Good in Bed

“Okay,” I said. He looked at me carefully. “Well, actually lousy.”

“I can believe it, after what you’ve been through. How is…”

“Joy,” I said. Using her name felt strange… presumptuous somehow, as if I was testing fate by saying it out loud. “She’s small, and her lungs are a little underdeveloped, and she’s breathing with a ventilator…” I paused and swiped a hand across my eyes. “Also, I had a hysterectomy, and I seem to be crying all the time.”

He cleared his throat.

“Was that too much information?” I asked through my tears.

He shook his head. “Not at all,” he told me. “You can talk to me about anything you want to.”

The black duffel bag practically lurched off his lap. It looked so fu

Dr. K. glanced over his shoulder at the closed door. Then he leaned close to me. “This was kind of a risk,” he whispered, “but I thought…”

He lifted the bag onto the bed and eased the zipper open. Nifkin’s nose popped out, followed by the tips of his oversized ears, and then, in short order, his entire body.

“Nifkin!” I said, as Nifkin scrambled onto my chest and proceeded to give my entire face a tongue-bath. Dr. K held him, lifting him clear of my various tubes and attachments, as Nifkin licked away. “How did you… where was he?”

“With your friend Samantha,” he explained. “She’s outside.” “Thank you,” I said, knowing that the words couldn’t begin to express how happy he’d made me.

“Thank you so much.”

“No problem,” said the doctor. “Here… look. We’ve been practicing.” He lifted Nifkin and set him on the floor. “Can you see?”

I propped myself up on my elbows and nodded.

“Nifkin… SIT!” said Dr. K., in a voice every bit as deep and authoritative as James Earl Jones’s telling the world that this… is CNN. Nifkin’s butt hit the linoleum at lightning speed, his tail wagging triple-time. “Nifkin… DOWN!” And down went Nifkin, flat on his belly, looking up at Dr. K. with his eyes sparkling and his pink tongue curled as he panted. “And now, for our final act… PLAY DEAD!” And Nifkin collapsed onto his side as if he’d been shot.

“Unbelievable,” I said. It really was.

“He’s a fast learner,” said Dr. K., loading the now-squirming terrier back into the duffel bag. He bent back to me. “Feel better, Ca

He walked out and Samantha walked in, hurrying over to my bed. She was in full lawyer garb – a sleek black suit, high-heeled boots, a caramel-colored leather attaché case in one hand and her sunglasses and car keys in the other. “Ca

“… as soon as you heard,” I supplied.

“How do you feel?” asked Sam. “How’s the baby?”

“I feel okay, and the baby… well, she’s in the baby intensive-care place. They have to wait and see.”

Samantha sighed. I closed my eyes. I suddenly felt completely exhausted. And hungry.

I sat up, tucking another pillow behind my back. “Hey, what time is it? When’s di

Samantha rose to her feet, grateful, I thought, to have something to do. “I’ll go check… hey, what’s this?”

She pointed at the bakery box that Dr. K. had left behind.

“Don’t know,” I said. “Dr. K. brought it. Take a look.”

Sam ripped through the string and opened the box, and there, inside, was an éclair from the Pink Rose Pastry Shop, a wedge of chocolate bread pudding from Silk City, a brownie still in its Le Bus wrapping paper, and a pint of fresh raspberries.

“Unbelievable,” I murmured.

“Yum!” said Samantha. “How does he know what you like?”

“I told him,” I said, touched that he’d remember. “For Fat Class, we had to write down what our favorite foods were.” Sam cut me a sliver of éclair, but it tasted like dust and stones in my mouth. I swallowed to be polite, sipped some water, then told her that I was tired, that I wanted to sleep.

I stayed in the hospital another week, healing, while Joy got bigger and stronger.

Maxi showed up every morning for a week and sat beside me and read from People, In Style, and Entertainment Weekly magazines, embroidering each story from her own personal stash of anecdotes. My mother and sister stayed with me in the daytime, making conversation, trying not to linger too long at the pauses that came where I would normally be saying something smart-ass. Samantha came every night after work and regaled me with Philadelphia gossip, about the antiquated former stars Gabby had interviewed and the how Nifkin had taken to stopping, mid-walk, and planting himself in front of my apartment building and refusing to budge. Andy came with his wife and a box of Famous Fourth Street chocolate chip cookies and a card that everyone in the newsroom had signed. “Get Well Soon,” it read. I didn’t think that would be happening, but I didn’t tell him that.

“They’re worried about you,” Lucy whispered when my mother was in the hall, talking about something with the nurses.

I looked at her and shrugged.

“They want you to talk to a psychiatrist.”

I said nothing. Lucy looked very serious. “It’s Dr. Melburne,” she said. “I had her for a while. She’s horrible. You better cheer up and start talking more, or else she’s going to ask you about your childhood.”

“Ca

Three days later, Joy took her first breaths without the ventilator.

Not out of the woods yet, the doctors warned me. Have to wait and see. She could be fine, or things could go wrong, but probably she’ll be okay.

And they let me hold her, finally, lifting up her four-pound-six-ounce body and cradling her close, ru

I sat with her for hours until they made me go back to bed, and before I left I filled out her birth certificate, and my handwriting was clear and firm. Joy Leah Shapiro. The Leah was for Leonard, Bruce’s father’s middle name. Leah, the second sister, the one Jacob didn’t want to marry. Leah, the trick bride, the one her father sent down the aisle in disguise.

I bet Leah had a more interesting life anyhow, I whispered to my baby, holding her hand, with me in my wheelchair and her in her glass box that I forced myself not to see as a coffin. I bet Leah went on hiking trips with her girlfriends and had popcorn and Margaritas for di

Two days later, I got part of my wish. They sent me home, but decided to keep Joy. “Just for another few weeks,” said the doctor, in what I’m sure he imagined was a comforting tone. “We want to make sure that her lungs are mature… and that she’s gained enough weight.”