Recipe for a Perfect Wife (ARC)
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the pill bottle.
“The test strip. Yesterday morning.”
A pause, then a tense: “Does that even fucking matter
anymore?”
Alice gave a sloppy wave and leaned her head back, closing
her eyes. “You’re right. Forget it.”
There was a long moment of silence, then, “Obviously you
don’t want to have a baby.”
“I do want to have a baby.” She opened her eyes, and it was a few seconds before everything stopped moving. Morphine was
no joke.
“But not with me. Is that it?” He was furious— his mouth a hard line, his hands trembling.
“No! Nate. It’s not like that.” Alice shook her head, tried to
clear her thoughts so she could reassure him and explain things.
“Not exactly.”
“So, what is it, Ali? What is it exactly? ” The words exploded out of him, and she recoiled as they did, having never seen him
like this: full of vitriol, all directed at her. Nate, too, seemed
alarmed at his outburst, a mask of surprise followed by regret
settling over his face. Nathan Hale did not— would never— yell in such a way at his wife. But everyone had a breaking point.
Alice gingerly rolled on her side to face him. “I made a
mistake, Nate. You can’t believe how sorry I am.”
“A mistake?” he said, and let out a harsh laugh. “Is that
what we’re calling this? What part was the mistake? Getting the
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IUD, or getting caught?” Fair question, and Alice didn’t think
too hard on it, because she wasn’t sure which was more truthful.
“I’m sorry, I— ” She winced, and while he surely noticed, he
didn’t ask her if she was okay. “I was overwhelmed. With the
house, and my book.” It was hard to read his expression. Alice
pressed on. “And you were gone so much. Studying for your exam
after work. All the time, it seemed.” She didn’t add how all the
hours he and Drew spent together made her irrationally jealous.
“So this is my fault?” He was incredulous.
“It’s no one’s fault,” she began, then, seeing the look on his
face, added, “Fine. It’s my fault. I fucked up. But I had these vi‑
sions of being all alone all the time in our half‑ finished house
with a baby, and . . . I didn’t know what to do.” She gulped
back a sob. “All I can say is how sorry I am. And that I’m going
to fix it, okay? I promise.”
Nate heaved a sigh before crouching beside the sofa. “This
could have been so much worse, Ali.” He wiped the tears off her
cheeks, his face contorted with worry and the remnants of his anger.
“I know,” she whispered, grabbing his hands and holding
them tight. Her blinks got longer as the pain medication settled
in. “I shouldn’t be a mother.” This was perhaps the most truthful
thing she had said to Nate in weeks. Not everyone could be a
decent parent; Alice’s own, particularly her father, were good
examples of that. Even Jaclyn, whom Alice supposed had done
her best based on the circumstances, had proved an inadequate
role model. A “good” mother was someone who was selfless and
wise and knew how to bake six different types of cookies from
scratch. Who tenderly, and regularly, said things like, “You are
the very best thing I have ever done with my life.”
“Not true,” he murmured, kissing her fingers lightly. “When
you’re ready, you’ll be the best mother.” He sounded so certain,
Alice almost believed it.
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Fresh tears pricked her eyes. “You should hate me right now,
Nate. Why don’t you hate me for this?”
Nate was silent as his fingers kneaded hers. “I could never
hate you, Ali. Yes, I’m pissed as hell.” He cleared his throat, his gaze focused on their entwined fingers. “Last night was the
scariest moment of my life.”
“Mine too.” She nodded fervently as she said it, which in‑
creased her light‑ headedness and forced her to close her eyes
again. “I’m going to get this thing out and then we can start
trying again.” Time to pivot, Alice.
Nate let go of her hands, kneaded his neck as he stood. “I’m
not sure that’s a good idea.”
She sat up, too quickly, and had to place her hands behind
her to anchor herself against the dizziness. “Why not? They said
my ovary is totally fine. There’s no reason to think we— ”
“That’s not what I meant, Ali.”
She tried to focus on him, but everything blurred around
the edges, like she had put drops in her eyes. Her elbows
quivered trying to hold her position on the couch and she let
go, her body collapsing back to the sofa cushions.
“I think we should wait.” He puffed out his cheeks before
exhaling forcefully. “Look, I’ve been an idiot. Pushing you,
putting on too much pressure. It wasn’t fair. I’m the one who
should be sorry.”
Alice’s sluggish brain worked hard, trying to comprehend
his words. Nate took her pause as agreement.
“We’ll take a break,” he said, sitting beside her on the sofa.
“We can do what we want in the house and you can finish your
book and I can focus on my exam.” Nate rested his palms on
either side of Alice’s body and smiled gently at his wife, who
looked better than she had a few hours before but still not well.
“Let’s not worry about the whole kid thing for now. And we’ll see
where things are in a bit. Six months, maybe a year. Sound good?”
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Alice was shocked, though unable to show it because her
emotions were dampened by the medication. Twenty‑ four hours
earlier her husband had been actively trying to get her pregnant—
a plan he’d been steadfast about since they’d moved to Green‑
ville. Could Nate really flip the switch that easily? Again, Alice
sensed Nate was keeping something from her. The way she had
been keeping things from him . . .
But too exhausted and muddled by the pain and medica‑
tions to confront him, she replied, “Yeah. Okay.” She should
have been relieved— wasn’t that precisely what she wanted? But
she was troubled, mind spinning with her predictable husband’s
sudden change of heart. What aren’t you telling me, Nate? Is this really about logistics and timing, or is it something else altogether?
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33
q
Remember your most important job is to build up and main -
tain his ego (which gets bruised plenty in business). Morale is a
woman’s business.
— Edward Podolsky, Sex Today in Wedded Life (1947)
/> Alice
August 15, 2018
T he doorbell rang, and Alice, fresh from a bath, quickly slipped on her robe. “I’ll get it,” she shouted down the hall. Normally she would never answer the door with dripping hair and wearing only
a bathrobe, but she was antsy. Nate had been hovering, checking
on her pain every hour, setting timers for her medication, insisting she be quiet and still. His concern was thoughtful, but it made her restless.
“Stay put,” Nate replied, coming out of the bedroom. He
had his phone to his ear, and he said, “Nice to talk with you
too. Here she is,” before handing it to Alice.
“Who is it?”
“Your mom,” Nate whispered. Alice grumbled, in no mood
to speak with Jaclyn. And it bugged her that Jaclyn had called
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Nate’s phone— there was a reason she hadn’t already answered
her mom’s three calls. She scowled, holding the phone an arm’s
length away, and Nate shrugged.
“She’s your mother, Ali.”
While he headed downstairs to answer the door, Alice reluc‑
tantly put the phone to her ear and sat on the top step.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Hi, honey. How are you feeling?”
“Better, thanks,” Alice said, shifting the towel so it wasn’t
covering her ear. She peered down the stairs, but whoever had
rung the bell hadn’t stepped inside. “How are you? How’s
Steve’s shoulder?”
“We’re good; he’s good. Getting ready for our silent medi‑
tation retreat in the mountains next week. You and Nate should
try this sometime. Maybe if you come for Thanksgiving, take a
couple of extra days?”
“Um, maybe. But isn’t meditation always silent?” Alice sat
on the top step, inspected her DIY painted toenails, which were
in serious need of a new polish job. She tried to remember the
last time she’d had a pedicure. Couldn’t.
“Yes, well, I suppose it is,” her mother replied. “But they
do say— ”
Nate laughed loudly, pulling Alice’s focus away from her
mother, who was droning on about meditation. “Hey, Mom,
can I call you back later? Someone’s at the door.”
“Of course, honey. I’m here all day, except for my yoga class
at three. California time, so six your time.”
Alice took a deep breath in through her nose, her impa‑
tience growing.
“Remember, your body needs a lot of rest right now. And
red clover tea is excellent for balancing your hormones. Want
me to send you some?”
“Mom, I really have to go.”
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“Yes, yes. I’ll call you before bed,” her mother said. “And
I’ll pop some red clover tea in the mail.”
“Okay, bye,” Alice said, ending the call before she said,
“Always with the goddamn tea!”
“What’s that?” Nate asked, at the bottom of the stairs. He
held a tinfoil casserole tray in one hand, a bouquet of roses in
the other, the stems wrapped in gold twine that Alice recog‑
nized as her neighbor’s signature decoration. “Sally just dropped
off this chicken lasagna for dinner and some flowers.”
“You should have invited her in.” Alice came down the
stairs, thinking a visit with Sally would be the best medicine
right now.
“She was on her way out. Said she’d call you later.” Nate
shifted the lasagna in his hands. “I’m going to stick this in the
fridge and put these in water. Can I trust you to rest, or am I
going to have to sit on you to make sure you do?” He smiled,
but his tone— and suggestion— irritated Alice.
“I’m sick of resting, Nate. This is overkill. I’m fine. ” Alice held out her hands. “Here, let me do it. You have work to do.”
He relented, passing her the tinfoil tray and roses before heading
back to the guest room.
After she put the lasagna in the fridge and the roses in a
vase, Alice unwrapped her hair and tousled the wet strands,
wishing she could just sit in the garden and have a cigarette. But
obviously with Nate home that wasn’t an option— one more
secret she was keeping from her husband. Sighing, she rum‑
maged through the fridge, looking for a snack to distract her
from her nicotine craving. They were down to the staples—
milk, bread, one egg, a half‑ eaten jar of pickles, and three limp carrots. Alice would have to go shopping later, if Nate would let
her leave the house.
She pulled the bread and milk out of the fridge and gathered
up the other ingredients she needed for milk toast, a dish Nellie
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mentioned in in one of her letters as a go‑ to breakfast for
Richard when he wasn’t feeling well. Though she’d initially
thought it sounded disgusting ( toast drenched in warm milk? ), it had proven quite tasty. After she toasted the bread and heated
the milk and vanilla until it simmered on the stovetop, she
poured the near‑ scalded liquid over the chunks of toast and lib‑
erally sprinkled it all with cinnamon and sugar.
The kitchen smelled delicious, and Alice had just tucked into
the milk toast when her phone buzzed. She pulled it from her
pocket, expecting it was her mother again with another healing
tea suggestion, and saw it was Bronwyn. They hadn’t properly
spoken since she had called with news of her marriage— a couple
of meaningless text exchanges— and Alice wasn’t sure when, or
even if, Bronwyn might forgive her. She dropped her spoon into
the bowl of milk toast and quickly answered the call.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Ali. It’s Bronwyn.”
“Hey! How are you?” Alice was overeager, her words quick
and enthusiastic.
“Good, yeah. Everything’s going well. But are you okay?
Nate said you were in the hospital?”
“You talked to Nate?” Alice was surprised— Nate hadn’t
mentioned it.
“Um, yeah. He had a couple of questions for Darren,” she
said casually. But before Alice could ask what sort of questions,
and when they’d talked, Bronwyn continued. “So, what hap‑
pened?”
“Apparently a very pissed‑ off ovarian cyst is what happened,”
Alice replied. She gave a few more details, and Bronwyn re‑
sponded with appropriate concern. Alice couldn’t tell if
Bronwyn was feigning ignorance or not— maybe Nate hadn’t
told her the whole story.
“Yikes. Are you feeling better now?” Bronwyn asked.
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“Seem to be.” There was a pause, neither woman speaking.
“So, how are you doing?” Bronwyn had already answered with
a nondescriptive “good,” but Alice was desperate to keep her on
the phone. If she ever needed her best friend, it was now.
“Busy, but great. Thanks,” Bronwyn replied. Another pause.
Alice waited a beat longer, then said, “Are we okay?”
Bronwyn sighed lightly, and Alice bit her lip, fighting back
tears. “We’re okay, Ali.” It was an olive branch, and Alice clutched at it with both hands.
“I hope you know how sorry I am about the other day. I am
happy for you and Darren. I’m just an asshole. It’s that simple.”
“You are sort of an asshole,” Bronwyn said, and then she
laughed. Alice was relieved. “But I’m kind of an asshole too. I
should have told you when it was happening. Before it hap‑
pened, actually. Even though I didn’t really know what was hap‑
pening until it happened, you know? But you’re my best friend
and I should have told you. I’m sorry, Ali.”
“It’s okay. But next time I expect a call before you get to
Elvis’s chapel, okay?”
“Shut up, you jerk. There isn’t going to be a next time.”
Alice hoped that was true. “Anyway, Darren and I want to have
a party, to celebrate. Can you help me plan it? I’m so swamped
right now I barely have time to breathe.”
“Absolutely. Whatever you need,” Alice replied, feeling the
creep of envy, imagining Bronwyn’s demanding but gratifying
schedule. The opposite of her own. “What’s your timing?”
“Not sure yet, but I’ll let you know. Just meeting Darren for
lunch, so I’ll text you some details later, okay?”
“Sounds good. Say hi to him for me.”
“Will do,” Bronwyn said. “And no more hospital trips, lady.
I think you aged Nate about a decade.” Alice cringed, her guilt
blooming. “He’s pretty worried about you.”
“Yeah, I know.”
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A pause, then: “Listen, are you sure you’re fine?”
“Ahhh, I wish everyone would stop asking me that,” Alice
said, giving an exaggerated groan. “I’m okay. Ovary too. No
permanent damage.”
“I didn’t mean with your ovary, Ali.” Bronwyn’s tone was
gentle but pointed, and Alice suddenly understood: Nate had
told Bronwyn everything, including what caused the cyst to