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 Lancome,” 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
“Start from the beginning, honey, and tell us everything,” says Tita.
34
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.
35
From: Wife 22 ‹[email protected]›
Subject: Friends
Date: June 4, 4:31 AM
To: researcher101 ‹[email protected]›
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
All the best,
Wife 22
From: researcher101 ‹[email protected]›
Subject: Re: Friends
Date: June 4, 6:22 AM
To: Wife 22 ‹[email protected]›
Dear Wife 22,
I don’t typically communicate with subjects via Facebook due to the obvious privacy issues, but it seems you’ve found a way to work around that. I will say, for the record, that I don’t like Facebook and I don’t typically “chat.” I find communicating in short bursts both draining and distracting. As did, according to NPR, the teenage girl who fell into an open manhole today while texting. Facebook is another kind of hole-a rabbit hole, in my opinion-but I will check into the feasibility of using it and get back to you.
Sincerely,
Researcher 101
From: Wife 22 ‹[email protected]›
Subject: Re: Friends
Date: June 4, 6:26 AM
To: researcher101 ‹[email protected]›
What’s wrong with rabbit holes? Some of us are quite partial to them. Chagall believed a painting was like a window through which a person could fly into another world. Is that more to your liking?
Wife 22
From: researcher101 ‹[email protected]›
Subject: Re: Friends
Date: June 4, 6:27 AM
To: Wife 22 ‹[email protected]›
Why, yes it is. How did you know?
Researcher 101
36
“So, what do you want to do?” I ask.
“I don’t know. What do you want to do?” says William. “Are you all set for the potluck? What are we supposed to bring?”
“Lamb. Nedra emailed me the recipe. It’s been marinating since last night. I have to go to Home Depot-I want to get lemon balm and lemon verbena and that other lemon herby thing-what’s it called? From Thailand?”
“Lemongrass. What’s with all the lemon?” he asks.
“Lemon is a natural diuretic.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Didn’t you?”
