Wife 22. Melanie Gideon

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СКАЧАТЬ a venti soy latte at Starbucks, and helping Peter/Pedro with his algebra homework. However, it’s no way to live.

      “I did something. I’m doing something. Something I shouldn’t be doing,” I confess.

      “Is there a paper trail?” asks Nedra.

      “No. Yes. Maybe. Does email count?”

      “Of course email counts.”

      “I’m taking part in a survey. An anonymous survey. On marriage in the twenty-first century,” I whisper into the phone.

      “There’s no such thing as anonymity. Not in the twenty-first century and certainly not online. Why in God’s name are you doing that?”

      “I don’t know. I thought it would be a lark?”

      “Be serious, Alice.”

      “All right. Okay. Fine. I guess I feel like it’s time to take stock.”

      “Stock of what?”

      “Um—my life. Me and William.”

      “What, are you going through some sort of midlife thing?”

      “Why does everyone keep asking me that?”

      “Answer the question.”

      I sigh. “Maybe.”

      “This can only lead to heartbreak, Alice.”

      “Well, don’t you ever wonder if everything’s okay? I mean not just on the surface, but really, deeply okay?”

      “No.”

      “Really?”

      “Really, Alice. I know everything’s okay. You don’t feel that way about William?”

      “It’s just that we’re so distracted. I feel like each of us is a line item on the other’s list that we’re just hurrying to check off. Is that a horrible thing to say?”

      “Is it true?”

      “Sometimes.”

      “Come on, Alice. There’s something else you’re not telling me. What brought all this on?”

      I think about explaining to Nedra about my tipping-point year, but honestly, as close as we are, she hasn’t lost a parent and she wouldn’t understand. She and I don’t talk much about my mother. I save that for the Mumble Bumbles, a bereavement support group that I’ve been a member of for the past fifteen years. Even though I haven’t seen them recently, I’m Facebook friends with all of them: Shonda, Tita, and Pat. Yes, I know it’s a funny name. We started off being the Mother Bees, then became the Mumble Bees, then somehow it morphed into the Mumble Bumbles.

      “I just wonder sometimes if we can make it through another forty years. Forty years is a long time. Don’t you think that’s worth examining now that we’re nearly twenty years in?” I ask.

      “Olivia Newton-John!” shouts Kate in the background. “That’s who I meant to say you looked like. The Let’s Get Physical album!”

      “In my experience it’s the unexamined life that is worth living,” says Nedra. “If one wants to live happily ever after, that is—with one’s partner. Darling, I’ve got to go and see if I can do something about this hideous shag. Kate’s coming at me with bobby pins.”

      I can hear Kate singing Olivia Newton-John’s “I Honestly Love You” hideously off-key.

      “Do me a favor?” says Nedra. “When you see me, do not tell me I look like Rachel from Friends. And I promise we’ll talk about marriage in the nineteenth century later.”

      “Twenty-first century.”

      “No difference whatsoever. Kisses.”

      11

      21. I didn’t until I saw that movie about the Hubble telescope in Imax 3-D.

      22. Neck.

      23. Forearms.

      24. Long. That’s the way I would describe him. His legs barely fit under his desk. This was back before business casual was invented and everybody still dressed for work. I wore a pencil skirt and pumps. He wore a pin-stripe suit and a yellow tie. He was fair, but his straight hair was dark, almost black, and it kept falling in his eyes. He looked like a young Sam Shepard: all coiled up and brooding.

      I was completely unnerved and trying not to show it. Why hadn’t Henry (Henry is my cousin, the one responsible for landing me the interview; he played in a men’s soccer league with William) warned me he was so cute? I wanted him to see me, I mean really see me, and yes, I knew he was dangerous, i.e. unreadable, i.e. withholding, i.e. TAKEN—there was a picture of him and some gorgeous blond woman on his desk.

      I was in the middle of explaining to him why a theater major with a minor in dramaturgy would want a job as a copywriter, which entailed a great deal of skirting around the truth (because it’s a day job and playwrights make no money and I have to do something to support myself while I pursue my ART, and it may as well be writing meaningless copy about dishwashing detergent), when he interrupted me.

      “Henry said you got into Brown, but you went to U Mass?”

      Damn Henry. I tried to explain. I was giving him my old I’m a U Mass legacy, which was a lie; the truth was U Mass gave me a full ride, Brown gave me half a ride, and there was no way my father could afford even half of Brown’s tuition. But he interrupted me, waving at me to stop, and I felt ashamed. Like I had disappointed him.

      He handed me back my résumé, which I tore up on the way out, sure I had blown the interview. The next day there was a message from him on my machine. “You start Monday, Brown.”

      12

      From: Wife 22 <[email protected]>

      Subject: Answers

      Date: May 10, 5:50 AM

      To: researcher101 <[email protected]>

      Researcher 101,

      I hope I’m doing this right. I’m worried that some of my answers may go on for longer than you’d like and perhaps you’d prefer a subject who just sticks to the subject and says yes, no, sometimes, and maybe. But here’s the thing. Nobody has ever asked me these kinds of questions before. These sorts of questions, I mean. Every day I am asked normal questions for a woman my age. Like today when I tried to schedule an appointment at the dermatologist. The first question the receptionist asked was if I had a suspicious mole. Then she told me the first available appointment was in six months and what was the date of my birth? When I told her the year, she asked me if I’d like to have a conversation with the doctor about injectables when I had my moles checked. And if that was the case the doctor СКАЧАТЬ