bottoms I’d found in one of the dresser drawers. I was sure I’d need a blow dryer and possibly an assistant to even attempt to replicate what Garth had done to my hair the night before, but I didn’t see either one nearby. So I pulled back sections of my hair, pinning them with the bobby pins, cementing the whole thing with a dime-sized dollop of some rich and delicious-smelling French styling potion. At least that’s what I hoped it was. At my father’s insistence, I’d taken Latin in high school. Useful for acing the SATs, not any good for those mornings after when you found yourself unexpectedly having to translate the names of movie star’s toiletries.

When I came back downstairs Maxi was still asleep, curled like an adorable kitten on top of a pile of blankets. But where Adrian had slumbered, there was only a single sheet of notepaper.

I picked it up. “Dear Cassie, ” it began, and I snorted laughter. Well, I thought, at least he was close. And I’d certainly been called worse. “Thank you very much for taking care of me last night. I know that we don’t know each other well …”

And here I snorted again. Don’t know each other well! We’d barely exchanged five sentences before he’d passed out!

“… but I know that you’re a kind person. I know you’ll be a wonderful mother. I’m sorry I had to leave in such a hurry, and that I won’t get to see you again any time soon. I’m off to location, in Toronto, this morning. So I hope you’ll enjoy this while you’re in California. ”

This? What was this? I unfolded the note completely, and a silver key fell into what remained of my lap. A car key. “The lease is up next month, ” Adrian had written on the back of the piece of paper, along with the name and address of a Santa Monica car dealership. “Drop it off when you’re ready to go home. And enjoy! ”

I got slowly to my feet, walked to the window, and held my breath as I raised the blinds. Sure enough, there was the little red car. I looked from the key in my hand to the car in the driveway, and pinched myself, waiting to wake up and find that this was all a dream … that I was still asleep in my bed in Philadelphia, with a pile of pregnancy planning books on my beside table and Nifkin curled on the pillow next to my head.

Maxi yawned, rose gracefully off the floor, and came to stand at the window beside me. “What’s going on? ” she asked.

I showed her the car, and the key, and the note. “I feel like I’m dreaming, ” I said.

“Least he could do, ” said Maxi. “He’s just lucky you didn’t go through his pockets and take pictures of him naked. ”

I gave her a wide-eyed innocent look. “Was I not supposed to do that? ”

Maxi grinned at me. “Sit tight, ” she said. “I’m going to fetch your dog, and then we’ll plan your conquest of Hollywood. ”

I’d expected Maxi’s cupboards to be bare, except maybe for the foods I thought that starlets subsisted on — Altoids, fizzy water, perhaps some spelt or brewer’s yeast or whatever the diet gurus had decreed they should be eating.

But Maxi’s shelves were stocked with all the basics, from chicken broth to flour and sugar and spices, and the refrigerator had fresh-looking apples and oranges, milk and juice, butter and cream cheese.

Quiche, I decided, and fruit salad. I was slicing kiwis and strawberries when Maxi returned. She’d changed into a pair of black pedal-pushers and a cherry-red cap-sleeved T-shirt, with big black sunglasses and what I took to be fake ruby barrettes in her hair, and Nifkin was sporting a patent-leather red collar studded with the same jewels, and a matching red leash. They both looked very grand. I served Maxi and then, in the absence of kibble, gave Nifkin a small portion of quiche.

“This is so beautiful, ” I said, admiring the sun glinting on the water, the fresh breeze stirring the air.

“You should stay for a while, ” Maxi suggested.

I shook my head. “I need to wrap things up and head back …, ” I began, and then stopped. Really, why did I have to hurry back? Work could wait — I still had vacation time stored up. Missing a few prebaby classes wouldn’t be the end of the world. A room with a view of the ocean was enticing, especially given Philadelphia’s fitful, slushy spring. And Maxi was reading my mind.

“It’ll be great! You can write, I’ll go to work, we can have dinner parties, and fires. Nifkin can hang out … I’ll set up a stock portfolio for you …”

I wanted to jump up and down with the joy of it, but I wasn’t sure the baby would approve. It would be incredible out here. I could wade in the surf. Nifkin could chase seagulls. Maxi and I could cook. There had to be strings attached. I just couldn’t figure out which ones, or where. And on that morning, with the sun shining and the waves rolling in, it seemed easier to let this wonderful adventure unfold than to spend much more time trying.

Things happened very quickly after that.

Maxi drove me to a skyscraper with bluish-silver glass walls and a trendy eatery on the bottom level. “I’m taking you to meet my agent, ” she explained, punching the button for the seventh floor.

I racked my brain for appropriate questions. “Is she … does she handle writers? ” I asked. “Is she good? ”

“Yes, and very, ” said Maxi, marching me down the hall. She rapped sharply on an open door and stuck her head inside.

“That’s bullshit! ” said a woman’s voice, floating out into the hallway. “Terence, that’s absolute crap. This is the project you’re looking for, and he’s absolutely going to have it done by next week …”

I peered over Maxi’s shoulder, expecting the voice to belong to a chain-smoking dame with platinum hair and possibly shoulder pads, with an unfiltered cigarette in one hand and a cup of black coffee in the other … a female version of the reptilian sunglassed guy who’d told me there were no fat actresses in Hollywood. Instead, perched behind the giant slab of a desk was a strawberry-blond pixie with creamy skin and freckles. She wore a pale-green jumper and a lace-scalloped lilac-colored T-shirt and a pair of Keds on her child-sized feet. Her hair was gathered into a haphazard bun with a pale blue scrunchy. She looked as if she were maybe twelve years old.

“That’s Violet, ” Maxi said proudly.

“Bull-SHIT! ” said Violet again. I fought down the urge to put my hands on my belly where I imagined the baby’s ears would be.

“What do you think? ” Maxi whispered.

“She’s … um, ” I said. “She looks like Pippi Longstocking! Is she old enough to be using language like that? ”

Maxi cracked up. “Don’t worry, ” she said. “She might look like a Girl Scout, but she’s plenty tough. ”

With a valedictory “Bullshit, ” Violet hung up the phone, got to her feet, and extended her hand. “Cannie. A pleasure, ” she said, sounding like a regular person, not like a fire-breathing dragon who’d been channeling Andrew Dice Clay just moments before. “I really enjoyed your screenplay. Do you know what I liked best about it? ”

“The curse words? ” I ventured.

Violet laughed. “No, no, ” she said. “I loved that your lead character had such faith in herself. So many romantic comedies, it seems, the female lead has to be rescued somehow … by love, or by money, or a fairy godmother. I loved that Josie just rescued herself, and believed in herself the whole time. ”

Wow. I’d never thought about it quite that way. To me, Josie’s story was wish fulfillment, pure and simple — the story of what could happen if one of the stars I interviewed in New York ever looked at me and saw more than a potential puff piece in plus-size female form.

“Women are going to fucking love this movie, ” Violet predicted.

“I’m so glad you think so, ” I said.

Violet nodded, yanked the scrunchy out of her hair, ran her fingers through it, and gathered her curls into a marginally neater version of the same bun. “We’ll talk more later, ” she said, gathering a legal pad, a fistful of pens, a copy of my screenplay, and what looked like a copy of a contract. “For now, let’s make you some money. ”

In the end it turned out that little Violet was an ace negotiator. Maybe it was just that the sound of that brassy voice and nonstop stream of obscenities coming out of her adorable little person was so jarring that the trio of young guys in sharp suits wound up staring more than they did contesting her assertion that my script was worth it. In the end the amount of money they gave me — one chunk to be delivered within five days of signing, the other to be handed over the day filming began, a third chunk for “first look” at whatever I wrote next — was pretty unbelievable. Maxi hugged me, and Violet hugged both of us. “Now go out there and make me proud, ” she said, before traipsing back to her office, looking for all the world like a fourth-grader coming in from afternoon recess.

By five o’clock that afternoon I was sitting back on Maxi’s deck with a bowl of chilled grapes in my lap and a flute of nonalcoholic sparkling grape juice in my hand, feeling the most incredibly sweet relief. Now I could buy whatever house I wanted, or hire a nanny, even take a whole year off of work when the baby came. And whatever rewriting I had to do, it wouldn’t be as bad as facing Gabby, and her nonstop stream criticism, both of the to-the-face and behind-the-back variety. It couldn’t be as bad as straining over the seventh draft of my letter to Bruce. Those things were work. This would just be play.

I talked for hours that afternoon, screaming out the joyous news to my mother, to Lucy and Josh, to Andy and Samantha, to assorted relatives and colleagues, to anyone I could think of who’d share in my happiness. Then I called Dr. K. at his office.

“It’s Cannie, ” I said. “I just want you to know that everything’s fine. ”

“Your friend’s feeling better? ”

“Much better, ” I said, and explained it — how Adrian had recovered, how I’d decided to stay at Maxi’s, how tiny little Violet had gotten me all of this money.

“It’s going to be a great movie, ” Dr. K. said.

“I can’t even believe it, ” I said, for perhaps the thirtieth time that afternoon. “It doesn’t even feel real. ”

“Well, just enjoy it, ” he said. “It sounds like you’re off to a wonderful start. ”

Maxi watched the whole thing bemusedly, and threw a tennis ball for Nifkin until he collapsed, panting, next to a pile of seaweed.

“Who’s that one? ” she asked, and I explained.

“He’s … well, he was my doctor, when I was trying to lose weight, before I got pregnant. Now he’s a friend, I guess. I called him last night to ask him about Adrian. ”

“It sounds like you like him, ” she said, waggling her eyebrows, Groucho Marx style. “Does he make house calls? ”

I have no idea, ” I said. “He’s very nice. Very tall. ” “Tall’s good, ” said Maxi. “So what now? ” “Dinner? ” I suggested.

“Oh, that’s right, ” said Maxi. “I forgot that you’re multitalented. You can write, and cook, too! ”

“Don’t get your hopes up, ” I said. “Let me see what else is in the fridge. ”

Maxi smiled. “I’ve got a better idea of something we should do first, ” she said.

The guard at the front of the jewelry store nodded at me and Maxi, and swung the heavy glass door open wide.

“What are we doing here? ” I whispered.

“Buying you a treat, ” said Maxi. “And you don’t have to whisper. ”

“What are you, my sugar daddy? ” I scoffed.

“Oh, no, ” Maxi said very seriously. “You’re going to buy something for yourself. ”

I gaped at her. “What? Why? Shouldn’t you be encouraging me to save? I’ve got a baby on the way”

“Of course you’re going to save, ” said Maxi, sounding eminently sensible. “But my mother always told me that every woman should have one beautiful, perfect thing that she bought for herself … and you, my dear, are now in a position to do just that. ”

I took a deep breath, like I was about to dive into deep water, rather than just walk through a jewelry store. The room was full of glass cases, at the level of what used to be my waist, and each case was full of a treasure trove of ornaments, all arranged artfully on pads of black and dove-gray velvet. There were emerald rings, sapphire rings, slender bands of platinum set with diamonds. There were dangling amber earrings and topaz brooches, bracelets of silver mesh so fine I could barely make out the links, and cuffs of hammered gold. There were glittering charm bracelets bearing tiny ballet slippers and miniature car keys … sterling silver earrings in the shape of plump Valentine hearts … interlocked bands of pink and yellow gold … glittering pins shaped like ladybugs and sea horses … diamond tennis bracelets of the kind that Bruce’s mother had worn I stopped walking and leaned against a counter, feeling more than a little bit overwhelmed.

A saleswoman in a neat navy suit appeared behind it as quickly as if she’d been teleported over. “What can I show you? ” she asked warmly. I pointed tentatively at smallest pair of diamond earrings that I saw. “Those, please, ” I asked.

Maxi peered over my shoulder. “Not those, ” she scoffed. “Cannie, they’re tiny! ”

“Shouldn’t something on my body be tiny? ” I asked.

Maxi looked at me, puzzled. “Why? ”

“Because …” I said. My voice trailed off.

Maxi grabbed my hand. “You know what? ” she said. “I think you look fine. I think you look wonderful. You look happy … and healthy … and, and pregnant …”

“Don’t forget that, ” I said, laughing.

The saleswoman, meanwhile, was unfolding a piece of black velvet and laying earrings out on top of the case — the itsy-bitsy pair I’d requested first, then another pair about twice as large. The diamonds were each about the size of a SunMaid raisin, I thought, and cupped them in my hand, watching them sparkle, flashing blue and violet.

“They’re gorgeous, ” I said softly, and lifted them up to my ears.

“They suit you, ” said the saleswoman.

“We’ll take them, ” Maxi said, sounding very certain. “And don’t bother wrapping them. She’ll wear them home. ”

Later, in the car, with my new earrings sending spangled rainbows against the roof whenever the sunlight flashed through them, I tried to thank her — for taking me in, for buying my screenplay, for making me believe in a future where I deserved such things. But Maxi just brushed it off. “You deserve nice things, ” she said kindly. “It shouldn’t come as a surprise, Cannie. ”

I took a deep breath. Friend, I whispered to the baby. To Maxi, I said, “I’m going to make you the best dinner you’ve ever had. ”

“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 title 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 bullshit, 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 God who had failed to instruct me back in November. But no answer came — just the waves and, eventually, the starlit night.

On my third Saturday 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 pricked up alertly, like the world’s smallest guard dog. “Up and at ’em! ” she said, bouncing on the balls 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 glass windows, and a deck lined with sea grass 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 breasts, 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. ” Nobody did. Abigail smiled at us and hit a button 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 Saturday, 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 glass 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, breasts 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 hello. ” 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.

“Necessary evil, ” Maxi said crisply, powering past several lesser vehicles and zooming into the fast lane.

The surgeon’s office was a study in gray and mauve, all cool marble floors and glossy walls and even glossier receptionists. Maxi pulled off her oversized sunglasses and had a quiet talk with the woman behind the desk while I strolled, examining the poster-sized photographs of the doctors that lined the wall, wondering which one would have the pleasure of plumping up Maxi’s lips and erasing the invisible lines around her eyes. Dr. Fisher was a Ken doll-looking blond. Dr. Rhodes was a brunette with arched eyebrows who looked about my age, but probably wasn’t. Dr. Tasker was the jovial Santa Claus of the bunch — minus, of course, the roly-poly cheeks and double chin. And Dr. Shapiro …

I stood there, frozen, staring up at the larger-than-life picture of my father. He was thinner, and he’d shaved off his beard, but it was unquestionably him.

Maxi strolled over, her heels clicking on the floor. When she saw the look on my face, she grabbed my elbow and led me to a chair. “Cannie, what is it? Is it the baby? ”

I tottered back to the wall on legs that felt like lengths of ossified wood, and pointed. “That’s my dad. ”

Maxi stared at the picture, then at me. “You didn’t know he was out here? ” she asked. I shook my head.

“What should we do? ”

I nodded toward the door and started walking as fast as I could. “Leave. ”

“So that’s what’s become of him, ” I said. Maxi and Nifkin and I were out on the deck, drinking raspberry iced tea. “Liposuction in L. A. ” I worked my tongue around it, trying the concept on for size. “Sounds like the beginning of a bad joke, doesn’t it? ”

Maxi looked away. I felt sorry for her. She’d never seen me this upset, and she didn’t have any idea of how to help me. And I didn’t know what to tell her.

“Sit tight, ” I said, getting to my feet. “I’m going to go for a walk. ”

I walked down by the water, passed the rollerbladers in bikinis, the volleyball games, the screaming, Popsicle-sticky kids. I passed the vendors on stilts, the piercing parlors, and the four-pairs-for-ten-dollars sock vendors, and the dreadlocked teenagers sitting on park benches, playing their guitars, and homeless people in layers and layers of clothes, splayed like corpses underneath the palm trees.

As I walked I tried to lay things out in front of me, to organize them, like they were pictures at an exhibition, framed and hung on a gallery wall.

I pictured my family as it had once been — the five of us on the lawn at Rosh Hashanah, posing in our best clothes: my father with his beard neatly trimmed and his hands on my shoulder; me with my hair twisted back in barrettes, the barest buds of breasts pushing at the front of my sweater, both of us smiling.

I pictured us all five years later: my father gone; me, fat and sullen and scared; my mother, frantic; my brother, miserable; and Lucy with her Mohawk and her piercings and late-night telephone callers.

More pictures: my college graduation. My mother and Tanya, their arms around each other’s shoulders, at their softball league championship game. Josh, six feet tall and thin and solemn, carving a turkey at Thanksgiving. Years of holidays, the four of us arrayed around the dining room table, my mother at the head and my brother opposite her, various boyfriends and girlfriends showing up, fading out, all of us trying hard to look like there was nothing missing there.

I moved on. There I was, standing proudly in front of my first apartment, holding a copy of my first newspaper story, pointing at the headline “Budget Debate Postponed. ” Me and my first boyfriend. Me and my college sweetheart. Me and Bruce in the ocean, laughing at the camera, squinting in the sun. Bruce at a Grateful Dead concert, in a hackey-sack circle, one foot extending in mid-kick, a beer in his hand and his hair flowing loose over his shoulders. Then I made myself step back and move on.

I stood and let the ocean cool my feet and felt … nothing. Or maybe it was the end of love that I was feeling, the cool empty place that’s left inside you where all that heat and pain and passion used to be, the slick of wet sand after the tide finally rolls back out.

Okay, I thought. Here you are. You Are Here. And you move forward because that’s the way it works; that’s the only place you can go. You keep going until it stops hurting, or until you find new things to hurt you worse, I guess. And that is the human condition, all of us lurching along in our own private miseries, because that’s the way it is. Because, I guess, God didn’t give us any choice. You grow up, I remembered Abigail telling me. You learn.

Maxi was sitting on the deck where I’d left her, waiting.

“We need to go shopping, ” I said.

She rose quickly to her feet. “Where? ” she asked. “For what? ”

I laughed, and heard the tears inside of it, and wondered if she could hear them, too. “I need to buy myself a wedding ring. ”

SEVENTEEN

The receptionist at my father’s office didn’t seem at all perturbed at the long pause before I told her why I was calling.

I had a scar, I finally explained, and I wanted Dr. Shapiro to have a look at it. I gave Maxi’s cell phone number as my own and gave Lois Lane as my name, and the receptionist didn’t sound the least bit curious. She just gave me a ten A. M. appointment for Friday and warned me that the traffic could be brutal.

So on Friday morning I started out early. My hair was freshly trimmed (Garth had obliged, even though it had only been four weeks, not six). And on my left hand I wore not only the plain gold band I’d imagined but a diamond of such breathtaking enormity, such improbable size, that I could barely keep my eyes on the road.

Maxi had brought it home from the set, promising that no one would miss it, and that it would be just the thing to announce to my father in general and the world at large that I’d arrived.

“But let me ask you, ” she began that morning, over buttermilk waffles and peach and ginger tea. “Why do you want your father to think you’re married? ”

I stood up and opened the curtains, looking out at the water. “I don’t know, really. I don’t even know if I’ll wear the rings when I go see him. ”

“You must have thought about it, ” said Maxi. “You think about everything. ”

I looked at the rings on my fingers. “I guess it’s that he said nobody would ever love me, that nobody would ever want me. And I feel like if I see him, and I’m pregnant and I’m not married … it’ll be like he was right. ”

Maxi looked at me as if this were the saddest thing she’d ever heard. “But you know that’s not true, right? ” she asked. “You know how many people love you. ”

I drew a shaky breath. “Oh, sure, ” I said. “It’s just … with this … it’s hard to be reasonable. ” I looked at her. “It’s family, you know? Who was ever reasonable about family? I just … I want to know why he did what he did. I want to at least be able to ask the question. ”

“He might not have answers, ” Maxi told me. “Or, if he does, they might not be the ones you want to hear. ”

“I just want to hear something, ” I said raggedly. “I just feel like … I mean, you only get two parents, and my mom’s …” I gave a vague, general wave of my hand to indicate lesbianism and an inappropriate life partner. My finger flashed in the sunlight. “I just feel like I have to try. ”

The nurse who led me into the cubicle had breasts as symmetrical and rounded as twin halved cantaloupes. She handed me a plush terrycloth robe and a clipboard full of forms to fill out. “Doctor will be with you shortly, ” she said, clicking on a high-powered light and shining it on my face, where I’d invented a scar. “Huh, ” she said, scrutinizing the scar. “That hardly looks like anything. ”

“It’s deep, though, ” I said. “I can see it in pictures. It shows up there. ”

She nodded as if this made perfect sense to her and backed out of the room.

I sat on a beige armchair, making up lies to put on the forms and wishing that I had a scar — some physical sign to show the world — to show him — what I’d been through, and what I’d survived. Twenty minutes later, there was a brisk knock at the door, and my father walked in.

“So what brings you here today, Ms. Lane? ” he asked, his eyes on my chart. I sat quietly, saying nothing. After a moment, he looked up. There was an irritated expression on his face, a stop-wasting-my-time look that I recognized from my childhood. He stared at me for a minute with nothing registering on his face but more annoyance. Then he saw.

“Cannie? ”

I nodded. “Hello. ”

“My God, what …” My father, a man with an insult for every occasion, was for once gratifyingly speechless. “What are you doing here? ”

“I made an appointment, ” I said.

He winced, took off his glasses, and pinched the bridge of his nose — another pose I’d remembered well. It usually presaged a temper tantrum, anger of some sort.

“You just disappeared, ” I said. He started shaking his head and opened his mouth, but I wasn’t about to let him start without saying my piece. “None of us knew where you were. How could you do that? How could you just walk out on all of us like that? ” He said nothing … just stared at me — through me — as if I were any hysterical patient, shrieking that her thighs still felt lumpy or her left nipple was higher than her right one. “Don’t you care about us? Don’t you have a heart? Or is that a stupid question to ask someone who sucks cellulite out of thighs for a living? ”

My father glared at me. “You don’t need to be condescending. ”

“No, what I needed was a father, ” I said. I hadn’t realized how angry, how furious at him I was until I’d seen him, standing there in his crisp white doctor’s coat, his manicured fingernails, his tan, and his heavy gold watch.

He sighed, as if the conversation bored him; as if I bored him, too. “Why are you here? ”

“I didn’t come here looking for you, if that’s what you’re asking. A friend of mine had an appointment, and I came with her. I saw your picture, ” I continued. “Not very smart, you know? For someone trying to stay undercover”

“I’m not trying to stay undercover, ” he said irascibly. “That’s nonsense. Did your mother tell you that? ”

“Then how come none of us know where you are? ”

“You wouldn’t have cared if you did, ” he muttered, picking up the clipboard he’d come in with.

I was so flabbergasted, he actually had his hand on the doorknob before I could think of what to say. “Are you crazy? Of course we would have cared. You’re our father”

He put his glasses back on. I could see his eyes behind them, a weak, watery brown. “And you’re all grown up now. All of you are. ”

“You think just because we’re older it doesn’t matter what you did to us? You think needing your parents in your life is something you outgrow, like training wheels or a high chair? ”

He raised himself up to his full five feet, eight and a half inches, and gathered the cloak of authority, of Doctor-ness, around him as palpably as if he’d been pulling on a heavy winter coat. “I think, ” he said, speaking slowly and precisely, “that lots of people are disappointed by the lives that they wind up with. ”

“And that’s what you want to be to us? A disappointment? ”

He sighed. “I can’t help you, Cannie. I don’t know what you want, but I can tell you this — I’ve got nothing to give you. Any of you. ”

“We don’t want your money”

He looked at me almost kindly. “I’m not talking about money. ”

“Why? ” I asked him. My voice was cracking. “Why have kids and leave them? That’s the part I don’t understand. What did we do …” I gulped. “What did any of us do that was so awful that you never wanted to see us again? ” I knew, even as I was saying the words, even as I was thinking them, that it was ridiculous. I knew that no child could be that bad, that wrong, that ugly, could be anything to cause a parent to leave. I knew that it was no fault of ours. We weren’t to blame, I thought to myself. I could let it go; I could set the burden down, I could be free.

Except, of course, that knowing something in your head is different than feeling it in your heart. And I knew at that moment that Maxi had been right. Whatever my father could say, whatever answer he could provide, whatever excuse he could muster, it wouldn’t be right. And it wouldn’t ever be enough.

I stared at him. I waited for him to ask me something, to ask what had become of me: Where did I live, and what did I do, and whom had I decided to spend my life with? Instead he looked at me again, shook his head once, and turned toward the door.

“Hey! ” I said.

He turned to look at me, and my throat closed up. What did I want to tell him? Nothing. I wanted him to ask me things: how are you, who are you, what’s happened to you, who have you become. I stared at him, and he said nothing — just walked away.

I couldn’t help myself. I reached for him, for some sign, for something, as he was walking out the door. I felt my fingertips graze the back of that crisp white coat. He never stopped walking. He never even slowed down.

When I came back, I put the rings in their little velvet box. I washed the makeup off my face and the gel out of my hair. Then I called Samantha.

“You won’t believe it, ” I began.

“Probably not, ” she said. “So tell me. ”

And I did. “He didn’t ask me a single question, ” I told her at the end. “He didn’t want to know what I was doing out here, or what I was doing with my life. I don’t even think he noticed I was pregnant. He just didn’t care. ”

Samantha sighed. “That’s awful. I can’t even imagine how you must feel. ”

“I feel …” I said. I looked out at the water, then up at the sky. “I feel like I’m ready to come home. ”

Maxi nodded when I told her, sadly, but didn’t ask me to stay.

“You’re done with the screenplay? ” she asked.

“I’ve been done for a few days, ” I told her. She surveyed the bed, where I’d laid my things out — my clothes and books, the teddy bear I’d bought for the baby one afternoon in Santa Monica.

“I wish we could have done more, ” she said with a sigh.

“We did plenty, ” I said, and hugged her. “And we’ll talk … and e-mail … and you’ll visit when the baby comes”

Maxi’s eyes lit up. “Aunt Maxi, ” she proclaimed. “You’ll have to have it call me Aunt Maxi. And I’m going to spoil it rotten! ”

I smiled to myself, imagining Maxi treating little Max or Abby like a two-legged Nifkin, dressing the baby in outfits she’d picked out to match her own. “You’re going to be a fabulous aunt, ” I said.

She insisted on driving me to the airport, helping me check my luggage, waiting with me at the gate even though everyone from the flight attendants on down were staring at her like she was the rarest exhibit in the zoo.

“This is going to wind up on Inside Edition, ” I warned her, giggling and crying a little bit as we hugged each other for the eighteenth time. Maxi kissed my cheek, then bent down and gave my belly a little wave.

“You’ve got your ticket? ” she asked me.

I nodded.

“Got milk money? ”

“Oh, yes, ” I said, smiling, knowing how true it was.

“Then you’re good to go, ” she said.

I nodded, and sniffled, and hugged her tight. “You’re a wonderful friend, ” I told her. “You’re the greatest. ”

“Be careful, ” she replied. “Travel safe. Call me as soon as you get there. ”

I nodded, saying nothing, because I didn’t trust myself to speak, and turned away from her, toward the walkway, the plane, and home.

First class was more crowded this time than it had been on my way out. A guy about my age and exactly my height, with curly blond hair and bright blue eyes, took the seat next to me as I was struggling to get the seat belt (much tighter this time) around myself. We nodded politely at each other. Then he pulled out a sheaf of important-looking legal documents with “Confidential” stamped all over them, and I pulled out my Entertainment Weekly. He shot a sidelong glance at my reading matter and sighed.

“Jealous? ” I asked. He smiled, nodded, and pulled a roll of candy from his pocket.

“Would you like a Mento? ” he asked.

“Is that really the singular? ” I replied, taking one. He gazed at the roll of Mentos, then looked at me and shrugged. “You know, ” he said, “that’s a good question. ”

I reclined the seat. He was kind of cute, I mused, and clearly had a good job, or at least the paperwork to make it look like he had a good job. That was what I needed — just a regular guy with a good job, a guy who lived in Philadelphia and read books and adored me. I snuck another look at Mr. Mento and contemplated giving him my card … and then I pulled myself up short, hearing my mother’s voice and Samantha’s voice converging in my head in one loud, desperate shriek: Are you crazy?

Maybe in another lifetime, I decided, pulling the blanket up under my chin. But this one would work out okay. Maybe my father was never going to be my father again, maybe my mother would stay yoked to the Dread Lesbian Tanya forever. Maybe my sister would always be unstable, and maybe my brother would never learn how to smile. But I could still find good in the world. I could still find beauty. And someday, I told myself, before I fell asleep, maybe I’d even find someone else to love. “Love, ” I whispered to the baby. And then I closed my eyes.

If you wish for something hard enough, the fairy tales teach us, you can get it in the end. But it’s hardly ever the way you thought it would be, and the endings aren’t always happy ones. For months, I had been wishing for Bruce, dreaming of Bruce, conjuring a memory of his face and holding it in front of me as I fell asleep, even when I tried not to. In the end, it was almost like I’d wished him into being, that I’d dreamed so hard and so often that he couldn’t help but appear before me.

It happened just the way Samantha had said it would. “You’ll see him again, ” she’d told me that morning months ago when I told her that I was expecting. “I’ve seen enough soap operas to guarantee it. ”

I got off the plane, yawning to clear my clogged-up ears, and there, in the waiting area directly across from me, beneath a sign that read “Tampa/St. Pete’s” was Bruce. I felt my heart lift, thinking that he’d come for me, that, somehow, he’d come for me, until I saw that he was with some girl I’d never seen before. Short, pale, her hair in a pageboy. Light blue jeans, a pale yellow Oxford shirt tucked in. Nondescript, fade-into-the-woodwork clothes, medium features and a medium frame. Nothing remarkable about her at all except for her thick unruly eyebrows. My replacement, I presumed.

I froze in place, paralyzed by the horrible coincidence, the outrageous misfortune of this. But if it was going to happen, this would be the place — the giant, soulless Newark International Airport, where travelers from New York, New Jersey, and Philadelphia converged in search of transatlantic flights and/or cheap domestic airfare.

For about five seconds I stood stock-still and prayed that they wouldn’t see me. I tried to edge off to the side of the lounge, to skirt the entire area, thinking that there had to be some way to duck onto the escalator, grab my bags, and escape. But then Bruce’s eyes locked on mine, and I knew it was too late.

He bent down, whispering something to the girl, who turned her head away before I could get a good look. Then he crossed the concourse, walking right toward me, wearing a red T-shirt that I’d snuggled up against a hundred times and blue shorts that I remembered seeing him put on, and pull off, just as often. I sent up a quick prayer of thanks for Garth’s haircut, for my tan, for my diamond earrings, and endured a sudden spasm of misery that I wasn’t still wearing that grand and gaudy diamond ring. It was completely superficial, I knew, but I hoped I looked good. As good as somebody seven and a half months pregnant could look after a six-hour plane trip, at least.

And then Bruce was right in front of me, looking pale and solemn.

“Hey, Cannie, ” he said. His eyes fell to my midsection as if it were magnetized. “So you …”

“That’s right, ” I said coolly. “I’m pregnant. ” I stood up straight and tightened my grip on Nifkin’s case. Nifkin, of course, had smelled Bruce and was in the midst of trying to leap out and greet him. I could hear his tail thumping as he whined.

Bruce raised his eyes to the computerized board over the doorway I’d just passed through. “You’re coming from L. A.? ” he asked, showing that his reading abilities had not diminished during our time apart.

I gave another curt nod, hoping he couldn’t tell how badly my knees were shaking. “What are you doing here? ” I asked.

“Vacation, ” he said. “We’re going to Florida for the weekend. ”

We, I thought bitterly, staring at him. He looked just the same. A little thinner, maybe, with a few more strands of gray in his ponytail, but still, same old Bruce, right down to his smell, to his smile, and the half-laced doodled-on basketball sneakers. “How nice for you, ” I said.

Bruce didn’t take the bait. “So were you in L. A. for work? ”

“I had some meetings on the coast, ” I said. I have always wanted to say that to someone.

“The Examiner sent you to California? ” he asked.

“No, I had meetings about my screenplay, ” I said.

“You sold your screenplay? ” He seemed genuinely happy for me. “Cannie, that’s great! ”

I said nothing, glaring at him. Of all the things I needed from him — love, support, money, the bare acknowledgment that I existed, that our baby existed, and that any of it mattered to him, his congratulations felt exceedingly paltry.

“I … I’m sorry, ” he finally managed. And with that I was furious. How rotten of him, I thought, showing up at an airport to take Little Miss Pageboy on vacation, mouthing his pathetic apology, as if it could undo the months of silence, the worry I’d gone through, the anguish of missing him and figuring out how to provide for a baby on my own. And I was furious, too, for his complacency. He didn’t care — not about me, not about the baby. He’d never called, never asked, never cared. Just left me — left us — all alone. Who did this remind me of?

I knew, at that moment, that my anger wasn’t really for him. It was for my father, of course, the Original Abandoner, the author of all of my insecurities and fears. But my father was three thousand miles away from me, with his back eternally turned. If I could only step back and look at it clearly, I’d see that Bruce was just some guy, like a thousand other guys, right down to the pot and the ponytail and the half-intended slipshod lazy life, right down to the dissertation he’d never finish, the bookshelves he’d never build, and the bathtub he’d never clean. Guys like Bruce were as common as white cotton socks sold in six-packs at the Wal-Mart, if not as clean, and all I’d have to do to acquire another one would be to show up at a Phish concert and smile.

But Bruce, as opposed to my father, was right here … and he was far from innocent. After all, hadn’t he left me, too?

I set Nifkin down and turned to face Bruce, feeling all of my fury — years of it — curl in my chest and rise to my throat. “You’re sorry? ” I spat.

He took a step backward. “I am sorry, ” he said, and his voice was so sad it sounded like he was being ripped open from the inside. “I know I should have called you, but … I just …”

I narrowed my eyes. He dropped his hands. “It was just too much, ” he whispered. “With my father and all. ”

I rolled my eyes to show what I thought of that excuse, and to make it clear that he and I would not be exchanging tender reminiscences of Bernard Guberman, or anything else, anytime soon.

“I know how strong you are, ” he told me. “I knew you’d be okay. ”

“Well, I have to be, don’t I, Bruce? You didn’t leave me much of a choice. ”

“I’m sorry, ” Bruce said again, looking even more wretched. “I … I hope you’ll be happy. ”

“I can feel those good wishes radiating right off you, ” I retorted. “Oh, wait. My mistake. That’s just pot smoke. ” It felt as if a part of me had detached from my body, floated up to the ceiling, and was watching this scene unfold in terror … and in great sadness. Cannie, oh, Cannie, a little voice mourned, this isn’t who you’re angry at.

“And you know what? ” I asked him. “I’m sorry about your father. He was a man. You, you’re nothing but a boy with big feet and facial hair. And you’re never going to be anything else. You’ll never be more than a third-rate writer at a second-rate magazine, and God help you when you can’t peddle any more memories of what we had together. ”

The girlfriend sidled up to his side and laced her fingers through his. I just kept talking. “You’ll never be as good as me, and you’re always going to know that I was the best you ever had. ”

The girlfriend attempted to say something, but I wasn’t going to stop.

“You’re always going to be some big goofy guy with a bunch of tapes in cardboard shoeboxes. The guy with the rolling papers. The guy with the Grateful Dead bootleg. Good old Bruce. Except that shtick gets tired after sophomore year. It gets old, the same way that you’re getting old. It’s unimproved, just like your writing. And you know what else? ” I stepped right up to him, so we were practically toe to toe. “You’re never going to finish that dissertation. And you’re always going to live in New Jersey. ”

Bruce stood there, stunned. His mouth was literally gaping open. It wasn’t a good look, emphasizing as it did his weak chin, and the network of wrinkles around his eyes.

The girlfriend looked up at me.

“Leave us alone, ” she said in a little squeaky voice. My new Manolo Blahnik slides gave me an extra three inches and I felt Amazonian, powerful, untroubled by this little wisp of a thing who barely cleared my shoulders. I gave her my very best shut-up-and-let-the-smart-people-talk look, the one I’d perfected over the years on my siblings. I wondered if she’d ever heard of tweezers. Sure, she could probably be looking at me and wondering whether I’d ever heard of Slim-Fast … or of birth control, for that matter. I found that I didn’t much care.

“I don’t think I was actually saying anything to you, ” I said, and dredged up a line from the Take Back the Night March, circa 1989. “I don’t believe in blaming the victim. ”

That snapped Bruce back to reality. He tightened his grip on her hand. “Leave her alone, ” he said.

“Oh, Jesus. ” I sighed. “Like I’m the one doing anything to either one of you. For your information, ” I told the girlfriend, “I wrote him exactly one letter when I found out I was pregnant. One letter. And I won’t do it again. I’ve got plenty of money, and a better job than he does, in case he neglected to mention that when he gave you our history, and I’m going to do just fine. I hope the two of you are very happy together. ” I picked up Nifkin, tossed my great hair, and breezed past a security guard. “I’d search his luggage, ” I said, loud enough for Bruce to hear, “he’s probably holding. ”

And then, still being pregnant, I went to the bathroom to pee.

My knees felt like water, my cheeks were hot. Hah, I thought. Hah!

I stood, flushed, and opened the cubicle door. And there was the new girlfriend, her arms crossed against her meager chest.

“Yes? ” I inquired politely. “You have a comment? ”

Her mouth twisted. She had, I noticed, a bit of an overbite.

“You think you’re so smart, ” she said. “He never really loved you. He told me he didn’t. ” Her voice was getting higher. Squeak, squeak, squeak. She sounded like a little stuffed animal, the kind that bleated when you squeezed it.

“Whereas you, ” I said, “are obviously the real love of his life. ” I knew, deep in my heart, in my good heart, that whatever quarrel I had, it wasn’t with her. But it was as if I couldn’t help myself.

Her lip curled, literally curled, like Nifkin’s when we played with his fluffy toys.

“Why don’t you leave us alone? ” she hissed.

“Leave you alone? ” I repeated. “Leave you alone? See, this is the theme you keep coming back to, and I don’t understand it. I’m not doing anything to either one of you. I live in Philadelphia, for heaven’s sake”

And then I saw it. Something in her face, and I knew what it was.

“He’s still talking about me, right? ” I asked.

She opened her mouth to say something. I decided I didn’t want to stay around and hear it. I was suddenly enormously tired. I ached for sleep, for home, for my bed.

“He doesn’t, ” she began.

“I don’t have time for this, ” I told her, cutting her off. “I’ve got a life. ” I tried to walk past her, but she was standing right by the sink, not giving me the room to pass.

“Move, ” I said shortly.

“No, ” she said. “No, you listen to me! ” She put her hands on my shoulders, trying to get me to hold still, shoving me slightly. One minute I was up, trying to get past her, and the next minute my foot slipped on a puddle of water. My ankle buckled, turning underneath me. And I fell sideways, slamming my belly into the hard edge of the sink.

Bright pain flared, and I was lying on my back, lying on the floor, my ankle twisted at an angle I knew couldn’t mean anything good, and she was standing above me, panting like an animal, her cheeks flushed hectic red.

I sat up, putting both palms flat on the floor, and grabbed for the sink, when I felt a sudden tearing cramp. When I looked down and saw that I was bleeding. Not a lot, but … well, blood is not something you want to see anywhere below the belt when you’re only halfway through month seven.

Somehow I yanked myself to my feet. My ankle hurt so badly I felt sick, and I could feel blood trickling down my leg.

I stared at her. She stared back, following my gaze down to where the blood was falling in thick drips. Then she clapped one hand over her mouth, turned, and ran.

Things were starting to go fuzzy around the edges, and waves of pain were making their way through my belly. I’d read about this. I knew what it meant, and I knew that it was too early, that I was in trouble. “Help, ” I tried to say, but there was no one there to hear. “Help …, ” I said again, and then the world went gray, then black.

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