Wife 22

To: Wife 22 <Wife22@netherfieldcenter.org>

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 <Wife22@netherfieldcenter.org>

Subject: #2 upon second thought

Date: May 6, 4:32 PM

To: researcher101 <researcher101@netherfieldcenter.org>

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 <researcher101@netherfieldcenter.org>

Subject: Re: #2 upon second thought

Date: May 6, 8:31 PM

To: Wife 22 <Wife22@netherfieldcenter.org>

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 thistle,” I said.

Sometimes all you need to do to get men to agree with you is call things by another name.

“Nice shirt,” I say.

His eyes dart over to my laptop. “Gwen Stefani and the Sisterhood of the Terrible Pants?”

“What do you need?” I ask.

“Oh, those are terrible. She looks like Oliver Twist. Yes, I need something but I forgot what.”

This is a typical response—one I’m used to. Both of us frequently wander into a room bewildered and ask the other if he or she has any idea what we’re doing there.

“What’s up with you?” he asks.

My eyes fall on the bill for the motorcycle insurance. “Well. I wish you’d make a decision about the motorcycle. It’s been sitting in the driveway forever. You never take it out.”

The motorcycle takes up precious space in our small driveway. More than once I’ve accidentally tapped it while pulling in.

“One of these days I’ll start driving it again.”

“You’ve been saying that for years. And every year we keep on paying the excise tax and the insurance.”

“Yes, but I mean it now. Soon,” he says.

“Soon what?”

“Soon I’ll be driving it,” he repeats. “More than I have been.”

“Mm-hmm,” I say, distracted, going back to my computer.