“ ‘In Your Eyes.’ I love Peter Gabriel,” grunts Peter. “Your song better be worth it.”
“You wrote me a song?” asks Zoe.
“Is that your car, Jude?” asks William, referring to the Toyota parked in front of our campsite.
Jude nods.
William helps Peter to his feet. “Let’s go, you’re driving. Peter can stretch out in the backseat. Alice, you and Zoe follow in our car.”
“You’re driving like a crazy person. You don’t have to tailgate them,” snaps Zoe.
“Did you know Jude was coming?”
“No! Of course not.”
“Who were you texting on the way down here?”
Zoe crosses her arms and looks out the window.
“What’s going on between the two of you?”
“Nothing.”
“And ‘nothing’ is why he drove four hundred miles in the middle of the night to serenade you?”
Even though I’m furious at Jude—why couldn’t he have made his surprise appearance in daylight?—I think what he did was incredibly romantic. I loved Say Anything. Especially the iconic scene where John Cusack is standing on his car holding up his boom box in that trench coat with the huge shoulder pads—I see the doorway to a thousand churches in your eyes. Eleven words that pretty much sum up what it was like to be a teenager in the 1980s.
“It’s not my fault he keeps stalking me.”
“He wrote you a song, Zoe.”
“Not my fault either.”
“I saw the way you were looking at him. Obviously you still have feelings for him. Finally!” I say as we drive off the dirt onto a paved road and Jude picks up speed.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” says Zoe, covering her face with her arm.
We drive down an empty road, past meadows and fields. The moon looks like it’s sitting on a fence post.
“Where the hell is the hospital!” I cry after ten minutes. Finally on my right I see a set of buildings, ablaze in lights.
The parking lot is practically deserted. I say a silent prayer of thanks that we’re in the middle of nowhere. If this were Children’s Hospital in Oakland, we’d be waiting five hours to be seen.
I forgot about stitches. Actually, I forgot about the lidocaine shots that come before the actual stitches.
“You may want to look the other way,” suggests the ER doc, the needle in his hand.
Whenever we watch movies or TV that has any bit of sex in it, Peter asks me, “Should I look away?” Depending on the content, if it’s just rolling around on the bed fully clothed or kissing or a little bit of dry humping, I tell him no. If there’s any sign body parts might be making an appearance, I tell him yes. I know he’s seen breasts on the Internet, but he hasn’t seen them with his mother sitting beside him on the couch. I don’t know who would be more uncomfortable in that situation—him or me. He’s not ready. He’s not ready to see himself get injected with lidocaine, either.
“Look away,” I say to Peter.
“I was talking to you, actually,” says the doctor.
“I don’t have a problem with needles,” I say.
Peter has a death grip on my hand. “I’m going to distract myself now. By having a meaningless conversation with you.”
His eyes stare intently into mine, but my eyes skitter involuntarily toward the needle.
“Mom, I have something to tell you and it may come as a surprise.”
“Uh-huh,” I say, watching the doctor begin to make injections all around the wound.
“I’m straight.”
“That’s good, honey,” I say, as the doctor now begins to inject the lidocaine inside the wound.
“You’re doing great, Peter,” says the doctor. “Almost done.”
“Mrs. Buckle,” says the doctor. “Are you okay?”
I feel dizzy. I grab onto the side of the bed.
“This always happens,” says the doctor to William. “We tell the parents not to look but they can’t help it—they look. I had a father in here the other day who suddenly collapsed when I was stitching up his daughter’s lip. Pitched right over. Big guy. Two hundred pounds. Chipped three teeth.”
“Let’s go, Alice,” says William, taking my elbow.
“Mom, did you hear me?”
“Yes, sweetheart, you’re straight.”
William forces me to my feet.
“Your son is straight. And would you please stop shaking?” I say to William. “It’s making me nauseous.”
“I’m not shaking,” says William, holding me up. “You are.”
“There’s a gurney out in the hallway,” says the doctor.
Those are the last words I hear before I faint.
76
The next day, after a six-hour drive home (two of those hours being stuck in stop-and-go traffic), I go straight upstairs to bed. I’m exhausted.
Zoe and Peter follow me into my room. Peter hurls himself onto the bed next to me, fluffs a pillow, and grabs the remote. “Netflix?” he says.
Zoe looks at me with concern.
“What’s wrong?” I ask. I can’t remember the last time she looked at me kindly.
“Maybe you fainted because you were getting sick,” she says.
“That’s very generous of you, but I fainted because I watched the doctor stick a needle into an open wound in Pedro’s belly.”
“Six stitches,” Peter says proudly, pulling up his shirt to expose the bandage.
“Aren’t you overdoing it a little? The doctor said you’d be fine by today,” says Zoe.
“Six stitches,” Peter repeats.
“I know, Pedro, you were very brave.”
“So are we watching When Barry Met Wally or what?” asks Peter.
After Peter admitted to me he had no desire to see The Omen, I put an end to the mother-son creepy thrillers club. Peter and I are now the sole members of the mother-son romantic comedy club, and I promised when we got home that we’d begin the Nora Ephron series. First we’ll watch the classic When Harry Met Sally, then Sleepless in Seattle, and finally, You’ve Got Mail. I do not expect these movies to result in any nightmares for Peter, other than the horror of realizing how often and comprehensively men and women misunderstand one another.
“I hate romantic comedies,” Zoe says. “They’re so predictable.”
“Is that your way of saying you want to join the club?” asks Peter.
“Dream on, gangsta,” she says, leaving the room.
“Should I look away?” Peter asks one minute into the movie, when Billy Crystal is kissing his girlfriend outside Meg Ryan’s car.
“Should I look away?” he asks again during the famous fake orgasm scene in Katz’s deli. “Or maybe just plug my ears?”
“Should I look away?” he asks when—
“Oh, for God’s sake, Pedro. People have sex, okay. People love sex. People talk about sex. People simulate sex. Women have vaginas. Men have penises.” I wave my hand. “Blah, blah, blah.”
“I’ve decided I don’t want to be Pedro anymore,” he says.
I mute the movie. “Really? Everyone’s gotten the hang of it.”
“I just don’t.”
“Okay. Well, what do you want to be called?”
Please don’t let him say Pedro 3000 or Dr. P-Dro or Archibald.
“I was thinking—Peter.”
“Peter?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Well, that’s a lovely name. I like Peter. It suits you. Should I be the one to break it to your father or should you?”
Peter unmutes the movie.
Billy Crystal: There are two kinds of women: high maintenance and low maintenance.
Meg Ryan: Which one am I?
Billy Crystal: You’re the worst kind. You’re high maintenance but you think you’re low maintenance.
Peter mutes the movie again. “Why did you think I was gay?”
“I didn’t think you were gay.”
Peter gives me a skeptical look.
“Why, Mom?”
“You just gave off—a vibe.”
“Examples?”
“Well. You changed your name to Pedro.”
“Right—there are so many gay Pedros. Go on.”
“You hated Eric Haber. Too much.”
“That’s because he liked Briana too. He was my competition. But he and Pippa Klein are going out, so now he’s cool.”
“Um—your hair swirls counterclockwise.”
Peter shakes his head at me. “You are a kook.”
“And because you use words like ‘kook.’ ”
“Because you use words like ‘kook’! I’m straight, Mom.”
“I know, Peter.”
“Wow, I haven’t heard ‘Peter’ in a long time.”
“Sounds good, doesn’t it?”
“Don’t think I’ve forgotten that it’s slang for penis.”
“Of course not. But doesn’t that give it a sort of edge?” I poke him.
“Ow!”
I sigh. “I’m going to miss my gay son who would never leave me for another woman. I know that’s homophobic—thinking you’ll stay unnaturally attached to me because you’re gay. Either way, you’re leaving me eventually.”
“If it makes you feel better, you could still think of me as your gay son in private. Besides, what kind of a straight twelve-year-old would agree to watch When Harry Met Sally with his mother?” asks Peter.
He unmutes the movie and chuckles.
“That’s exactly the vibe I was talking about,” I say.
“What? Precocious? Smart? Funny? Straight people can be those things, too. You’re so heterophobic.”
After the movie (both of us tear up at the ending), Peter goes in search of something to eat and I log on to Facebook. There’s nothing from Researcher 101, which is not really a surprise: I did tell him I was going to be off-line for a few days. There is, however, no shortage of postings on my wall.
Pat Guardia Alice Buckle
Braxton Hicks—FOR NOW.
30 minutes ago
Shonda Perkins Alice Buckle
New samples: Waterproof Defencils. Juicy Tubes.
32 minutes ago
Tita De La Reyes Alice Buckle
Five dozen lumpia looking for a good home.
34 minutes ago
Weight Watchers
Amnesty Day!! Rejoin the program. First two months free!
4 hours ago
Alice Buckle
Has been tagged in a photo by Helen Davies
4 hours ago
Within minutes of logging on, I feel sick, for two reasons. One—the Mumble Bumbles, Pat, Tita, and Shonda, are stalking me through the ethers. If I don’t agree to breakfast at the Egg Shop soon, they’ll ring my doorbell, throw me in the car, and drive me there. And two—because falling down a rabbit hole into the past frequently has this effect on me. Helen’s posted a load of photos from our Peavey Patterson days. The one I can’t stop looking at was taken the night William won his Clio. It’s of him and Helen sitting at the table, heads tipped toward another, as if in deep conversation. And there in the background, sitting at another table, is me, staring at them hungrily like a madwoman. Helen’s posted this embarrassing photo on purpose.
Helen friended me right after she friended William, with only one intention as far as I can see: to let me know that losing William didn’t ruin her life. She married a man named Parminder, and she and her husband started their own ad agency, which, according to her profile on LinkedIn, has offices in Boston, New York, and San Francisco, and had over $10 million in billings last year. She’s on Facebook all the time; she makes me look like a Luddite. She is no longer zaftig—she golfs, does the tango, and spins, and as of today, weighs a svelte 122 pounds. She uploads photos constantly. Here are her three children sitting at the table making homemade valentines. Here is her cutting garden. And here she is with her new haircut. Do you Like? And although I know her page is curated meticulously, I can’t help falling for her pitch. She has an enviable life. Perhaps she even won, if the markers for winning are a toned body, highlights, and an estate in Brookline.
At least Weight Watchers won’t make me feel envious. I log on and open up my Plan Manager. I scroll back to February 10, the last day I used it.
Weightwatchers.com
Plan Manager for Alice Buckle
PointsPlus Values: 29
Daily Used 32
Daily Remaining 0
Activity Earned 0
Favorites (recently added)
Egg Point Value 2
Yoplait yogurt Point Value 3
Gummy Bears (30) Point Value 14
Krispy Kreme glazed donut Point Value 20
Don’t know PointsPlus Value?
Enter Food Marshmallow Fluff
Enter Fiber 0
Enter Fat 5
Enter Carbohydrates 30
Enter Protein 0
Calculating PointsPlus Values NOW! 33
Now I remember why I stopped Weight Watchers. Counting every morsel of food made me feel incredibly hopeful for the first half of the day, then when one tablespoon of Fluff turned into five an hour before dinner, utterly guilty. Hey, whatever happened to my idea for a Guilt Diet? The same template would work beautifully, with just a few little tweaks.
Guiltdiet.com
Plan Manager for Alice Buckle
GuiltPlus Values: 29
Daily Used 102
Daily Remaining 0
Penance Earned 0
Favorites (recently added)
Used last piece of toilet paper and did not replace roll Guilt Value 1.5
Said I read Anna Karenina Guilt Value 3
Denied I read The Unauthorized Biography of Katy Perry Guilt Value 7
I am not bilingual. Guilt Value 8
I am American. Guilt Value 10
I do not know the difference between Shias and Sunnis. Guilt Value 11
I secretly believe in the Law of Attraction. Guilt Value 20
I didn’t call back my best friend after she called four times and left scary messages in her divorce lawyer voice saying, “Alice Buckle, call me back immediately, there’s something we have to talk about.” Guilt Value 8
Don’t know Guilt Value?
Enter Guilt Excessive flirting and nearly constant fantasizing about a man who is not my husband
How many people were hurt? None yet.
How many people could be hurt? 3 to 10
Cost to make it up? ?
Time to make it up? ??
Unmakeupable? I’m afraid so.
CALCULATE GuiltPlus Value NOW: 8942
WARNING: This exceeds (by 44.04 weeks) weekly allotment of GuiltPlus points.
RECOMMENDED ALTERNATIVE: Pee on the seat in a public toilet instead (Guilt Value 5).
I am a very bad person. Helen of Troy is a very put-together person. Even though I stole her boyfriend, she went on to have a fine life. A better life, perhaps, than mine.
I slide off the bed and walk to the top of the stairs.
“William!” I shout. I feel a pressing need to talk to him. I don’t know about what. I just want to hear his voice.
No answer.
“William?”
Jampo comes tearing up the stairs.
“Your name is not William,” I say, and he cocks his head forlornly.
I think about the way William reached out for my hand when we were in the woods, right after Peter saw the deer. I think about Peter’s accident and how that unlikely event—its marshmallow roasting sticks and pus and ER confessions of sexual identity—have bonded us all together. I think about Zoe looking at me with kindness and worrying I might be getting sick and I know what I have to do. The past twenty-four hours have just solidified it. I log on to Lucy’s Facebook page before I lose my nerve and send a message to Researcher 101.
This has gone too far. I’m sorry, but I have to quit the study.
As
soon as I press Send, I feel a rush of sweet relief, not unlike the relief I used to feel on a Monday when I entered “eggs” on my Weight Watchers Plan Manager.
The next day I decide to unplug. I’m scared to see Researcher 101’s reply (or worse, his silence) and I don’t want to spend the day obsessively checking my Facebook messages, so I shut off my phone and computer and leave them in my office. It’s not easy. My fingers involuntarily tap and circle all day as if browsing an invisible page. And even though I don’t have my phone, I react as if I do. I’m in a state of hypervigilance—waiting to be summoned by a bell that will not be ringing.
I try and embed myself in the day. I run with Caroline; Peter and I bake blueberry muffins; I take Zoe to Goodwill; but even though my body is there, my brain is not. I’m no better than Helen. I, too, treat my life as something to be mined and then packaged up for public consumption. Every post, every upload, every Like, every Interest, every Comment is a performance. But what happens to the performer when she’s playing to an empty stage? And when did the real world become so empty? When everybody abandoned it for the Internet?
My digital diet lasts until after dinner, when I can’t bear it any longer and I break my fast. By the time I log on to Lucy Pevensie’s Facebook page, I’m breathless.
John Yossarian invited you to the event “Coffee”
Tea & Circumstances, July 28, 7 p.m.
You can’t quit yet. There are things I need to tell you now that can only be said in person.
RSVP Yes No Maybe
Relief floods through me again, but there’s nothing sweet about it this time. It’s relief of the desperate, addictive, I-may-never-have-an-opportunity-like-this-again sort, and it hits me like I’ve mainlined a drug. Before I can stop myself, God help me, I click Yes.
Wife 22: A Novel Page 23
