Wife 22 (27 page)
Authors: Melanie Gideon
I look at where he’s been sitting. There’s a huge wet stain on the cushion. Oh, Jampo!
“I dropped a glass of water this afternoon,” I say.
William smells his fingers. “It’s piss.”
Jampo comes running into the living room and jumps on my lap. He buries his head in my armpit. “He can’t help it. He’s just a puppy,” I say.
“He’s two years old!” shouts William.
“Twenty-four months. No child is toilet-trained at twenty-four months. He didn’t do it on purpose.”
“He most certainly did,” William says. “First my pillow and now my chair. He knows all my places.”
“You’re being ridiculous,” I say.
Jampo peeks out of my armpit and growls at William.
“Bad boy,” I whisper.
He growls some more. I feel like we’re in a cartoon. I can’t help it. I start to laugh. William looks at me in shock.
“I can’t believe you’re laughing.”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m really sorry,” I say, still laughing.
He glares at me.
“Think I’ll go to bed now,” I say, tucking Jampo under my arm.
“You’re bringing him with you?”
“Only until you come to bed and then I’ll kick him out,” I say. “I promise.”
I wave my Kindle at him.
“What are you going to read first?” William asks.
“
The Stand
. I can’t believe you remembered how much I loved it. I want to see if it’s as good as it was when I first read it.”
“You’re setting yourself up for disappointment,” says William. “I suggest you don’t hold it to the same standard.”
“What—I should make a new standard?”
“You’re not seventeen. The things that were relevant then aren’t anymore.”
“I disagree. If it was gripping then, it should be gripping now. That’s how you know something is a classic. A keeper.”
William shrugs. “The dog’s ruined my chair.”
“It’s just pee.”
“It’s soaked through the entire cushion and into the frame.”
I sigh. “Happy anniversary, William.”
“Twenty years. That’s something, Alice.”
William pushes the hair back from his eyes, a gesture I know so well, and for a moment I see the young man that he was, the day I first met him, when I was interviewing for the job. Everything is colliding, past and present and future. I grip Jampo so tightly he squeals. I want to say something to William. Something so he knows to reach out and pull me back from the edge.
“Don’t be too long.”
“I won’t,” says William, the remote control back in his hand.
That night he sleeps on the couch.
John Yossarian
added Games
Clue
Lucy Pevensie
added Lives in
Spare Oom
How was your anniversary, Wife 22?
Confusing.
Is that my fault?
Yes.
What can I do?
Tell me your name.
I can’t.
I imagine you have an old-fashioned sort of name. Like Charles or James. Or maybe something a bit more modern, like Walker.
You do realize everything changes once we know each other’s names. It’s easy to reveal our true selves to strangers. Far harder to reveal those truths to those we know.
Tell me your name.
Not yet.
When?
Soon—I promise.
73.
Yes, it was different with Peter. After the delivery, after I had slept for a few hours, they brought him to me. It was the middle of the night. William had gone home to be with Zoe.
I peeled back the swaddling blanket. He was one of those babies who looked like a grizzled old man, by which I mean he was the most beautiful baby I had ever seen (although the size of his forehead worried me).
“I already hate his wife,” I told the nurse.
74.
Bliss. Exhaustion. Coming-home party. Too tired to clean. Too tired to have sex. Too tired to greet William when he comes in the door after work. Zoe tries to smother Peter. Peter adores Zoe even though daily she thinks of inventive new ways to try and knock him off. Forty-plus diapers a week. Is three years old too young for a sister to change her baby brother’s diaper? Afternoons on the couch, Peter sleeping on my stomach. Zoe watching inappropriate TV for four hours. Fight with husband over whether
Oprah
inappropriate TV. Shirts soaked in spit-up. Family of three, hours of 6 a.m. to 7 p.m. Family of four, hours of 7 p.m. to 10 p.m. Family of two (me and Peter), hours of 10 p.m. to 6 a.m. Don’t worry, say all the books. Distance between you and husband is only temporary. Once baby is four months old, sleeping through the night, eating solids, a year old, past the terrible twos, in kindergarten, reading, getting more pee in the toilet than on the floor, recovered from the poison oak that got everywhere including under his foreskin, has learned to do the backstroke, had his tetanus shot, stopped biting girls, is capable of putting on his socks, no longer lies to you about brushing his teeth, no longer requires lullabies, goes to middle school, enters puberty, comes out as a proud gay tween—then you and William will get back to normal. Then the distance will miraculously disappear.
75.
Dear Peter,
The truth—I was upset when I found out you were going to be a boy. Mostly because I had no idea how to mother a boy. I thought it would be much more difficult than being a mother to a girl because of course I knew all about being a girl due to the fact that I was one. Actually still am. The girl inside me lives. I think you’ve seen her from time to time. She’s the one who understands the pleasure of a good nose pick—just do it in private, please, and wash your hands afterward.
Some things you might not know or remember:
1. When you were two and had a horrible ear infection and wouldn’t stop crying, I was so distraught at seeing you in pain that I climbed into your crib and held you until you fell asleep. You didn’t wake for ten hours, not even when the crib broke.
2. When you were three, you had only two things on your Christmas list: a potato and a carrot.
3. Funny thing you once said upon me giving you ravioli with butter for dinner (we’d run out of tomato sauce): I can’t eat this. This ravioli has no heart.
4. Unanswerable thing you once said while helping me fold laundry: Where was I when you were a little girl?
5. Thing you said that broke my heart: Even when I die I’ll still be your boy.
It has given me unbelievable pleasure to be your mother. You are my funniest, dearest, brightest star.
Your loving Mama
76.
First part of question: I don’t know; second part of question: to some degree.
“O
h, darling, this is nice. Isn’t this nice? Why don’t we do this more often?” asks Nedra.
Nedra is taking me to the M.A.C store on 4th Street in Berkeley to buy makeup, her treat. She says she’s tried to adjust to my French no-makeup look, but after weeks of me bearing no increasing resemblance to Marion Cotillard (Marie Curie, maybe), something must be done. I don’t bother telling Nedra that I’ll wear the makeup for two days, maybe three, and then forget about it. She knows this is the case, but it doesn’t matter to her. The real reason she’s taking me is to guilt me into being her maid of honor. I’m sure we’ll find our way over to Anthropologie, where I’ll be forced to try on dresses.
It’s right after rush hour and the streets are still busy. As we pull up to the intersection of University and San Pablo, I see two kids standing in the median holding up a sign scrawled on a piece of cardboard.
“That’s so sad,” I say, trying to read the sign, but we’re too far away. “Can you read that, Nedra?”
She squints. “I really wish you would get some reading glasses. I’m tired of being your interpreter.
Father lost job. Please help. Songs for free. Requests taken.
Oh, Jesus, God, Alice, don’t freak out,” she says as we pull closer and those two kids metamorphose into Peter and Zoe.
I inhale sharply and roll down the window. Peter is singing Neil Young’s “After the Gold Rush.” The driver of a Toyota three cars in front of me holds out a five-dollar bill. “You got a nice voice, kid,” I hear him say. “Sorry about your dad.”
Despite my confusion, the sound of Peter’s angelic voice makes me want to cry. He
does
have a nice voice. He didn’t get that from William or me.
I stick my head out the car window. “What the hell are you doing?”
They stare at me in total shock.
“Leave ’em alone, lady. Better yet, give them a twenty,” yells the woman in the car behind me. “You look like you can afford it.”
I’m sitting in the passenger seat of Nedra’s Lexus. “This isn’t my car,” I yell back at her. “For your information, I drive a Ford!”
“You told us to find work,” yells Zoe.
“Babysitting!”
“It’s a recession, in case you haven’t heard. Unemployment is twelve percent. There’s no applying for jobs anymore. You have to invent them,” yells Zoe.
“She’s right,” says Nedra.
“This is an awesome spot,” adds Peter. “We’ve already made over a hundred dollars.”
We pull up next to them and stop. The light turns green and the air buzzes with angry horns. I stick my hand out the window and wave the cars on.
“A hundred dollars for whom? You’re donating that money to a food shelter. I couldn’t be more embarrassed,” I hiss.
And terrified—some lunatic could have coaxed them into his car. For all their grown-up posturing, Peter and Zoe are both sheltered, naïve kids. A refresher course on stranger danger is in order.
“You enterprising little things,” says Nedra. “I didn’t know you had it in you.”
“Get in the car,” I say. “RIGHT NOW.”
Zoe looks at her watch. She’s wearing a vintage Pucci dress and ballet flats. “Our shift doesn’t end until noon.”
“What, you punched in for panhandling?” I say.
“It’s important to have structure and keep regular hours,” says Peter. “I read that in Dad’s book:
100 Ways to Motivate Yourself: Change Your Life Forever.
”
“Climb in, kids,” says Nedra. “Do as your mother says or I’ll have to look at her pale, blotchy face forever and that will be your fault.”
Peter and Zoe climb into the backseat.
“You don’t smell homeless,” says Nedra.
“Homeless people can’t help the way they smell,” says Peter. “It’s not like they can knock on somebody’s door and ask to take a shower.”
“That’s very compassionate of you,” says Nedra.
“That was fun, Pedro,” says Zoe, bumping fists with Peter.
I knew the day would come when I’d lose Peter to Zoe, when they’d begin to confide in one another and keep each other’s secrets, but I had no idea it would happen this soon or like this.
“Can we please go home?” I say.
Nedra keeps driving up San Pablo.
“Is anybody listening to me?” I cry.
Nedra takes a left onto Hearst and a few minutes later parks on 4th Street. She turns around. “Get lost, darlings. Meet us back here at one.”
“You look tired, Mom.” Peter pokes his head into the front seat.
“Yeah, what’s up with the dark circles?” asks Zoe.
“I’m going to take care of that,” says Nedra. “Now scram, you two.”
“It’s not like you caught them smoking crack,” says Nedra, as we’re walking into M.A.C.
“You sided with them. Why do you always have to be the cool one?”
“Alice, what’s wrong?”
I shake my head.
“What?” she repeats.
“Everything,” I say. “You wouldn’t understand. You’re fiancéed. You’re happy. Everything good is ahead of you.”
“I hate it when people make nouns into verbs,” says Nedra. “And plenty of good things are ahead of you, too.”
“What if you’re wrong? What if my best days are behind me?”
“Don’t tell me this is about that ridiculous marriage survey. You stopped writing to that researcher, right?”
I pick up a tube of eggplant-colored lip gloss.
“So what’s this about?” she asks, putting the lip gloss back. “Not your color.”
“I think Zoe’s got an eating disorder.”
Nedra rolls her eyes. “Alice, this happens every summer when school gets out. You get paranoid. You become morose. You’re a person who needs to stay occupied.” I nod and let myself be led to the foundation counter. “A tinted moisturizer—not too heavy. A little mascara and a pop
of blush. And after that we’ll take the teensiest, quickest trip through Anthropologie, shall we?” says Nedra.
That night Peter crawls into bed with me.
“Poor Mom,” he says, wrapping his arms around me. “You had a hard day. Watching your children begging on the streets.”
“Aren’t you too old for snuggling?” I say, pushing him away, wanting to punish him a little.
“Never,” he says, snuggling in closer.
“How much do you weigh?”
“A hundred pounds.”
“How tall are you?”
“Five one.”
“You may snuggle for another five pounds or another inch, whichever comes first.”
“Why only five pounds and an inch?”
“Because after that it will be unseemly.”
Peter is quiet for a moment. “Oh,” he says softly, his hand patting my arm the exact same way he used to when he was a toddler.
He was so tuned into me when he was younger; it was exhausting. If any sort of a worried look broke over my face he’d run over.
It’s okay, Mama. It’s okay,
he would say solemnly.
Would you like a song?
“I’ll miss it, too, sweetheart,” I say. “But it will be time.”
“Can we still watch movies together on the couch?”
“Of course. I’ve got our next one lined up.
The Omen
. You’re going to love the part at the zoo where all the animals go wild.”
We lie quietly together for a while.
Something is nearly over. I put my hand over my heart as if I can keep its contents from spilling out.