Wife 22

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?

32

From: Wife 22 ‹[email protected]›

Subject: Stirring the proverbial pot

Date: June 1, 5:52 AM

To: researcher101 ‹[email protected]›

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

From: researcher101 ‹[email protected]›

Subject: Re: Stirring the proverbial pot

Date: June 1, 6:01 AM

To: Wife 22 ‹[email protected]›

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

33

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 Lancome 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