Melanie Gideon - Wife 22

“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.

“Oh, 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.