Melanie Gideon - Wife 22

From: researcher101 ‹researcher101@netherfieldcenter.org›

Subject: Re: Stirring the proverbial pot

Date: June 1, 6:01 AM

To: Wife 22 ‹Wife22@netherfieldcenter.org›

Dear Wife 22,

I’ve heard similar things from other participants, but I have to reiterate it’s precisely because we are strangers that you are able to confide in me so easily.

Best,

Researcher 101

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.

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.

37.And then one day, standing in front of the Charles Hotel, he unplugged my earphones from my Walkman, put them into his Walkman, and for the first time it seemed like we were having a real conversation. It went something like this:

Song 1: De La Soul, “Ha Ha Hey”: I’m a white guy who likes watered-down hip-hop. Occasionally if I’ve had enough to drink I will dance.

Song 2: Til Tuesday, “Voices Carry”: It would be best if we spoke to nobody of these lunchtime runs.

Song 3: Nena, “99 Luftballons”: I was a punk for three weeks when I was thirteen. Are you impressed?

Song 4: The Police, “Don’t Stand So Close to Me”: Stand so close to me.

Song 5: Fine Young Cannibals, “Good Thing”: You.

Song 6: Men Without Hats, “The Safety Dance”: Over.

Song 7: The Knack, “My Sharona”: You make my motor run. My motor run.

Song 8: Journey, “Faithfully”: An adverb that no longer describes me.

From: Wife 22 ‹Wife22@netherfieldcenter.org›

Subject: Friends

Date: June 4, 4:31 AM

To: researcher101 ‹researcher101@netherfieldcenter.org›

I think it’s time we became friends. What do you think about using Facebook? I’m on Facebook all the time and I love the immediacy of it. And wouldn’t it be nice to chat? If we each put up a page and friend only each other we can retain our anonymity. The only problem is that you have to use a real name, so I’ve set up a page under Lucy Pevensie. Do you know Lucy Pevensie from The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe ? The girl who stumbled through the wardrobe and found herself in Narnia? My children always accuse me of being lost in another world when I’m on online, so it makes a strange sort of sense. What do you think?

All the best,

Wife 22

From: researcher101 ‹researcher101@netherfieldcenter.org›

Subject: Re: Friends

Date: June 4, 6:22 AM