Wife 22
Page 8
“You’re probably right,” I say. “I’ll do some research.” I wince. My ankle is throbbing. It’s black and blue.
“What did you do to your ankle?” asks Caroline.
“I fell. After you left. Tripped on a pinecone.”
“Oh, no! Did you ice it?” asks Caroline.
I nod.
“For how long?”
“Not long enough, apparently.”
Caroline jumps to her feet and stacks the boxes in Zoe’s closet. Expertly she folds the sweaters-“The Gap, every summer in high school,” she explains-and stacks them in front of the boxes. I hand her my yellow sweater. Caroline takes it wordlessly, puts it on the pile, then shuts the closet door. She holds out her hand.
“Now. Let’s go get you some more ice.”
28
35. And so we had a secret. Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday we met in front of the Charles Hotel at lunchtime for a run. In the office we pretended that we didn’t work out together every other day. We pretended we didn’t know the shape of each other’s thighs, or the scars on our ankles and knees, or the brand of each other’s running shoes, or who was a pronator and who was not, or that we had matching farmer’s tans, which were soon remedied when May turned into June and we peeled off the layers and our shoulders turned the color of walnuts. I pretended that he didn’t have a girlfriend. I pretended that I didn’t know the mineral smell of his sweat and how exactly he sweated-always the same: a line down his back and vertically across his collarbone. I pretended I didn’t buy new running shorts, and practice running in them in front of the mirror to make sure nothing untoward showed, and that I didn’t rub my legs with baby oil so they gleamed. I pretended I didn’t obsess about how a running partner should smell, or whether or not to wear perfume and in the end settled on baby powder, which would hopefully convey the message naturally smells fresh and clean like a woman, not an infant. He pretended he didn’t notice when my breathing turned to small, almost inaudible moans when we sprinted the last quarter mile, the Charles Hotel in sight, and I pretended I didn’t have fantasies that one day he would take my hand, lead me up to a room, and into his bed.
36. Having a secret is the most powerful aphrodisiac in the world and, by necessity, exactly what’s missing in a marriage.
29
From: researcher101 ‹researcher101@netherfieldcenter.org›
Subject: Hope
Date: May 30, 4:45 PM
To: Wife 22 ‹Wife22@netherfieldcenter.org›
Dear Wife 22,
I took the liberty of codifying your last email-the emotion data points: longing, sadness, nostalgia, and hope. The last emotion might not seem evident to you, but there’s no doubt in my mind. It’s hope.
I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but what I find most likeable about you is your unpredictability. Just when I think I’ve gotten a handle on you, you say something that throws me off completely. Sometimes the correspondence between subject and researcher reveals so much more than the answers.
You are a romantic, Wife 22. I wouldn’t have guessed it.
Researcher 101
From: Wife 22 ‹Wife22@netherfieldcenter.org›
Subject: Re: Hope
Date: May 30, 9:28 PM
To: researcher101 ‹researcher101@netherfieldcenter.org›
Researcher 101,
Takes one to know one. Are you for real?
Wife 22
From: researcher101 ‹researcher101@netherfieldcenter.org›
Subject: Re: Hope
Date: May 30, 9:45 PM
To: Wife 22 ‹Wife22@netherfieldcenter.org›
Wife 22,
I assure you I am very real. I’ll take your question as a compliment, and go one further and answer your next question so you needn’t ask it-no, I am not a senior citizen. Believe it or not, there are men in your generation who are romantics. Frequently we are disguised as curmudgeons. I look forward to getting your next set of answers.
Researcher 101
From: Wife 22 ‹Wife22@netherfieldcenter.org›
Subject: Re: Hope
Date: May 30, 10:01 PM
To: researcher101 ‹researcher101@netherfieldcenter.org›
I took the liberty of codifying your last email. The emotion points as I see them are flattered, chagrined, and the last emotion, which may not seem obvious to you, is also hope. What are you hoping for, Researcher 101?
Sincerely,
Wife 22
From: researcher101 ‹researcher101@netherfieldcenter.org›
Subject: Re: Hope
Date: May 30, 10:38 PM
To: Wife 22 ‹Wife22@netherfieldcenter.org›
Wife 22,
I suppose it’s what everybody hopes for-to be known for who we truly are.
Researcher 101
30
alicebuckle@rocketmail.com
Bookmarks Bar (242)
nymag.com/news/features/The Science of Gaydar
The Science of Gaydar
If sexual orientation is biological, are the traits that make people seem gay innate, too? The new research on biological indicators, everything from voice pitch to hair whorl.
EXAMPLE 1: Hair Whorl (Men)
Gay men are more likely than straight men to have a counterclockwise whorl.
alicebuckle@rocketmail.com
Bookmarks Bar (243)
somethingfishy.org/eatingdisorders/symptoms
1. Hiding food in strange places (closets, cabinets, suitcases, under bed) to avoid eating (anorexia) or eat at a later time (bulimia).
2. Obsession with continuous exercise.
3. Frequent trips to the bathroom immediately following meals (sometimes accompanied with water running in the bathroom for a long period of time to hide the sound of vomiting).
4. Unusual food rituals such as shifting the food around on the plate to look eaten; cutting food into tiny pieces; making sure the fork avoids contact with the lips…
5. Hair loss. Pale or “gray” appearance to the skin.
6. Complaints of often feeling cold.
7. Bruised or callused knuckles; bloodshot or bleeding eyes; light bruising under the eyes and on the cheeks.
31
“Vegetarian or meat eater today?” I ask Zoe, approaching the table with a platter of roasted chicken and potatoes.
“Carnivore.”
“Great. Breast or thigh?”
Zoe raises her eyebrows in disgust. “I said carnivore, not cannibal. Breast or thigh. That’s exactly why people become vegetarians. They should come up with different words for it so it doesn’t sound so human.”
I sigh. “Light meat or dark meat?”
“That’s racist,” says Peter.
“Neither,” says Zoe. “I changed my mind.”
I put the platter of chicken on the table. “Okay, Mr. and Ms. Politically Correct. What should I call it?”
“How about dry or a little less dry,” says Peter, poking at the bird.
“I think it looks delicious,” says Caroline.
Zoe shudders and pushes her plate away.
“Are you cold? Sweetheart, you look cold,” I say.
“I’m not cold.”
“So what are you planning to eat then, Zoe?” I ask. “If not chicken boob?”
“Salad,” says Zoe. “And roasted potatoes.”
“Roasted potato,” says Peter, as Zoe puts one measly red potato on her plate. “I guess if you do seven hundred fifty sit-ups a day it basically ruins your appetite, right?”
“Seven hundred fifty sit-ups a day?” My girl has an eating disorder AND an exercise compulsion disorder!
I wish I had an exercise compulsion disorder.
“No wonder why they named you after a penis,” says Zoe to Peter.
“Caroline, I can’t get over how much you look like your father,” says William, trying to change the subject.
He’s wearing his weekend uniform, jeans and a faded U Mass T-shirt. Even though he went to Yale, he woul
d never be caught dead advertising it. This is one of the things I’ve always loved about him. That and the fact that he wears a T-shirt from my alma mater.
“She looks like Maureen O’Hara,” says Peter.
“Like you know who Maureen O’Hara is, Peter,” says Zoe.
“Like you do. And it’s Pedro. Why won’t you call me Pedro? She was in Rio Grande with John Wayne,” says Peter. “I know who Maureen O’Hara is.”
Zoe scrapes her chair back and stands up.
“Where are you going?” I ask.
“To the bathroom.”
“What, you can’t wait until we’re finished eating?”
“No, I can’t wait,” says Zoe. “You’re embarrassing me.”
“Fine, go.” I glance at the clock. 7:31. She’d better not spend more than five minutes in there.
I stand up and hover over Peter’s head. “Hey, kiddo, when’s the last time they did lice checks in school?” I try and say this as naturally as possible, as if the possibility of lice infestation has suddenly occurred to me.
“I don’t know. I think they do them every month.”
“That’s not enough.” I sweep the hair back from his temples.
“Tell me you’re not doing a lice check at the dinner table,” grunts William.
“I’m not doing a lice check,” I say, which is the truth. I’m only pretending to do a lice check.
“That feels good,” says Peter, leaning back against me. “I love when people scratch my scalp.”
Now, was the telltale gay whorl supposed to be clockwise or counterclockwise? The doorbell rings. Damn. I can’t remember.
I lift my hands from Peter’s head. “Does anybody hear water running?”
Peter starts itching. “I really think you should look some more.”
The doorbell rings again. Yes, that is definitely water running in the bathroom. It’s been running nonstop. Is she throwing up in there?
“I’ll get it.” I pass the bathroom as slowly as I can, listening for the telltale signs of vomiting-nothing. I walk into the foyer and open the front door.
“Hi,” says Jude, nervously. “Is Zoe home?”
What is he doing here? I thought I was over it, but now, seeing him standing on my doorstep, I realize I’m not. I’m still furious at him. Is he the reason my daughter has an eating disorder? Did he drive her to it? I gaze at him, this young man who cheated on my daughter, so handsome, six-foot-one, flat-bellied, smelling of Irish Spring. I remember reading him Heather Has Two Mommies in Nedra’s kitchen when he was in second grade. I was worried he would ask me about his father, about whom I knew nothing except his sperm donor number-128. Nedra and Kate didn’t meet until Jude was three.
After we finished reading the book, he’d said, “I’m really lucky. You want to know why?”
“Sure,” I said.
“Because if my mommies broke up and then fell in love again, then I’d have four mommies!”
“Zoe’s not here,” I say.
“Yes, she is,” says Zoe, coming to the door.
“We’re eating dinner,” I say.
“I’m done,” says Zoe.
“Sweetheart, your eyes look bloodshot.”
“So I’ll use Visine.” She turns to Jude. “What?” Something private and silent passes between them.
“It’s a school night. You haven’t even started your homework,” I say.
When Zoe was in fifth grade and we finally had the talk about puberty and menstruation, she took it well. She wasn’t at all freaked out or disgusted. A few days later, she came home from school and told me she had a plan. When she got her period, she would just carry her pontoons in her backpack.
I had to fight to keep from cracking a smile (or telling her she had it wrong, they were called tampoons, I mean tampons) because I knew laughing in the face of her independence would destroy her. Instead I put on the poker face every mother learns to wear. The poker face every mother then hands down to her daughter, who then turns around and wields it like a weapon against her.
Zoe glares at me.
“Half an hour,” I tell them.
My laptop pings as I walk past my office, so I do a quick Facebook check.
Julie Staggs
Marcy-having trouble staying in Marcy’s big girl bed!
52 minutes ago
Shonda Perkins
Pretty please, pretty please, pretty please. Don’t do this to me. You know who you are.
2 hours ago
Julie teaches at Kentwood, and Shonda is one of the Mumble Bumbles. I hear the sound of a glass shattering in the kitchen.
“Alice!” William shouts.
“Right there,” I yell.
I sit down and write two quick messages.
Alice Buckle Julie Staggs
Don’t give up. Maybe try falling asleep with her the first couple of nights? She’ll get it eventually!
1 minute ago
Alice Buckle Shonda Perkins
Egg Shop. Tomorrow lunch. My treat. I want to hear EVERYTHING!
1 minute ago
Then I hurry back to the dinner table where over the course of the next thirty minutes, I proceed to offer up the same platitudes (Don’t give up. I want to hear everything!). Is everybody living such a double life?
32
From: Wife 22 ‹Wife22@netherfieldcenter.org›
Subject: Stirring the proverbial pot
Date: June 1, 5:52 AM
To: researcher101 ‹researcher101@netherfieldcenter.org›
Dear Researcher 101,
I’m finding these questions about my courtship with William to be very pot-stirring. On one hand it’s like watching a movie. Who are these actors playing the roles of Alice and William? That’s how foreign these younger versions of us feel to me. On the other hand, I can reach back and create scenes in such detail for you. I can remember exactly what it felt like to fantasize about sleeping with him. How delicious the anticipation.
On the subject of not hiding, I have to tell you that to be asked such intimate questions-to be listened to so closely-to have my opinion and my feelings be valued and account for something is profound. I am continually startled at my willingness to disclose such personal information to you.
Sincerely,
Wife 22
From: researcher101 ‹researcher101@netherfieldcenter.org›
Subject: Re: Stirring the proverbial pot
Date: June 1, 6:01 AM
To: Wife 22 ‹Wife22@netherfieldcenter.org›
Dear Wife 22,
I’ve heard similar things from other participants, but I have to reiterate it’s precisely because we are strangers that you are able to confide in me so easily.
Best,
Researcher 101
33
I’m running late as usual. I throw open the door to the Egg Shop and am blasted in the face by the comforting smell of pancakes, bacon, and coffee. I look for Shonda. She’s sitting in the back, but she’s not alone; all three of the Mumble Bumbles are there in the booth with her. There’s Shonda, in her fifties, divorced, no kids, manages the Lancôme counter at Macy’s; Tita, who must be in her seventies now, married, grandmother of eight, a retired oncology nurse; and Pat, the youngest of us all, two kids, a stay-at-home mom, and judging by the size of her baby bump, expecting a third any day. They wave cheerily at me and tears well up in my eyes. Even though I haven’t seen them in a while, the Mumble Bumbles are my pack, my fellow motherless sisters.
“Don’t be mad,” shouts Shonda as I wend my way between tables.
I bend down to give her a hug. “You set me up.”
“We missed you. It was the only way to get your attention,” says Shonda.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’ve missed you all, too, but I’ve been okay, really I have.”
They all look at me with scrunched-up, compassionate faces.
“Don’t do that. Don’t look at me that way. Damn.”
“We wanted to make sure you were all right,�
�� says Pat.
“Oh, Pat, look at you! You’re gorgeous,” I say.
“Go ahead, touch it, you might as well-everybody else does.”
I put my hands on her belly. “Location, location, location,” I whisper. “Hello, baby. You have no idea what a good choice you’ve made.”
Shonda pulls me down onto the seat next to her. “So when is your forty-fifth?” she asks.
All the Mumble Bumbles except me have aged past the year their mother died. I’m the last one. Obviously they have no plans of letting my tipping-point year go by without marking it in some way.
“September fourth.” I look around the table. “What’s up with the tomato juice?” Each of them has a glass.
“Have a little taste,” says Tita, sliding it across the table. “And I brought you lumpia. Don’t let me forget to give it to you.”
Lumpia is the Filipino version of egg rolls. I adore them. Whenever I see Tita, she brings me a couple dozen.
I take a sip and cough. The juice is laced with vodka. “It’s not even noon!”
“Twelve thirty-five, actually,” says Shonda, flashing a flask. She waves the waitress over and raises her glass. “She’ll have one of these.”
“No she won’t. She has to go back to work in an hour,” I protest.
“All the more reason,” says Shonda.
“Mine’s a virgin,” sighs Pat.
“So,” says Tita.
“So,” I say.
“So we’re all here because we wanted to prepare you for what might be coming,” says Tita.
“I know what’s coming and it’s too late for me. I won’t be wearing a bikini this summer. Or the next. Or the summer after that,” I say.
“Alice, be serious,” says Shonda.