Peter throws his arms around me. Even though he’s twelve, I still occasionally get hugs. A few minutes later, the sounds of guns and bombs issue forth from the living room.
My phone chirps. It’s a text from William.
I open my laptop, quickly reread my answers, and hit Send.
7
From: researcher101 ‹[email protected]›
Subject: #13
Date: May 5, 8:05 AM
To: Wife 22 ‹[email protected]›
Dear Wife 22,
Thanks for your first set of answers and for getting them back to me so quickly. I have one question. In regards to #13, did you mean to write “children,” not “chicken”?
Regards,
Researcher 101
From: Wife 22 ‹[email protected]›
Subject: Re: #13
Date: May 5, 10:15 AM
To: researcher101 ‹[email protected]›
Dear Researcher 101,
I’m sorry about that. I suspect my chickens, I mean children, are to blame. Or more likely auto correct.
Best,
Wife 22
P.S. Is there any significance to our numbers or are they just randomly assigned? I can’t believe I’m only the 22nd wife to participate in the survey.
From: researcher101 ‹[email protected]›
Subject: Re: #13
Date: May 6, 11:23 AM
To: Wife 22 ‹[email protected]›
Dear Wife 22,
Both of our numbers are randomly assigned, you’re right about that. With each round of the survey we cycle through 500 numbers and then with the next round we begin at 1 again.
Regards,
Researcher 101
From: Wife 22 ‹[email protected]›
Subject: #2 upon second thought
Date: May 6, 4:32 PM
To: researcher101 ‹[email protected]›
Dear Researcher 101,
“Bored” is not the reason I’m participating in the study. I’m participating because this year I will turn 45, which is the same age my mother was when she died. If she were alive I would be talking to her instead of taking this survey. We would be having the conversation I imagine mothers have with their daughters when they’re in their mid-forties. We would talk about our sex drives (or lack thereof), about the stubborn ten pounds that we gain and lose over and over again, and about how hard it is to find a trustworthy plumber. We would trade tips on the secret to roasting a perfect chicken, how to turn the gas off when there’s an emergency, how to get stains out of grout. She would ask me questions like, are you happy, sweetheart? Does he treat you right? Can you imagine growing old with him?
My mother will never be a grandmother. Never have a gray eyebrow hair. Never eat my tuna casserole.
That’s why I’m participating in this study.
Please revise my answer to #2.
Best,
Wife 22
From: researcher101 ‹[email protected]›
Subject: Re: #2 upon second thought
Date: May 6, 8:31 PM
To: Wife 22 ‹[email protected]›
Dear Wife 22,
Thank you for your honesty. Just so you know, subjects frequently revise their answers or send addendums. I’m very sorry for your loss.
Sincerely,
Researcher 101
8
18. Run, dive, pitch a tent, bake bread, build bonfires, read Stephen King, get up to change the channel, spend hours on the phone talking to friends, kiss strange men, have sex with strange men, flirt, wear bikinis, wake most mornings happy for no good reason (likely due to flat stomach no matter what was eaten night before), drink tequila, hum Paul McCartney’s “Silly Love Songs,” lie in grass and dream of future, of perfect life and marriage to perfect one true love.
19. Make lunches, suggest to family they are capable of making better choices; alert children to BO, stranger danger, and stray crumbs on corners of lips. Prepare preteen son for onset of hormones. Prepare husband for onset of perimenopause and what that means for him (PMS 30 days of the month rather than the two days he has become accustomed to). Buy perennials. Kill perennials. Text, IM, chat, upload. Discern the fastest-moving line at the grocery store, ignore messages, delete, lose keys, mishear what everybody says (jostling becomes jaw sling, fatwa becomes fuckher), worry-early deafness, early dementia, early Alzheimer’s or unhappy with sex and life and marriage and need to do something about it?
20. Burger King cashier, Royal Manor Nursing Home Aide, waitress Friday’s, waitress J.C. Hilary’s, intern Charles Playhouse, Copywriter Peavey Patterson, playwright, wife, mother, and currently, Kentwood Elementary School drama teacher for grades kindergarten through fifth.
9
“Alice!” William yells from the kitchen. “Alice!” I hear his footsteps coming down the hall.
I quickly close the Netherfield Center questionnaire window and log on to a celebrity gossip website.
“Here you are,” he says.
He’s dressed for work: khakis and a pale purple dress shirt. I bought him that shirt, knowing how good he’d look in that color with his dark hair and eyes. When I brought it home he’d protested, of course.
“Men don’t wear lavender,” he told me.
“Yes, but men wear
