Melanie Gideon - Wife 22

“How many in a box?”

“Ten. But all of the boxes are opened. Maybe she’s got a business. Maybe she sells them at school,” says Caroline. “Or maybe she’s just got a sweet tooth.”

I imagine Zoe cramming Ding Dongs into her mouth at night after we’ve all gone to bed. At least it’s better than cramming Jude’s ding dong into her mouth at night after we’ve all gone to bed. Yes, God help me, this is what I think.

“You don’t understand. Zoe would never eat junk food.”

“Not in public, anyway. Maybe you should see if she shows any of the signs of an eating disorder before you say anything,” she suggests.

There was a time not so long ago when Zoe and I spent every Friday afternoon together. I’d pick her up from school and take her somewhere special: the bead store, Colonial Donuts, to Macy’s to try on lip gloss. My heart would seize with happiness the moment she climbed into the car. It still seizes with happiness, but I have to hide it now. I have learned to ignore her blank stares and rolling eyes. I knock when her door is shut and I try not to eavesdrop when she’s video chatting. My point is, other than this closet transgression, I am usually very good at letting her have a life-but I miss her terribly. Of course I heard the war stories from parents with older children. I just thought, as every parent smugly does, that we would be the exception; I would never lose her.

“You’re probably right,” I say. “I’ll do some research.” I wince. My ankle is throbbing. It’s black and blue.

“What did you do to your ankle?” asks Caroline.

“I fell. After you left. Tripped on a pinecone.”

“Oh, no! Did you ice it?” asks Caroline.

I nod.

“For how long?”

“Not long enough, apparently.”

Caroline jumps to her feet and stacks the boxes in Zoe’s closet. Expertly she folds the sweaters-“The Gap, every summer in high school,” she explains-and stacks them in front of the boxes. I hand her my yellow sweater. Caroline takes it wordlessly, puts it on the pile, then shuts the closet door. She holds out her hand.

“Now. Let’s go get you some more ice.”

35.And so we had a secret. Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday we met in front of the Charles Hotel at lunchtime for a run. In the office we pretended that we didn’t work out together every other day. We pretended we didn’t know the shape of each other’s thighs, or the scars on our ankles and knees, or the brand of each other’s running shoes, or who was a pronator and who was not, or that we had matching farmer’s tans, which were soon remedied when May turned into June and we peeled off the layers and our shoulders turned the color of walnuts. I pretended that he didn’t have a girlfriend. I pretended that I didn’t know the mineral smell of his sweat and how exactly he sweated-always the same: a line down his back and vertically across his collarbone. I pretended I didn’t buy new running shorts, and practice running in them in front of the mirror to make sure nothing untoward showed, and that I didn’t rub my legs with baby oil so they gleamed. I pretended I didn’t obsess about how a running partner should smell, or whether or not to wear perfume and in the end settled on baby powder, which would hopefully convey the message naturally smells fresh and clean like a woman, not an infant . He pretended he didn’t notice when my breathing turned to small, almost inaudible moans when we sprinted the last quarter mile, the Charles Hotel in sight, and I pretended I didn’t have fantasies that one day he would take my hand, lead me up to a room, and into his bed.

36.Having a secret is the most powerful aphrodisiac in the world and, by necessity, exactly what’s missing in a marriage.

From: researcher101 ‹researcher101@netherfieldcenter.org›

Subject: Hope

Date: May 30, 4:45 PM

To: Wife 22 ‹Wife22@netherfieldcenter.org›

Dear Wife 22,

I took the liberty of codifying your last email-the emotion data points: longing, sadness, nostalgia, and hope. The last emotion might not seem evident to you, but there’s no doubt in my mind. It’s hope.

I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but what I find most likeable about you is your unpredictability. Just when I think I’ve gotten a handle on you, you say something that throws me off completely. Sometimes the correspondence between subject and researcher reveals so much more than the answers.

You are a romantic, Wife 22. I wouldn’t have guessed it.

Researcher 101

From: Wife 22 ‹Wife22@netherfieldcenter.org›

Subject: Re: Hope

Date: May 30, 9:28 PM

To: researcher101 ‹researcher101@netherfieldcenter.org›

Researcher 101,

Takes one to know one. Are you for real?

Wife 22

From: researcher101 ‹researcher101@netherfieldcenter.org›

Subject: Re: Hope

Date: May 30, 9:45 PM

To: Wife 22 ‹Wife22@netherfieldcenter.org›

Wife 22,

I assure you I am very real. I’ll take your question as a compliment, and go one further and answer your next question so you needn’t ask it-no, I am not a senior citizen. Believe it or not, there are men in your generation who are romantics. Frequently we are disguised as curmudgeons. I look forward to getting your next set of answers.

Researcher 101

From: Wife 22 ‹Wife22@netherfieldcenter.org›

Subject: Re: Hope

Date: May 30, 10:01 PM

To: researcher101 ‹researcher101@netherfieldcenter.org›

I took the liberty of codifying your last email. The emotion points as I see them are flattered, chagrined, and the last emotion, which may not seem obvious to you, is also hope. What are you hoping for, Researcher 101?

Sincerely,

Wife 22

From: researcher101 ‹researcher101@netherfieldcenter.org›

Subject: Re: Hope

Date: May 30, 10:38 PM

To: Wife 22 ‹Wife22@netherfieldcenter.org›

Wife 22,

I suppose it’s what everybody hopes for-to be known for who we truly are.

Researcher 101

alicebuckle@rocketmail.com

Bookmarks Bar (242)

nymag.com/news/features/The Science of Gaydar

The Science of Gaydar

If sexual orientation is biological, are the traits that make people seem gay innate, too? The new research on biological indicators, everything from voice pitch to hair whorl.

EXAMPLE 1: Hair Whorl (Men)

Gay men are more likely than straight men to have a counterclockwise whorl.

alicebuckle@rocketmail.com

Bookmarks Bar (243)

somethingfishy.org/eatingdisorders/symptoms

1. Hiding food in strange places (closets, cabinets, suitcases, under bed) to avoid eating (anorexia) or eat at a later time (bulimia).

2. Obsession with continuous exercise.

3. Frequent trips to the bathroom immediately following meals (sometimes accompanied with water running in the bathroom for a long period of time to hide the sound of vomiting).

4. Unusual food rituals such as shifting the food around on the plate to look eaten; cutting food into tiny pieces; making sure the fork avoids contact with the lips…

5. Hair loss. Pale or “gray” appearance to the skin.

6. Complaints of often feeling cold.

7. Bruised or callused knuckles; bloodshot or bleeding eyes; light bruising under the eyes and on the cheeks.

“Vegetarian or meat eater today?” I ask Zoe, approaching the table with a platter of roasted chicken and potatoes.

“Carnivore.”

“Great. Breast or thigh?”

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.”