Wife 22

“That’s different. It’s a short story. There are no visuals or scary soundtracks. I don’t want to watch this anymore,” he says.

“You’ve made it this far. You have to watch the rest. Besides, you haven’t seen the twist yet. The twist redeems everything.”

Fifteen minutes later, after the big twist is revealed (with much clapping of my hands and exclamations of “Isn’t that incredible, do you get it? You don’t get it-let me explain it to you. I see dead people? Bruce Willis is actually dead and has been dead the entire time!”).

Peter says, “I can’t believe you forced me to watch that movie. I should report you.”

“To who?”

“To whom. Dad.”

It’s a very bad beginning to my mother-son short-story book club.

“I’m going to sleep on the couch,” says William that night. “I may be contagious. I don’t want you to get it.”

“That’s very considerate of you,” I say.

William coughs. Coughs again. “Could be a cold, but could be something more.”

“Better to be safe,” I say.

“Which one are you reading?” he asks, pointing to the stack of books on my bedside table.

“All of them.”

“At once?”

I nod. “They’re my Ambien. I can’t afford to become a sleep-eater.”

I read one page of one book and fall asleep. I’m awakened a few hours later by Peter shaking my shoulder.

“Can I sleep in your bed? I’m scared,” he snuffles.

I switch on the light. “I see alive people,” I whisper.

“That’s not funny.” He’s near tears.

“Oh, sweetheart. I’m sorry.” I flip back the covers on William’s side of the bed, feeling surprisingly sad that he isn’t there. “Climb in.”

45

John Yossarian changed his profile picture

John Yossarian added Relationship Status

It’s Complicated

John Yossarian added Interests

Pina Coladas

You’re still being blurry, Researcher 101.

I thought you’d be pleased. I’m filling in my profile.

It’s complicated is a given in any relationship.

Facebook only gives you so many options. I had to choose one, Wife 22.

If you could write your own Relationship Status, what would it be? I suggest you answer this question without thinking about it too much. I’ve found this kind of rapid-fire response results in the most honest answers.

Married, questioning, hopeful.

I knew you were married! And I believe all of those adjectives fall under the category It’s Complicated.

If you could write your own Relationship Status, what would it be?

Married. Questioning.

Not hopeful?

Well, that’s the strange thing. I am hopeful. But I’m not sure the hope is directed toward my husband. For the moment, anyway.

What’s it directed toward?

I don’t know. It’s sort of a free-floating hope.

Ah-free-floating hope.

You’re not going to lecture me about redirecting my hope toward my husband?

Hope isn’t something you can redirect. It lands where it lands.

True. But it’s nice you feel hopeful about your marriage.

I didn’t say that, exactly.

What did you say?

I’m not sure.

What did you mean?

I meant that I’m hoping to have hope. Sometime in the future.

So you don’t have it now?

It’s a little up in the air.

I see. Up in the air like you in your profile photo?

I hope we can have more of these conversations.

I thought you didn’t like chatting.

I like chatting with you. And I’m getting used to it. My thoughts come faster, but at a price.

What’s that?

With speed comes disinhibition: i.e. see first sentence in previous comment.

And that worries you.

Well, yes.

With speed comes truth, as well.

A certain sort of truth.

You have a need to be very precise, don’t you, Researcher 101?

That is a researcher’s nature.

I don’t like to think of you as being a fan of sickly sweet frozen drinks.

A lost opportunity for you, Wife 22.

46

“Is that Jude?” I ask.

“Where?”

“In the hair products aisle?”

“I doubt it,” says Zoe. “He doesn’t pay any attention to his hair. It’s part of his singer-songwriter vibe.”

Zoe and I are in Rite-Aid. Zoe needs pontoons and I’m trying to find this perfume I wore when I was a teenager. There’s a flirtatious undertone to my Researcher 101 chats that’s making me feel twenty years younger. I’ve been fantasizing about what he looks like. So far he’s a cross between a young Tommy Lee Jones and Colin Firth-in other words, a weathered, slightly banged-up, profane Colin Firth.

“Excuse me,” I say to a clerk who’s restocking a shelf. “Do you carry a perfume called Love’s Musky Jasmine?”

“We have Love’s Baby Soft,” she says. “Aisle seven.”

“No, I’m not looking for Baby Soft. I want Musky Jasmine.”