Melanie Gideon - Wife 22

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 Staggs

Marcy-having trouble staying in Marcy’s big girl bed!

52 minutes ago

Shonda Perkins

Pretty please, pretty please, pretty please. Don’t do this to me. You know who you are.

2 hours ago

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.

Alice Buckle Julie Staggs

Don’t give up. Maybe try falling asleep with her the first couple of nights? She’ll get it eventually!

1 minute ago

Alice Buckle Shonda Perkins

Egg Shop. Tomorrow lunch. My treat. I want to hear EVERYTHING!

1 minute ago

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?

From: Wife 22 ‹Wife22@netherfieldcenter.org›

Subject: Stirring the proverbial pot

Date: June 1, 5:52 AM

To: researcher101 ‹researcher101@netherfieldcenter.org›

Dear Researcher 101,

I’m finding these questions about my courtship with William to be very pot-stirring. On one hand it’s like watching a movie. Who are these actors playing the roles of Alice and William? That’s how foreign these younger versions of us feel to me. On the other hand, I can reach back and create scenes in such detail for you. I can remember exactly what it felt like to fantasize about sleeping with him. How delicious the anticipation.

On the subject of not hiding, I have to tell you that to be asked such intimate questions-to be listened to so closely-to have my opinion and my feelings be valued and account for something is profound. I am continually startled at my willingness to disclose such personal information to you.

Sincerely,

Wife 22