Melanie Gideon: Wife 22

William shrinks away from me, as if I’ve hit him.

“I’ll come up with something,” he says softly. “Let me know when you’re done in here so I can take a shower.”

After William’s gone, I don’t know what to do with myself, so I open the envelope. There are two items inside: a card from my father and an old hankie folded carefully into a square. The hankie belonged to my mother. There are three little violets embroidered on the white cotton along with my mother’s initials. I press the hankie to my nose. It still smells of her Jean Naté body splash. I pick up the card.

Sometimes things we lose come back to us. Not usually, from this old man’s experience, but sometimes, they do. I found this in the pawnshop in Brockton. The owner said it’s been sitting in the case for over two decades, but that won’t be a surprise to you. I know you’ve made some mistakes and done some things you wish you could take back. I know you’re feeling lost and you’re not sure what to do. I hope this will help you make up your mind. I love you, honey.

I carefully unfold the handkerchief and there, nestled in the white cotton, is my engagement ring: the one I threw out the car window when William and I had the argument about inviting Helen to our wedding. Somebody must have found it and brought it to the pawnshop. The jewels have darkened with age and it needs a good cleaning, but there’s no mistaking the tiny diamond flanked by two even tinier emeralds-the ring that my grandfather gave to my grandmother so many years ago, the ring that I so cavalierly tossed away.

I try and make out the engraving on the inside of the ring but the type is too small. I can’t think about what it all means now. If I do, I’ll lose it. We have an hour before we have to leave for dinner. I slip the ring into my pocket and go downstairs.

The dinner is being held at a new trendy restaurant called Boca.

“Is that Donna Summer playing?” asks William, when we walk in the door.

“Jude told me Nedra was hiring a deejay,” says Zoe. “I hope they don’t play seventies music all night long.”

“I love this song,” says Jack to Bunny. “I sense your dance card will be full tonight, ‘Bad Girl.’ ”

“Did you take your baby aspirin?” Bunny asks.

“I took three,” Jack says. “Just in case.”

“In case of what?” asks Bunny.

“This,” he says, kissing her on the lips.

“You two are cute,” says Zoe.

“You wouldn’t think it was cute if that was your mother and me,” says William.

“That’s because between the ages of thirty and sixty, PDA is gross,” says Zoe. “And after sixty it’s cute again. You’re older than sixty, right?” Zoe whispers to Jack.

“Just a squidge,” says Jack, pinching his thumb and forefinger together.

“There’s Nedra,” says William. “At the bar.” He gives a low whistle.

Nedra is wearing a forest-green silk wrap dress with lots of cleavage showing. She rarely shows décolletage; she thinks it’s déclassé. But tonight she made an exception. She looks stunning.

“We should probably tell her,” says William. “Do you want to or should I?”

“Tell her what?” asks Peter.

I sigh. “That your father is doing the toast, not me.”

“But you’re the maid of honor. You have to do the toast,” says Zoe.

“Your mother isn’t feeling well,” says William. “I’m standing in for her.”

“Right,” says Zoe, whose face tells me everything she’s thinking: her mother is running away- once again. I should care, I’m setting a very bad example for my daughter, but I don’t. Not tonight.

“Darling! Have a Soiree,” cries Nedra, when she sees me approaching. She holds out a martini glass filled with a clear liquid. Little purple flowers skitter across the surface.

“Lavender, gin, honey, and lemon,” she says. “Give it a try.”

I summon the bartender. “Chardonnay, please,” I say.

“You’re so predictable,” says Nedra. “That’s one of the things I love about you.”

“Yes, well, I predict you’re about to not love my predictability.”

Nedra puts the martini glass down. “Do not put a damper on my evening, Alice Buckle. Do not even think about it.”

I sigh. “I feel terrible.”

“Here we go. What do you mean you feel terrible?”

“Sick.”

“Sick how?”

“Headache. Stomachache. Light-headed.”

The bartender gives me my wine. I take a big sip.

“That’s just nerves,” says Nedra.

“I think I’m having a panic attack.”

“You are not having a panic attack. Stop being so dramatic and just say what you need to say.”

“I can’t give the toast tonight. But don’t worry, William’s going to take my place.”

Nedra shakes her head. “That is a hideous suit.”

“I didn’t want to upstage you. But I shouldn’t have worried. All this-” I say, waving at her breasts. “Wow.”

“I asked one thing of you, Alice. One thing most women would be thrilled about. For you to be my maid of honor.”

“There’s a reason. I’m a mess. I can’t think straight. Something’s happened,” I cry.

“ Really , Alice?” She looks at me incredulously.

“I got some bad news tonight. Some really, terrible, horrible bad news.”

Nedra’s face softens. “Christ, why didn’t you open with that? What’s happened? Is it your father?”

“Researcher 101 is William!”

Nedra takes a dainty sip of her Soiree. She takes another little sip.

“Did you hear me?”

“I heard you, Alice.”

“And?”

“Are you about to get your period?”

“I have evidence! Look. This is one of Researcher 101’s profile photos.” I take out my phone, go to Facebook, click on his photo album, and then click on the photo of his hand. “First of all, it’s geotagged.”

“Hmm,” says Nedra, looking over my shoulder. I drag the icon of the little yellow man onto the red pushpin and when the photo of our house pops up on the screen, she claps her hand over her mouth. “Wait, it gets better.” I zoom in on the photo. “It’s his hand. He could have used any hand. Any hand from the Internet. A clip art hand, even. He used his own.”

“That bloody, fucking idiot,” says Nedra, grinning.

“I know!”

“I can’t believe it.”

“I know !”

She shakes her head in disbelief. “Who knew he had it in him? That is the single most romantic thing I’ve ever heard of.”

“Oh, God, not you, too.”

“What do you mean not me, too?”

“Bunny had the same reaction.”

“Well, that should tell you something, then.”

I finger my engagement ring in my pocket. “Oh, Nedra, I don’t know what to feel. I’m so confused. Look,” I show her the ring. “This came today in the mail.”

“What is it?”

“My engagement ring.”

“The one you threw out the car window fifty million years ago?”

“My father found it in a pawnshop. Somebody must have turned it in.” I hold the ring up to my eye and squint. “There’s an engraving, but I can’t read it.”

“Your refusal to deal with your adult-onset presbyopia is becoming a real problem, Alice,” says Nedra. “Let me see.”

I hand the ring to her.

“Her heart did whisper he had done it for her,” she reads. “Oh, for God’s sake.”

“It does not say that.”

“Yes, it does.”

“You’re making that up.”

“I promise you, I’m not. That sounds familiar. Give me your phone.” She types the quote into Google search. “It’s Jane Austen. Pride and Prejudice ,” she squeals.

“Well, that’s just ridiculous,” I say.