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 amp; 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
