Wife 22 (11 page)

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 potat
o
,” 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 would 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 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.

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?

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.