Wife 22 (12 page)

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.

“I went a little bonkers the year I turned the same age my mother was when she died,” says Pat. “I was so depressed. I couldn’t get out of bed for weeks. My sister-in-law had to come help look after the kids.”

“I’m not depressed,” I say.

“Well, good, that’s good,” says Pat.

“I quit working at Lancôme,” says Shonda. “And became a sales rep for Dr. Hauschka products. Can you imagine that? Me hawking holistic skin care? My main account was Whole Foods. Have you ever tried to get a parking space at the Whole Foods in Berkeley after nine in the morning? Impossible.”

“I’m not going to quit my job,” I say. “And even if I wanted to, I can’t, because William just got demoted.”

The Mumble Bumbles exchange worried, see-I-told-you-so looks.

“It’s okay. He’s doing some soul searching. It’s a midlife thing,” I say.

“Alice,” says Tita. “The point is—you might start acting a little crazy. Do things that you normally wouldn’t do. Does that sound familiar? Anything like that happening to you?”

“No,” I say. “Everything’s normal. Everything’s fine. Except for the fact that Zoe has an eating disorder. And Peter is gay but he doesn’t know it yet. And I’m taking part in this secret study on marital satisfaction.”

What the Mumble Bumbles knew, what was unspoken between us, what need never be explained or said, was that nobody would ever love us again like our mothers did. Yes, we would be loved, by our fathers, our friends, our siblings, our aunts and uncles and grandparents and spouses—and our children if we chose to have them—but never would we experience that kind of unconditional, nothing-you-can-do-will-turn-me-away-from-you kind of mother love.

We tried to provide it for one another. And when we failed at that, we offered shoulders to lean on, hands to hold, and ears to bend. And when we failed at that, there was lumpia and waterproof mascara samples, links to articles, and yes, vodka-laced tomato juice.

But mostly there was the ease that came from not having to pretend you had ever recovered. The world wanted you to go on. The world
needed
you to go on. But the Mumble Bumbles understood that the loss soundtrack was always playing in the background. Sometimes it was on mute, and sometimes it was blasting away on ten, making you deaf.

“Start from the beginning, honey, and tell us everything,” says Tita.

“S
o, what do you want to do?” I ask.

“I don’t know. What do you want to do?” says William. “Are you all set for the potluck? What are we supposed to bring?”

“Lamb. Nedra emailed me the recipe. It’s been marinating since last night. I have to go to Home Depot—I want to get lemon balm and lemon verbena and that other lemon herby thing—what’s it called? From Thailand?”

“Lemongrass. What’s with all the lemon?” he asks.

“Lemon is a natural diuretic.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Didn’t you?”

We talk carefully and politely, like strangers making small talk at a party.
How do you know the host? Well, how do
you
know the host? I love corgis. I love corgis, too!
I know part of this distance is because he’s keeping the Cialis debacle secret. And I’m keeping the fact that I know about it secret. And of course there’s the fact that I’m emailing total strangers about the intimate particulars of our marriage (just as it seems William is also telling total strangers about the intimate particulars of our marriage). But I can’t blame it all on the study or William’s demotion. The distance between us has been growing for years. The primary way we converse during the workweek is through text, and we pretty much always have the same conversation:

ETA?

Seven.

Chick or fish?

Chick.

It’s Saturday. Caroline’s here, but both kids are gone for the day—a rare occurrence in our household. I’m trying not to feel panicked, but I
am. In their absence, the day looms without structure. I usually shuttle Peter to piano and soccer and William takes Zoe to volleyball games or Goodwill (where she acquires most of her clothes). I try not to think about the fact that we often operate like roommates, and most of the time roommates is okay, a bit lonely, but comfortable. But a day alone together means stepping out of our parent roles and reverting back to husband and wife, which makes me feel pressured. Kind of like Cialis without the Cialis.

I remember that when the kids were young, an acquaintance confided in me how bereft she and her husband were that their son was leaving for college. I thoughtlessly said to her, “Well, isn’t that the point? He’s launched. Shouldn’t you be happy?” I came home and told William, and the two of us were flummoxed. Deep in the trenches of early parenthood, either one of us would have done anything to have an afternoon to ourselves. We looked forward to our kids becoming independent. Imagine being so attached to your children that you would feel lost when they left, we said to each other. A decade later, I’m just beginning to understand.

“Are the Barbedians coming tonight?” asks William.

“I don’t think so. Didn’t they say they had Giants tickets?”

“Too bad, I like Bobby,” says William.

“Meaning you don’t like Linda?”

William shrugs. “She’s
your
friend.”

“Well, she’s your friend, too,” I say, irritated that he’s trying to pawn Linda off on me.

Nedra and I met Linda when our kids attended the same preschool. Our three families have been doing a monthly potluck for years. All the kids used to come to the potluck but as they got older, one by one they began to drop out, and now it’s usually just the adults (and occasionally Peter) who show up. Without the children as a buffer the dynamics of the potluck have changed, by which I mean it’s becoming more and more clear we don’t have much in common with Linda anymore. Everybody loves Bobby, however.

William sighs.

“Listen, don’t feel like you have to hang out with me while I do my
errands. Probably the last thing you want to do is traipse around some plant nursery with me.”

“I don’t mind,” says William, looking irritated.

“Really?—well, okay. Should we ask Caroline if she wants to come?”

“Why would we ask Caroline?”

“Well, I just thought—well, maybe if you got bored, the two of you could run laps around Home Depot or something.”

After my one failed run with Caroline, William began running with her. It was a rough beginning. He was out of shape, and those first couple of runs were tough. But now they ran five miles a few mornings a week and afterward whipped up spirulina smoothies, which Caroline tried to foist upon me with promises of fewer colds and better bowel function.

“Very funny. What’s wrong with just the two of us?” William asks.

What’s wrong with “just the two of us” is that these days when we’re together, it might as well be “just one of us.” I’m the one who starts all the conversations, who brings him up to date on what’s happening with the children and the house and finances, and who asks him about what’s going on in his life. He rarely reciprocates, and he never voluntarily offers up any information about himself.

“Nothing—of course not. The two of us is great. We can do whatever we want. What fun!” I say, defaulting to my overly enthusiastic Mary Poppins/Miss Truly Scrumptious voice.

I long for a richer life with him. I know it’s possible. People out there, like Nedra and Kate, are living richer lives. Couples are making moussaka together while the Oscar Peterson channel plays on Pandora. They’re shopping at farmers’ markets. Of course they’re shopping very slowly (slowness seems to be a key element in living a rich life), visiting all the stalls, sampling stone fruit, sniffing herbs, knowing their lemongrass from their lemon balm, sitting on a stoop and eating vegan scones. I don’t mean rich in the sense of money. I mean rich in the ability to feel things as they’re happening, to not constantly be thinking of the next thing.

“Hey, Alice.” Caroline walks into the kitchen, waving a book.

So far Caroline’s had no luck finding a job. She’s had lots of interviews (there’s no shortage of tech startups in the Bay Area) but few callbacks. I
know she’s anxious, but I told her not to worry; she could stay with us until she was employed and had banked enough money to pay the security deposit on an apartment. Having Caroline around is not a burden. Besides being great company, she’s the most helpful houseguest we’ve ever had. I’ll really miss her when she goes.

“Look what I found.
Creative Playmaking,
” she says in a singsong voice.

She hands the book to me and I let out a little gasp. I haven’t seen this book in years. “This used to be my bible,” I say.

“It’s
still
my mother’s bible,” she says. “So, you guys have a weekend alone. What fun things do you have planned? Do you want me to
skedaddle
?” She waggles her eyebrows at us.

Caroline often uses old-fashioned terms like
skedaddle
—I think it’s charming. I suspect it comes from being a playwright’s daughter and seeing too many renditions of
Our Town
. I sigh and randomly flip to page 25 in the book.