Wife 22: A Novel

by Melanie Gideon

  The sensitivity you show to others will return to you.

  5 hours ago

  Boring. Nothing exciting.

  Then I check Lucy Pevensie’s account.

  John Yossarian

  Likes barmaids.

  5 hours ago

  I give a little squeal.

  60

  John Yossarian

  Why not?

  1 hour ago

  Okay I’m just going to ask. Are you flirting with me, Researcher 101?

  I don’t know. Are you flirting with me?

  Let me be the researcher for once. Answer my question.

  Yes.

  You should probably stop.

  Really?

  No.

  61

  FESTIVE SWEDISH POTLUCK AT NEDRA’S HOUSE

  7:30: Standing in Nedra’s kitchen

  Me: Here’s the meatballs!

  Nedra (peeling back the aluminum foil and making a face): Are these homemade?

  Me: And here’s the lingonberry jam to go with them.

  Nedra: Now I understand why you chose Swedish. Because you ran out of cheap candles. Alice, the whole point of these internationally themed potlucks is to step outside our comfort zones and make new foods, not buy them at Ikea.

  William: Blåbärsplåt (handing her a casserole dish).

  Nedra (peeling back the aluminum foil, her face aglow with delight): You brought something, too?

  William: I made it. It’s a traditional Swedish delicacy.

  Nedra: William, darling, I’m so impressed. Alice, put the lingonberry jam on the table, will you? The Styrofoam cup is a nice touch, by the way.

  7:48: Still standing in the kitchen

  Linda: Wait until you have to move your kid to college. It’s like childbirth, or marriage; nobody tells you the truth about how hard it is.

  Kate: Come on, it can’t be that bad.

  Bobby: Did we tell you the twin master suites are finished?

  Linda: First I had to get up at five in the morning to log on to get Daniel’s scheduled move-in time. It’s first come first served, and everybody wants the 7-to-9 a.m. slot. If you don’t get that slot you’re screwed.

  Nedra: Why didn’t you make Daniel get up at five in the morning?

  Linda (waving her hand, dismissing the idea that an eighteen-year-old boy could possibly be counted upon to set an alarm clock correctly): I got the 7-to-9 a.m. slot. We arrived on campus at 6:45 and already there were huge lines of parents and kids waiting for the four elevators that serviced the entire dorm. Clearly there was a 5-to-7 a.m. the-rules-don’t-apply-to-me-because-I’m-paying-$50,000-a-year slot that I was not made aware of.

  Bobby: I’ve been sleeping like a baby. Linda, too. And our sex life—I won’t go into details, but let’s just say it’s an extreme turn-on to feel like strangers in your own home.

  Linda: So each of us dragged a fifty-pound suitcase up five flights of stairs to Daniel’s room. A Sisyphean feat, given the fact that every couple of minutes we were pushed aside by the happy-go-lucky parents who got there early enough to use the elevator to haul their kids’ stuff up to their rooms, who said stupid things like “looks like you got your hands full” and “moving-in day—aren’t you glad to be rid of them!” And when we got to Daniel’s room—horror!—his roommate was already there and almost completely moved in. When the roommate’s mother saw us she didn’t even say hello; she was frantically unpacking and hoarding as much floor space as she could. Apparently the roommate had that syndrome where one leg is shorter than the other and had been given special dispensation to move in super-duper early—the 3-to-5 a.m. slot.

  Me: William, just think of all the money we’re going to save now that the kids won’t be going to college so that we can avoid moving-in day.

  Bobby: My only question is, why did we wait so long? We could have been this happy years ago. Our contractor told us that’s what all the people who get twin master suites say.

  Linda: At least the roommate had the decency to seem embarrassed by the quantity of stuff he’d brought: a microwave, hot plate, fridge, a bike. We left Daniel’s suitcases in the hallway and told them we’d be back later.

  Bobby: Pop over and I’ll give you a tour.

  Linda: So we’re leaving and the roommate says, “Guess what? I have a sno-cone maker.” My heart sank. I’d bought Daniel a sno-cone maker, too. I read on some blog it was one of the top things you should bring to college to make you popular. Now they would have two sno-cone makers in one ten-by-ten room, which would be one sno-cone maker too many to make them popular. Instead people would be wondering what’s up with those tools in 507 with the two sno-cone makers? All those years of subtle social manipulation, making sure he got invited to the popular kids’ parties, making helpful suggestions like if you don’t feel comfortable “freaking” at the dance, just say it’s against your religion or that your parents forbid you to do it. That’s when I started to cry.

  Me: What’s “freaking”?

  Kate: Dry humping. Basically, simulating sex on the dance floor.

  Bobby: I told her she should save the tears for later when all the parents said goodbye to their kids in the hallways—the one officially sanctioned location for farewells—but did she listen?

  Linda: I cried then. I cried when we came back that evening and the roommate’s goddamn mother was still there organizing and rearranging knickknacks and I couldn’t in good conscience say what the fuck, lady to a mother whose kid’s left leg is three inches shorter than his right, and I cried once more in the hallway at the designated crying time.

  Me: Isn’t it nice none of the children are here?

  Linda (sobbing): And now I’m going to have to do it all over again in August with Nick. And then the kids are gone. We’ll officially be empty-nesters. I’m not sure I can bear it.

  Bobby: I’ll bet there are services that will move your kid into college for you.

  William: Great idea. Subcontract the job.

  Nedra: No mother wants some stranger moving her kid into college, you bloody idiots.

  Me: I’d love to hear more about the twin master suites. Do you have photos? Is this pink stuff gravlox?

  Nedra: Lax. Lox is Jewish.

  Me: How do you know?

  Nedra: Hebfaq.com.

  8:30: On the patio, eating dinner

  Nedra: Believe it or not, there is such a thing as a good divorce.

  Me: What makes a good divorce?

  Nedra: You keep the house, I’ll keep the cabin in Tahoe. We’ll share the condo in Maui.

  William: In other words, money.

  Nedra: It helps.

  Kate: And respect for one another. And wanting to do right by the kids. Not hiding assets.

  William: In other words, trust.

  Me (not looking at William): So tell us what it’s like, Linda—having two masters. How does it work?

  Linda: We watch TV in his or my bedroom, we have our snuggle time, and it’s only when we’re ready to sleep that we each go to our suites.

  Bobby: The suites are purely for sleep.

  Linda: Sleep is so important.

  Bobby: Lack of sleep leads to binge eating.

  Linda: And memory loss.

  Me: And repressed anger.

  William: What about sex?

  Linda: What do you mean, what about it?

  Nedra: When do you have it?

  Linda: When we normally have it.

  Nedra: Which is when?

  Bobby: Are you asking how often?

  Nedra: I’ve always wondered how many times a week straight married couples have sex.

  William: I imagine that has something to do with how long they’ve been married.

  Nedra: That does not sound like an endorsement for marriage, William.

  Me: What color did you paint the walls, Linda?

  Nedra: A couple married for more than ten years—I’d guess once every two weeks.

  Me: What about carpets? Can you believe shag is back in styl
e?

  Linda: Way more.

  Me: Well—I’m not going to lie.

  Linda: You’re saying I’m lying?

  Me: I’m saying you might be stretching the truth.

  William: Pass the Blåbärsplåt.

  Me: Once a month.

  William: (coughs)

  9:38: In the kitchen, putting leftover food into Tupperware containers

  Nedra: My forehead is shiny. I’m stuffed. I’m drunk. Put away your phone, Alice. I don’t want my photo taken.

  Me: You’ll thank me one day.

  Nedra: You do not have my permission to post this on Facebook. I have plenty of enemies. I would prefer they not know where I live.

  Me: Calm down. It’s not like I’m posting your address.

  Nedra (grabbing my phone out of my hand, her thumbs working the screen): It is like you’re posting my address. If your phone has a GPS, your photos have geotags embedded in them. Those tags provide the exact longitude and latitude of where the photo was taken. Most people don’t know that geotags even exist, which let me tell you has worked to many of my clients’ advantages. There. I’ve shut off the location services setting on your camera. Now you may take my picture.

  Me: Forget it. You’ve taken all the fun out of it.

  Nedra: So you were exaggerating, right? You have sex more than once a month.

  Me (sighing): No, I was telling the truth. At least lately that’s how it is.

  Nedra: It may feel like once a month, but I’m sure it’s more. Why don’t you keep track of it. There’s probably some phone app created just for that purpose.

  Me: Have you seen the Why Am I Such a Bitch app? It’s free. Tells you what day you are in your cycle. There’s a version for men, too, only it’s $3.99. It’s the Why Is My Lady Such a Bitch app. And for $4.99 you can upgrade to the Never Ask Your Lady if She’s About to Get Her Period app.

  Nedra: What does that do?

  Me: It charges you $4.99 every time you’re stupid enough to ask your lady if she’s about to get her period.

  Nedra (a look of horror on her face): What are you doing? Don’t toss the Blåbärsplåt!

  10:46: Through the bathroom door

  Me: Anybody in there?

  William (opening door): No.

  Me (shuffling from one side to the other, trying to get by William and into the bathroom): Pick a side, William. Left or right?

  William: Alice?

  Me: What? (trying to squish past him) I have to go to the bathroom.

  William: Look at me.

  Me: After I pee.

  William: No, look at me now. Please.

  Me (looking at the floor): Okay, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have told EVERYBODY we only have sex once a month.

  William: I don’t care about that.

  Me: You should care. That’s private information.

  William: It doesn’t mean anything.

  Me: It means something to me. Besides, it’s probably more than once a month. We should keep track of it.

  William: It’s once a month lately.

  Me: See—you care. (Pause.) Why are you looking at me like that? Say something. (Pause.) William, if you don’t move out of my way I’m going to have an accident. Now, left or right?

  William (long pause): I loved that night in your office.

  Me (longer pause): Me, too.

  10:52: Wandering through the garden

  Bobby: I sense you’re interested in the master suites idea.

  Me: The lanterns are magical. It’s like Narnia back here.

  Bobby: I can email you the name of my contractor.

  Me: If we made two master suites out of our bedroom, we’d each be in a room the dimensions of a prison cell.

  Bobby: It’s changed our lives. I’m not lying.

  Me (touching his cheek with the palm of my hand): I’m happy for you, Bobby. I really am. But I don’t think separate bedrooms is going to fix us.

  Bobby: I knew it! You guys are having problems.

  Me: Do you think Aslan could be waiting for us on the other side of that hedge?

  Bobby: Sorry. I didn’t mean to sound so enthusiastic about your struggles.

  Me: I’m not struggling, Bobby. I’m waking up. This is me waking up (lying down on the grass).

  Bobby (staring down at me): You waking up looks remarkably similar to you after five glasses of wine.

  Me (gasp): Bobby B! There’s so many stars! When did there get to be so many stars? This is what happens when we forget to look up.

  Bobby: Nobody’s called me Bobby B in a long time.

  Me: Bobby B, are you crying?

  11:48: Walking upstairs to our bedroom

  Me: It would appear I’m a little drunk.

  William: Take my arm.

  Me: I suppose now would be a good time to have sex.

  William: You’re more than a little drunk, Alice.

  Me (slurring): Am I unbecomingly drunk or becomingly drunk?

  William (escorting me into the bedroom): Get undressed.

  Me: I don’t think I’m capable of that at the moment. You undress me. I’ll just close my eyes and have a little rest while you take advantage of me. That will still count, won’t it? In our monthly total? If I fall asleep while we’re doing it? Hopefully I won’t vomit.

  William (unbuttoning my shirt and taking it off): Sit down, Alice.

  Me: Wait, I’m unprepared. Give me a second to hold in my stomach.

  William (sliding my pajama top over my head, pushing me back into the pillows, and covering me with a blanket): I’ve seen your stomach before. Besides, it’s completely dark.

  Me: Well, since it’s completely dark you’re welcome to pretend I’m Angelina Jolie. Pax! Zahara! Eat your whole-wheat pasta or else. And all six of you scram out of the family bed—NOW! Hey, why don’t you be Brad?

  William: I am not a role-playing sort of man.

  Me (bolting up): I forgot to buy candles at Ikea. Now I have to go back. I hate Ikea.

  William: Jesus, Alice. Go to sleep.

  62

  I wake in the late morning with a terrible headache. William’s side of the bed is empty. I check his Facebook status.

  William Buckle

  52,800 feet

  One hour ago

  Either he’s on his way to Paris or he’s gone for a ten-mile run. I lift my head from the pillow and the room tilts. I’m still drunk. Bad wife. Bad mother. I think about what embarrassing things I did last night at the potluck and cringe. Did I really try and pass Ikea meatballs off as my own? Did I really crawl through a hedge in Nedra’s garden looking for a portal into Narnia? Did I really admit to our friends that we have sex only once a month?

  I fall back to sleep. Two hours later, I wake and weakly call out “Peter,” then “Caroline,” then “Zoe.” I can’t bring myself to call for William—I’m too humiliated, plus I don’t want to admit to him I’ve got a hangover. Finally, in desperation, I yell “Jampo” and am rewarded with the immediate frantic pitter-pat of tiny feet. He rushes into the bedroom and hurls himself up on the bed, panting at me as if to say “you are the only thing in this world I love, the only thing I care about, the one thing I live for.” Then he proceeds to pee all over the sheets in excitement.

  “Bad boy, bad boy!” I shout but it’s useless, he can’t stop in midstream, so I just watch him dribble. His bottom lip has somehow gotten stuck on his teeth, giving him a pathetic, unintentional Elvis sort of sneer that could be read as hostility but I know is shame. “It’s all right,” I tell him. When he’s done, I drag myself out of bed, strip off my clothes, the duvet, sheets, and mattress cover, and make a mental list of things I will do today to set myself right.

  1. Drink room-temperature water with lemon.

  2. Knit a scarf. A long, thin scarf. No, a short, thin scarf. No, a coaster, i.e. an extremely short, short scarf.

  3. Take Jampo on a brisk walk outside: 30 to 45 minutes minimum without sunglasses, perhaps in a low-cut V-neck, so I can fully absorb optimal
daily dose of vitamin D through my retinas and the delicate skin at the tops of my breasts.

  4. Plant lemon verbena in the yard so I can start drinking tisanes and feeling organic and cleansed and elegant (providing 1. lemon verbena is still alive after buying at Home Depot a month ago and then forgetting to water or repot AND 2. if able to dip head below waist without puking).

  5. Laundry.

  6. Make Bolognese sauce, simmer on the stove all day so the family comes home to homey smell of cooking.

  7. Sing, or if I’m too nauseous to sing, watch The Sound of Music and pretend I am Liesl.

  8. Remember what it felt like to be sixteen going on seventeen.

  It’s a good to-do list—too bad I don’t do a thing on it. Instead, I make another mental list of things I absolutely should NOT do and proceed to knock off every single item:

  1. Load the washer but forget to turn it on.

  2. Eat eight bite-sized Reese’s peanut butter cups while telling myself they only add up to half of a regular-sized cup.

  3. Eat eight more.

  4. Put a bay leaf (because lemon verbena very clearly dead) in some boiling-hot water and force myself to drink entire mugful.

  5. Feel great because I picked that bay leaf while taking a hike in Tilden Park and then dried it in the sun (okay, in the dryer, but I would have dried it in the sun if I hadn’t left it in the pocket of my fleece and then stuck it in the wash).

  6. Feel really great because I am now officially a forager.

  7. Contemplate a new career as a bay leaf forager/supplier to Bay Area’s best restaurants. Fantasize about being featured in the annual food issue of the New Yorker wearing a bandana on my head while holding a woven basket full of fresh bay leaves.