Wife 22: A Novel

by Melanie Gideon

  All the best,

  Wife 22

  From: researcher101

  Subject: Re: Friends

  Date: June 4, 6:22 AM

  To: Wife 22

  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

  Subject: Re: Friends

  Date: June 4, 6:26 AM

  To: researcher101

  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

  Subject: Re: Friends

  Date: June 4, 6:27 AM

  To: Wife 22

  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 flummoxed. 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

  FESTIVE MOROCCAN POTLUCK AT NEDRA’S HOUSE

  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.

  Nedra (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.

  William: Did I mention that a few weeks ago the dog urinated on my pillow?

  Kate: I know a dog psychic you can call.

  Nedra: I had a client once who peed in his wife’s lingerie drawer.

  Bobby: The wife had a lingerie drawer? How long had they been married?

  Me: Jampo knows you don’t like him. He senses that. He’s a truth-teller.

  William: He’s mean. He eats his own shit.

  Me: Exactly my point. How much more truthful can you be? Willing to eat your own poop?

  Nedra: Why does this lamb taste like face cream?

  William: It’s the lavender.

  Nedra (putting down her fork): Alice, is this your idea of a twist? The recipe said rosemary.

  Me: In my defense, a rosemary bush looks almost exactly like a lavender bush.

  Nedra: Yes, except for the purple lavender-smelling flowers.

  9:01: Through the bathroom door

  Peter: Can I talk to you in private?

  Me: I’m going to the bathroom. Can it wait?

  Peter (sounding teary): I have something to confess. I did something really bad.

  Me: Please don’t confess. You don’t have to tell me everything. It’s good to keep some things private. You know that, right? Everybody has a right to a private life.

  Peter: I have to. It’s weighing so heavy on me.

  Me: How will I react?

  Peter: You will be very disappointed and perhaps a little disgusted.

  Me: How should I punish you?

  Peter: I won’t need to be punished. What I saw was punishment enough.

  Me (opening the door): Jesus, what did you do?

  Peter (crying): I Googled P-O-R-N.

  9:10: In the living room

  Linda: I don’t understand why “roommate” is such a dirty word. Anybody who’s been married for more
than ten years are roommates a lot of the time and if they don’t cop to that, they’re lying.

  Nedra: Kate and I are not roommates.

  Me: Yes, and you’re also not married.

  Linda: Lesbians don’t count anyway.

  Nedra: Gold-star lesbians. There’s a difference.

  Me: What’s a gold-star lesbian?

  Kate: A lesbian who’s never been with a man.

  William: I’m a gold-star heterosexual.

  Nedra: Alice, do you ever feel like you and William are roommates?

  Me: What? No! Never!

  William: Sometimes.

  Me: When?

  10:10: In Nedra’s office

  William: I can’t believe we’re doing this. Why are we doing this?

  Me: Because Peter was so traumatized. I have to know what he saw.

  William (sighing): What’s Nedra’s password?

  Me: Nedra. Should you type PORN in caps?

  William: I don’t think it matters.

  Me (gasping): Is that a butternut squash?