Wife 22

“I have news,” I say to William that evening.

“Hold on, I’m just finishing the onions. Did you prep the carrots, Caroline?” asks William.

“I forgot,” says Caroline, hustling to the refrigerator. “Do you want them julienned or diced?”

“Diced. Alice, please get out of the way. You’re blocking the sink.”

“I have news,” I repeat. “About Nedra and Kate.”

“There’s nothing like the smell of caramelized onions,” says William, sticking the pan under Caroline’s nose.

“Mmmm,” she says.

I think about the way Jude looked at Zoe. With such longing. With such desire. The same exact way my husband is looking at a pile of limp onions.

“How much tarragon?” asks William.

“Two teaspoons, a tablespoon? I forgot,” says Caroline. “Although it might not be tarragon. It might be marjoram. Look on Epicurious.”

I sigh and grab my laptop. William glances at me. “Don’t go. I want to hear your news. I just have to check the recipe.”

I give him an exaggerated thumbs-up and walk into the living room.

I log on to Lucy’s Facebook page. Researcher 101 is online. I look up at William. He’s busy, frowning at his iPhone.

“Is it tarragon or marjoram?” asks Caroline.

“Hold on,” says William. “I can’t find the recipe on Epicurious. Was it Food.com?”

I click on Chat and quickly type:

What’s happening?

It takes Researcher 101 just a few seconds to respond:

Besides our brains being flooded with phenylethylamine?

I shudder. Researcher 101’s voice sounds remarkably similar to George Clooney’s-at least in my head. I write:

Should we put a stop to this?

No.

Should I ask that my case be transferred to another researcher?

Absolutely not.

Have you ever flirted like this with another of your subjects?

I have never flirted with another woman besides my wife.

Jesus! I feel a sudden pulsing heat in my groin and I cross my legs as if to hide it, as if somebody could see.

“Did you find it?” asks Caroline.

“Food.com. Two teaspoons of tarragon,” replies William, waving his phone at her. “You were right.”

I sit there on the couch, trying to persuade my heart rate to go back to its resting state. I breathe though my mouth. Is this what it feels like to have a panic attack? William looks at me from across the room.

“So what’s your news, Alice?” he asks.

“Nedra and Kate are getting married.”

“Are they?”

“You don’t sound surprised.”

He pauses and smiles. “I’m only surprised it took them this long.”

66

70. That sometimes, when I’m alone and in a place where nobody knows me, I speak with a pretend British accent.

71. Worry. Ask Peter when’s the last time he flossed. Fight off the urge to push the hair out of Zoe’s eyes so I can see her pretty face.

72. How stunning it would be to see his features in my children’s faces.

67

John Yossarian changed his profile picture

It’s my 20th anniversary tomorrow.

And how are you feeling about that, Wife 22?

Ambivalent.

I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for this to happen.

“This” meaning me?

I remember when I first went to college. It was in a city. I won’t say where. But I remember after I had said goodbye to my parents, I walked down the streets feeling exhilarated that nobody knew me. For the first time in my life I was completely disconnected from everybody I loved.

I remember that feeling, too. I found the disconnection terrifying.

You realize future generations will never experience this. We are reachable every minute of the day.

And your point is?

Your reachability is highly addictive, Wife 22.

Is that your hand in your new profile photo?

Yes.

Why did you post a photo of your hand?

Because I wanted you to imagine it on the back of your neck.

68

“We have to get potstickers,” says Peter.

“We always get potstickers. Let’s get lettuce wraps,” says Zoe. “The vegetarian ones.”

“Are you guys sure you’re okay with us crashing your anniversary dinner?” asks Caroline. “It’s not very romantic.”

“Alice and I have had twenty years to be romantic,” William says. “Besides, it’s nice to go out and celebrate. Did you know the traditional wedding gift for the twentieth anniversary is china? That’s why I made the reservation at P.F. Chang’s.” He taps his finger on the menu. “Cheng-du Spiced Lamb. China.”

China, yes. This morning I gave William a commemorative photo plate that I ordered back in December. The photo was taken of us twenty years ago standing in front of Fenway Park. He’s behind me, his arms draped around my neck. We look breathtakingly young. I’m not sure he liked the gift. The plate came with a display easel, but he just stuffed it back into the box.

William looks around the dining room stiffly. “Where’s the waiter? I need a drink.”

“So, twenty years,” says Zoe. “What’s it like?”

“Oh, Zoe, what kind of a question is that?” I say.

“The kind you’re supposed to ask on an anniversary. A serious kind. A taking-stock kind,” she says.

What were we thinking asking them to come to our anniversary dinner? If it was just William and me we’d talk about safe subjects like the bond market, or the sticky garage door. Instead we’re going to be interrogated as to