Wife 22

by Melanie Gideon

  “I went a little bonkers the year I turned the same age my mother was when she died,” says Pat. “I was so depressed. I couldn’t get out of bed for weeks. My sister-in-law had to come help look after the kids.”

  “I’m not depressed,” I say.

  “Well, good, that’s good,” says Pat.

  “I quit working at Lancôme,” says Shonda. “And became a sales rep for Dr. Hauschka products. Can you imagine that? Me hawking holistic skin care? My main account was Whole Foods. Have you ever tried to get a parking space at the Whole Foods in Berkeley after nine in the morning? Impossible.”

  “I’m not going to quit my job,” I say. “And even if I wanted to, I can’t, because William just got demoted.”

  The Mumble Bumbles exchange worried, see-I-told-you-so looks.

  “It’s okay. He’s doing some soul searching. It’s a midlife thing,” I say.

  “Alice,” says Tita. “The point is-you might start acting a little crazy. Do things that you normally wouldn’t do. Does that sound familiar? Anything like that happening to you?”

  “No,” I say. “Everything’s normal. Everything’s fine. Except for the fact that Zoe has an eating disorder. And Peter is gay but he doesn’t know it yet. And I’m taking part in this secret study on marital satisfaction.”

  What the Mumble Bumbles knew, what was unspoken between us, what need never be explained or said, was that nobody would ever love us again like our mothers did. Yes, we would be loved, by our fathers, our friends, our siblings, our aunts and uncles and grandparents and spouses-and our children if we chose to have them-but never would we experience that kind of unconditional, nothing-you-can-do-will-turn-me-away-from-you kind of mother love.

  We tried to provide it for one another. And when we failed at that, we offered shoulders to lean on, hands to hold, and ears to bend. And when we failed at that, there was lumpia and waterproof mascara samples, links to articles, and yes, vodka-laced tomato juice.

  But mostly there was the ease that came from not having to pretend you had ever recovered. The world wanted you to go on. The world needed you to go on. But the Mumble Bumbles understood that the loss soundtrack was always playing in the background. Sometimes it was on mute, and sometimes it was blasting away on ten, making you deaf.

  “Start from the beginning, honey, and tell us everything,” says Tita.

  34

  37. And then one day, standing in front of the Charles Hotel, he unplugged my earphones from my Walkman, put them into his Walkman, and for the first time it seemed like we were having a real conversation. It went something like this:

  Song 1: De La Soul, “Ha Ha Hey”: I’m a white guy who likes watered-down hip-hop. Occasionally if I’ve had enough to drink I will dance.

  Song 2: Til Tuesday, “Voices Carry”: It would be best if we spoke to nobody of these lunchtime runs.

  Song 3: Nena, “99 Luftballons”: I was a punk for three weeks when I was thirteen. Are you impressed?

  Song 4: The Police, “Don’t Stand So Close to Me”: Stand so close to me.

  Song 5: Fine Young Cannibals, “Good Thing”: You.

  Song 6: Men Without Hats, “The Safety Dance”: Over.

  Song 7: The Knack, “My Sharona”: You make my motor run. My motor run.

  Song 8: Journey, “Faithfully”: An adverb that no longer describes me.

  35

  From: Wife 22 ‹Wife22@netherfieldcenter.org›

  Subject: Friends

  Date: June 4, 4:31 AM

  To: researcher101 ‹researcher101@netherfieldcenter.org›

  I think it’s time we became friends. What do you think about using Facebook? I’m on Facebook all the time and I love the immediacy of it. And wouldn’t it be nice to chat? If we each put up a page and friend only each other we can retain our anonymity. The only problem is that you have to use a real name, so I’ve set up a page under Lucy Pevensie. Do you know Lucy Pevensie from The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe? The girl who stumbled through the wardrobe and found herself in Narnia? My children always accuse me of being lost in another world when I’m on online, so it makes a strange sort of sense. What do you think?

  All the best,

  Wife 22

  From: researcher101 ‹researcher101@netherfieldcenter.org›

  Subject: Re: Friends

  Date: June 4, 6:22 AM

  To: Wife 22 ‹Wife22@netherfieldcenter.org›

  Dear Wife 22,

  I don’t typically communicate with subjects via Facebook due to the obvious privacy issues, but it seems you’ve found a way to work around that. I will say, for the record, that I don’t like Facebook and I don’t typically “chat.” I find communicating in short bursts both draining and distracting. As did, according to NPR, the teenage girl who fell into an open manhole today while texting. Facebook is another kind of hole-a rabbit hole, in my opinion-but I will check into the feasibility of using it and get back to you.

  Sincerely,

  Researcher 101

  From: Wife 22 ‹Wife22@netherfieldcenter.org›

  Subject: Re: Friends

  Date: June 4, 6:26 AM

  To: researcher101 ‹researcher101@netherfieldcenter.org›

  What’s wrong with rabbit holes? Some of us are quite partial to them. Chagall believed a painting was like a window through which a person could fly into another world. Is that more to your liking?

  Wife 22

  From: researcher101 ‹researcher101@netherfieldcenter.org›

  Subject: Re: Friends

  Date: June 4, 6:27 AM

  To: Wife 22 ‹Wife22@netherfieldcenter.org›

  Why, yes it is. How did you know?

  Researcher 101

  36

  “So, what do you want to do?” I ask.

  “I don’t know. What do you want to do?” says William. “Are you all set for the potluck? What are we supposed to bring?”

  “Lamb. Nedra emailed me the recipe. It’s been marinating since last night. I have to go to Home Depot-I want to get lemon balm and lemon verbena and that other lemon herby thing-what’s it called? From Thailand?”

  “Lemongrass. What’s with all the lemon?” he asks.

  “Lemon is a natural diuretic.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “Didn’t you?”

  We talk carefully and politely, like strangers making small talk at a party. How do you know the host? Well, how do you know the host? I love corgis. I love corgis, too! I know part of this distance is because he’s keeping the Cialis debacle secret. And I’m keeping the fact that I know about it secret. And of course there’s the fact that I’m emailing total strangers about the intimate particulars of our marriage (just as it seems William is also telling total strangers about the intimate particulars of our marriage). But I can’t blame it all on the study or William’s demotion. The distance between us has been growing for years. The primary way we converse during the workweek is through text, and we pretty much always have the same conversation:

  ETA?

  Seven.

  Chick or fish?

  Chick.

  It’s Saturday. Caroline’s here, but both kids are gone for the day-a rare occurrence in our household. I’m trying not to feel panicked, but I am. In their absence, the day looms without structure. I usually shuttle Peter to piano and soccer and William takes Zoe to volleyball games or Goodwill (where she acquires most of her clothes). I try not to think about the fact that we often operate like roommates, and most of the time roommates is okay, a bit lonely, but comfortable. But a day alone together means stepping out of our parent roles and reverting back to husband and wife, which makes me feel pressured. Kind of like Cialis without the Cialis.

  I remember that when the kids were young, an acquaintance confided in me how bereft she and her husband were that their son was leaving for college. I thoughtlessly said to her, “Well, isn’t that the point? He’s launched. Shouldn’t you be happy?” I came home and told William, and the two of us were flumm
oxed. Deep in the trenches of early parenthood, either one of us would have done anything to have an afternoon to ourselves. We looked forward to our kids becoming independent. Imagine being so attached to your children that you would feel lost when they left, we said to each other. A decade later, I’m just beginning to understand.

  “Are the Barbedians coming tonight?” asks William.

  “I don’t think so. Didn’t they say they had Giants tickets?”

  “Too bad, I like Bobby,” says William.

  “Meaning you don’t like Linda?”

  William shrugs. “She’s your friend.”

  “Well, she’s your friend, too,” I say, irritated that he’s trying to pawn Linda off on me.

  Nedra and I met Linda when our kids attended the same preschool. Our three families have been doing a monthly potluck for years. All the kids used to come to the potluck but as they got older, one by one they began to drop out, and now it’s usually just the adults (and occasionally Peter) who show up. Without the children as a buffer the dynamics of the potluck have changed, by which I mean it’s becoming more and more clear we don’t have much in common with Linda anymore. Everybody loves Bobby, however.

  William sighs.

  “Listen, don’t feel like you have to hang out with me while I do my errands. Probably the last thing you want to do is traipse around some plant nursery with me.”

  “I don’t mind,” says William, looking irritated.

  “Really?-well, okay. Should we ask Caroline if she wants to come?”

  “Why would we ask Caroline?”

  “Well, I just thought-well, maybe if you got bored, the two of you could run laps around Home Depot or something.”

  After my one failed run with Caroline, William began running with her. It was a rough beginning. He was out of shape, and those first couple of runs were tough. But now they ran five miles a few mornings a week and afterward whipped up spirulina smoothies, which Caroline tried to foist upon me with promises of fewer colds and better bowel function.

  “Very funny. What’s wrong with just the two of us?” William asks.

  What’s wrong with “just the two of us” is that these days when we’re together, it might as well be “just one of us.” I’m the one who starts all the conversations, who brings him up to date on what’s happening with the children and the house and finances, and who asks him about what’s going on in his life. He rarely reciprocates, and he never voluntarily offers up any information about himself.

  “Nothing-of course not. The two of us is great. We can do whatever we want. What fun!” I say, defaulting to my overly enthusiastic Mary Poppins/Miss Truly Scrumptious voice.

  I long for a richer life with him. I know it’s possible. People out there, like Nedra and Kate, are living richer lives. Couples are making moussaka together while the Oscar Peterson channel plays on Pandora. They’re shopping at farmers’ markets. Of course they’re shopping very slowly (slowness seems to be a key element in living a rich life), visiting all the stalls, sampling stone fruit, sniffing herbs, knowing their lemongrass from their lemon balm, sitting on a stoop and eating vegan scones. I don’t mean rich in the sense of money. I mean rich in the ability to feel things as they’re happening, to not constantly be thinking of the next thing.

  “Hey, Alice.” Caroline walks into the kitchen, waving a book.

  So far Caroline’s had no luck finding a job. She’s had lots of interviews (there’s no shortage of tech startups in the Bay Area) but few callbacks. I know she’s anxious, but I told her not to worry; she could stay with us until she was employed and had banked enough money to pay the security deposit on an apartment. Having Caroline around is not a burden. Besides being great company, she’s the most helpful houseguest we’ve ever had. I’ll really miss her when she goes.

  “Look what I found. Creative Playmaking,” she says in a singsong voice.

  She hands the book to me and I let out a little gasp. I haven’t seen this book in years. “This used to be my bible,” I say.

  “It’s still my mother’s bible,” she says. “So, you guys have a weekend alone. What fun things do you have planned? Do you want me to skedaddle?” She waggles her eyebrows at us.

  Caroline often uses old-fashioned terms like skedaddle-I think it’s charming. I suspect it comes from being a playwright’s daughter and seeing too many renditions of Our Town. I sigh and randomly flip to page 25 in the book.

  1. Have an idea before you start writing.

  2. Everything is potential material: the backyard barbecue, a trip to the grocery store, a dinner party. The best characters are frequently modeled after the ones you live with.

  I shut the book and press it to my chest. Just holding it fills me with hope.

  “Creative Playmaking? That used to be your bible?” asks William.

  That William has no memory of the book and how important it was to me (even though it sat on my bedside table for five years or so) is not a surprise.

  I text William in my mind. Sorry I ass. But you ass, 2.

  Then I say to Caroline, “We’re off to do errands. Want to come?”

  37

  F ESTIVE M OROCCAN P OTLUCK AT N EDRA’S H OUSE

  7:30: Nedra’s kitchen

  Me: Hello, Rachel! Where’s Ross? Here’s the lamb.

  Nedra (peeling back the aluminum foil from roasting dish and frowning): Did you follow the recipe exactly?

  Me: Yes, but with one wonderful twist!

  Nedra: No good can come of wonderful twists. Linda and Bobby made it after all.

  Me: I thought they were going to the game.

  Nedra (sniffing the lamb and making a face): They couldn’t resist your restaurant-quality dishes. Where are the kids?

  Me: Peter’s here. Zoe’s at home doing sit-ups. Where’s Jude?

  Jude (walking into the kitchen): Wishing he was anywhere but here.

  Nedra: Darling, are you going to join us? Alice, wouldn’t that be lovely if Jude joined us?

  Me: It would. Yes, Nedra. It would be so, so lovely.

  Nedra: See, darling. See how wanted you are. Please say you will.

  Jude: (looking down at the floor)

  Me: (looking down at the floor)

  Nedra (sighing): You are big babies, the both of you. Will you please make up?

  Jude: I’m going to Fritz’s to play Pokémon.

  Me: Really?

  Jude: No, not really. I’m going to my room.

  Nedra: Bye, bye, darling. One of these days the two of you will love each other again. It’s my dying wish.

  Me: Must you be so melodramatic, Nedra?

  Jude: Yes, must you?

  Nedra: Melodrama is the language the both of you speak.

  7:40: In the living room

  Nedra: Men, gather round. The costume portion of the evening will begin. Kate and I brought you each back a fez from our most recent trip to Morocco.

  Peter (unable to wipe stricken look off his face): I would prefer not to wear a fez as I’m already wearing a trilby.

  Nedra: Yes, which is why we got you a fez-to get that damn trilby off your head.

  Kate: I think his trilby is cute.

  William: I stand with Peter. Being a woman, you may be unfamiliar with the codes of men and hats in the twenty-first century.

  Bobby: Yes, it’s not like the 1950s, where you take off your hat when you go to dinner. In the twenty-first century you wear your hat throughout dinner.

  Me: Or if you are Pedro, throughout the month of June.

  William: And if you start off the evening with a hat, you don’t switch to another hat. Hats are not like cardigan sweaters.

  Nedra: Put on the fez, Pedro, or else.

  Me: What about us?

  Nedra: Kate, Alice, and Linda, I have not forsaken you. Here are your djellabas!

  Me: Fabulous! A long, loose garment with big sleeves that soon I will be dipping accidentally into my mint sauce.

  Peter: I’ll trade you for my fez.

  N
edra (sighing): Must you all be so ungrateful?

  8:30: At the dinner table

  Kate: How was Salzburg, Alice?

  William: You were in Salzburg?

  Nedra: Yes, eating palatschinken. Apparently without you.

  Me: I was in Salzburg on Facebook. I took the “Dream Vacation” quiz. I’ve always wanted to go to Salzburg.

  Bobby: Linda and I are on Facebook. It’s a fabulous way to stay in touch without really staying in touch. How else would I have known you were going to Joshua Tree this weekend?

  Linda: It’s a women’s weekend, Bobby. Don’t sulk. Ladies, you’re welcome to come.

  Nedra: Will there be drums and burning of things?

  Linda: Yes!

  Nedra: Then no.

  Linda: Hey, did we tell you guys we’re renovating? We’re redoing the master bedroom. It’s the most marvelous thing. We’re making it into two master bedrooms!

  Me: Why would you need two master bedrooms?

  Linda: It’s the new trend. It’s called a flex suite.

  Kate: So you’ll be sleeping in separate bedrooms.

  Peter: Can I be excused? Subtext: Can I sneak into your office and play World of Warcraft on your computer, Nedra?

  Nedra: What, you don’t want to talk about the intimate sleeping arrangements of your parents and your parents’ friends? By all means, Pedro, go!

  Linda: Isn’t it great? It’ll be like we’re dating again! Your suite or mine?

  Nedra: What about spontaneity? What about waking up in the middle of the night and having wild, half-asleep sex?

  Me: Yes, I was wondering about that, too, Linda! What about half-asleep sex?

  William: Isn’t that called rape?

  Linda: I have no desire to have sex at two in the morning. It’s a known fact that it gets much harder to share a bed as you get older. Bobby gets up three times a night to pee.

  Bobby: Linda wakes up every time I move my middle toe.

  Linda: We’ll share a bathroom, of course.

  Me: Now that’s the thing I’d like two of.

  Linda: Twin suites are going to reignite the mystery and the passion in our marriage. You’ll see. God, I miss Daniel. It’s the most ridiculous thing. I couldn’t wait for him to leave for college and now I can’t wait for him to come home.