8. Google California bay leaf and discover it’s the Mediterranean bay leaf that is used for cooking and while the California bay leaf is not poisonous, ingestion is not recommended.
9. Go online and reread all the communication between me and Researcher 101 until I’ve read between all his lines and sucked every bit of titillation out of his words.
10. Exhausted, fall asleep on the chaise in the sun, Jampo curled up beside me.
“You smell like booze. It’s oozing out of your pores.”
I open my eyes slowly to see William looking down at me.
“It’s customary to give a person some warning when a person is sound asleep,” I say.
“A person shouldn’t be sound asleep at four in the afternoon,” William counters.
“Would now be a good time to tell you I’d like to change schools and enroll at the Pacific Boychoir Academy in the fall?” asks Peter, he and Zoe strolling out onto the deck.
I raise my eyebrows at William, giving him my see-I-told-you-our-son-was-gay look.
“Since when do you like to sing?” asks William.
“Are you getting bullied?” I ask, cortisol flooding through my body at the thought of him being picked on.
“God, Mom, you stink,” says Zoe. She waves her hand at me.
“Yes, your father already informed me of that. Where have you been all day?”
“Zoe and I hung out on Telegraph Avenue,” says Peter.
“Telegraph Avenue? The two of you? Together?”
Zoe and Peter exchange a furtive look. Zoe shrugs. “So.”
“So—it’s not safe there,” I say.
“Why, because of all the homeless people?” asks Zoe. “I’ll have you know our generation is post-homeless.”
“What does that mean?” I ask.
“It means we’re not afraid of them. We’ve been brought up to look homeless people in the eye.”
“And help them panhandle,” adds Peter.
“And where were you while our children were begging on Telegraph Avenue?” I ask William.
“It’s not my fault. I dropped them off at Market Hall in Rockridge. They took the bus to Berkeley,” says William.
“Pedro sang ‘Ode to Joy’ in German. We made some guy twenty bucks!” says Zoe.
“You know ‘Ode to Joy’?” I ask.
“There’s a ‘You Can Sing Ludwig von Beethoven in German’ channel on YouTube,” says Peter.
“William, should I start with the potatoes?” Caroline shouts from the kitchen.
“I’ll help,” I say, hauling myself out of the chaise.
“No need. Stay here. We’ve got it under control,” says William, disappearing into the house.
As I watch everyone bustling around the kitchen, it occurs to me that Sunday afternoon is the loneliest time of the week. With a sigh, I open my laptop.
John Yossarian
likes Sweden
3 hours ago
Lucy Pevensie
Is in need of her magic cordial but seems to have misplaced it.
3 hours ago
There you are. Have you looked under the backseat of the car, Wife 22?
No, but I looked under the backseat of the White Witch’s sled.
What does the cordial do?
Heals all illnesses.
Ah—of course. Are you ill?
I have a hangover.
I’m sorry to hear that.
Are you of Swedish descent?
I can’t divulge that information.
Well, can you tell me what you like about Sweden?
Its neutrality. It’s a safe place to wait out a war, if one is in a war, that is.
Are you in a war?
Possibly.
How can somebody “possibly” be in a war? Wouldn’t it be obvious?
War is not always obvious, particularly when one is in a war with oneself.
What kind of war does one typically have with oneself?
A war in which one side of him thinks he may be crossing a line, and the other side of him thinks it’s a line that was begging to be crossed.
Researcher 101? Are you calling me a beggar?
Absolutely not, Wife 22.
Well, are you calling me a line?
Perhaps.
A line you are in the process of stepping over?
Tell me to stop.
Wife 22?
You’re Swedish.
What makes you think that?
Based on the fact that you use the word “ah” sometimes.
I’m not Swedish.
Okay, you’re Canadian.
Better.
You grew up on a cattle ranch in Southern Alberta. You learned to ride when you were three; home-schooled in the mornings with your four siblings, afternoons spent poaching cows with the Hutterite children who lived in the Colony next door.
How I miss my friends, the Hutterites.
You were the oldest, so much was expected out of you, not the least of which was to grow up and run the ranch. Instead you went to college in New York and only came home once a year to help with branding. An event to which you brought all your girlfriends to impress and shock the hell out of them. Also so they could see how good you look in chaps.
I still have those chaps.
Your wife fell in love with you when she saw you mount a horse.
Are you psychic?
You’ve been married a long time. It could be she is no longer as interested in seeing you mount a horse, although I would imagine that would never get old.
You’ll get no disagreement from me on that.
You are not: pasty, a gamer, a golfer, a dullard, somebody who corrects other people’s malapropisms, somebody who despises dogs.
No disagreement there either.
Don’t stop.
Don’t stop what, Wife 22?
Crossing my line.
63
67. To want the people you love to be happy. To look homeless people in the eye. To not want what you don’t have. What you can’t have. What you shouldn’t have. To not text while driving. To control your appetite. To want to be where you are.
68. Once I got past the morning sickness with Zoe, I loved being pregnant. It changed the dynamics between William and me utterly. I let myself be vulnerable and he let himself be the protector, and every day this stunned, primal, bumper-stickerish voice inside of me whispered this is the way it should be. This is how you were meant to live. This is what your whole life has been for. William was gallant. He opened doors and jars of spaghetti sauce. He heated up the car before I got in and held my elbow as we navigated rainy sidewalks. We were whole, the three of us, a trinity way before Zoe was born—I could have happily stayed pregnant for years.
And then Zoe arrived, a colicky, drooling, aggressively unhappy baby. William fled to the sanity of the office each day. I stayed home on maternity leave and divided hours into fifteen-minute increments: breastfeed, burp, lie on couch with screaming baby, attempt to sing screaming baby to sleep.
This was when I felt the loss of my mother most acutely. She never would have let me go through those disorienting early months alone. She would have moved right in and taught me the things a mother teaches her daughter: how to give a baby a bath, how to get rid of cradle cap, how long you should stay mad at your husband when he straps your baby into the swing haphazardly and she slides out.
And most importantly, my mother would have filled me in about time. She would have said, “Honey, it’s a paradox. For the first half of your life each minute feels like a year, but for the second half, each year feels like a minute.” She would have assured me this was normal and it would do no good to fight it. That’s the price we pay for the privilege of growing old.
My mother never got that privilege.
Eleven months later, I woke one morning and the disorientation was gone. I picked my baby up out of her crib, she made the sweetest dolphin squeal, and I fell instantly in love.
69. Dear Zoe,
; Here is the story of the beginning of your life. It can be summed up in one sentence. I loved you and then I got really scared and then I loved you more than I ever thought it was possible for one person to love another. I think we are not so dissimilar, although I’m sure it feels like we are right now.
Things you may not know or remember:
1. You have always been a trendsetter. When you were two, you stood up on Santa’s lap and belted out “Do, a Deer” to the hundred irritated people who had been standing in line for an hour. Everybody started singing with you. You were flash-mobbing before anybody even knew what flash-mobbing was.
2. The first vacation your father and I took without you kids was to Costa Rica. You know how some girls go through a horse stage? Well, you were going through a primate stage. You convinced yourself I’d agreed to bring you home a white-faced capuchin. When we returned and I gave you your gift, a stuffed chimp named Milo, you said thank you very much, then went into your room, opened your window, and threw it into the branches of the redwood tree in the backyard, where to this day it still lives. Occasionally, when there’s a big storm, and the tree sways from side to side, I get a glimpse of Milo’s face, his faded red mouth smiling sadly at me.
3. Often I wish I were more like you.
Zoe, my baby—I am in the still-in-your-camp-even-though-you-can-barely-stand-to-look-at-me-most-of-the-time-right-now stage. It’s difficult, but I’m muddling through. Soy venti lattes help the time pass, as does watching Gone with the Wind.
Your loving Mama
64
John Yossarian changed his profile picture
Do you like walking in circles, Researcher 101?
Sometimes walking in circles can be very helpful.
I suppose—as long as the circle walking is intentional.
I’ve been imagining what you look like, Wife 22.
I can’t divulge that information; however, I can tell you I’m not a Hutterite.
You have chestnut-colored hair.
I do?
Yes, but you would likely describe it as mouse brown because you tend to underestimate yourself, but you have the kind of hair women envy.
That’s why I always get such dirty looks.
Eyes, brown as well. Possibly hazel.
Or possibly blue. Or possibly green.
You’re pretty, and I mean this as a compliment. Pretty is what lies between beautiful and plain, and in my experience pretty is the best place to be.
I think I’d rather be beautiful.
Beautiful makes evolving into any sort of a person with morals and character very difficult.
I think I’d rather be plain.
Plain—what can I say about that? So much of life is a lottery.
So you think of me when we’re not chatting online?
Yes.
In your regular life? Your civilian life?
Frequently I’ll find myself in the middle of doing something mundane, emptying the dishwasher or listening to the radio, and something you said will pop into my head and I’ll get this amused look on my face and my wife will ask me what’s so funny.
What do you tell her?
That I met this woman online.
You do not.
No, but soon I may have to.
65
Kelly Cho
Loves being in charge.
5 minutes ago
Caroline Kilborn
Is full.
32 minutes ago
Phil Archer
Cleaning house.
52 minutes ago
William Buckle
Gimme Shelter
3 hours ago
“Could you please stop checking Facebook, Alice? For one bloody minute?” asks Nedra.
I set my phone on vibrate and slip it into my purse.
“So, as I was just saying but will repeat for your benefit—I have some big news. I’m going to ask Kate to marry me.”
Nedra and I are browsing in a jewelry store on College Ave.
“And what’s your opinion on moonstones?” she adds.
“Oh, dear,” I say.
“Did you hear what I just said?”
“I heard.”
“And all you have to say is ‘Oh, dear’? May I see that one, please,” says Nedra, pointing to an oval moonstone set in eighteen-karat gold.
The saleswoman hands it to her and she slips it on her finger.
“Let me see,” I say, grabbing her arm. “I don’t get it. Is there something about moonstones and lesbians? Some Sapphic thing that I’m missing?”
“For God’s sake,” says Nedra. “Why am I asking you? You have no taste in jewelry. In fact, you never wear jewelry and you really should, darling. It would perk you up a bit.” She studies my face worriedly. “Still having insomnia?”
“I’m going for the French no-makeup look.”
“I’m sorry to tell you, but the French no-makeup look only works in France. The light is different there. Kinder. American light is so crude.”
“Why do you want to get married now? You’ve been together thirteen years. You never wanted to get married before. What’s changed?”
Nedra shrugs. “I’m not sure. We just woke up one morning and solidifying our relationship felt right. It’s the strangest thing. I don’t know if it’s my age or something—the big five-oh looming. But suddenly I want tradition.”
“The big five-oh is not looming. You won’t be fifty for another nine years. Besides, things are great with you and Kate. If you get married you’ll be all screwed up like the rest of us.”
“Does this mean you don’t want to be my maid of honor?”
“You’re going to do the whole thing? Bridesmaids, too?” I say.
“You and William are screwed up? Since when?”
“We’re not screwed up. We’re just—distant. It’s been incredibly stressful. Him losing his job.”
“Mmm. Can I try that one?” Nedra asks the saleswoman, gesturing to a marquise-cut diamond ring.
She puts it on her finger, extends her arm, and admires her hand.
“It’s a bit Cinderella-ey, but I like it. The question is, will Kate? Alice, you’re in a rather bad mood today. Let’s forget we ever had this conversation. Here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to call you tomorrow. You’re going to say, ‘Hello, Nedra, what’s new?’ I’m going to say, ‘I have news; I’ve asked Kate to marry me!’ You’re going to say, ‘Goodness—about time! When can we go out shopping for dresses? And can I accompany you to the cake tasting?’ ” Nedra hands the ring back to the saleswoman. “Too flashy. I need something more subtle. I’m a divorce lawyer.”
“Yes, and it would look unseemly for her wife to be sporting a two-carat diamond engagement ring. Bought on the proceeds of other people’s failed marriages,” I say.
Nedra gives me a dirty look.
“Sorry,” I say.
“Look, Alice, it’s as simple as this. I’ve found the person I want to spend the rest of my life with. And she’s passed the spectacular test.”
“The spectacular test?”
“When I first met Kate she was spectacular. And a decade later she is still the most spectacular woman I’ve ever known. Besides you, of course. Don’t you feel that way about William?”
I want to feel that way about William.
“Well, why shouldn’t I have what you have?” Nedra asks.
“You should. Of course you should. It’s just that everything in your life is changing so fast. I can’t keep up. And now you’re getting married.”
Wife 22: A Novel Page 19