Wife 22. Melanie Gideon

20,534,” says Kelly.

      “You’re all lying,” says Joaquin.

      “Don’t be jealous, Mr. 1,031,” says Kelly. “It’s unbecoming.”

      “50,287,” says William, silencing everybody.

      “Dude,” says Urminder.

      “That’s because you won that Clio,” says Harry. “How long ago was that, boss? Nineteen eighty—?”

      “Keep it up, Harry, and I’ll take you off semiconductors and put you on feminine hygiene,” says William.

      I can’t hide the startled look on my face. They’re having a competition over how many hits their names bring up. And the hits are all in the thousands?

      “Now look what you’ve done. Alice is appalled,” says Kelly. “And I don’t blame her. We’re a bunch of petty narcissists.”

      “No, no, no. I wasn’t judging. I think it’s fun. Ego surfing. Everybody does it, don’t they? They’re just not brave enough to admit it.”

      “What about you, Alice? Googled yourself lately?” asks Urminder.

      William shakes his head. “There’s no need for Alice to Google herself. She doesn’t have a public life.”

      “Really? And what kind of a life do I have?” I ask.

      “A good life. A meaningful life. Just a smaller life.” William pinches the skin between his eyes. “Sorry, kids, it’s been fun, but we’ve got to go. We have a bridge to cross.”

      “Do you have to?” asks Kelly. “I hardly ever see Alice.”

      “He’s right,” I say. “I promised the kids we’d be home by ten. School night and all.”

      Kelly and the three young men head for the bar.

      “A small life?” I say.

      “I didn’t mean anything by it. Don’t be so sensitive,” says William, scanning the room. “Besides, I’m right. When’s the last time you Googled yourself?”

      “Last week. 128 hits,” I lie.

      “Really?”

      “Why do you sound so surprised?”

      “Alice, please, I don’t have time for this. Help me find Frank. I need to check in with him.”

      I sigh. “He’s over there, by the windows. Come on.”

      William puts his hand on my shoulder. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

      There’s no traffic on the bridge and I wish there was. Heading home is usually something I relish: the anticipation of getting into my pajamas, curling up on the couch with the clicker, the kids asleep upstairs (or pretending to be asleep but likely texting and IM’ing away in their beds)—but tonight I’d like to stay in the car and just drive somewhere, anywhere. The evening has been dislocating, and I’m unable to shake the feeling that William is embarrassed by me.

      “Why are you so quiet? Did you have too much to drink?” he asks.

      “Tired,” I mumble.

      “Frank Potter is a piece of work.”

      “I like him.”

      “You like Frank Potter? He’s such a player.”

      “Yes, but he’s honest. He doesn’t try and hide the fact. And he’s always been kind to me.”

      William taps his fingers on the steering wheel in time to the radio. I close my eyes.

      “Alice?”

      “What?”

      “You seem funny lately.”

      “Funny how?”

      “I don’t know. Are you going through some sort of a midlife thing?”

      “I don’t know. Are you going through some sort of a midlife thing?”

      William shakes his head and turns up the music. I lean against the window and gaze out at the millions of lights twinkling in the East Bay hills. Oakland looks so festive, almost holidayish—it makes me think of my mother.

      My mother died two days before Christmas. I was fifteen. She went out to get a gallon of eggnog and was struck by a man who ran a red light. I like to think she never knew what was happening. There was a screech of metal hitting metal, and then a gentle whooshing, like the sound of a river, and then, a peachy light flooding into the car. That’s the end I’ve imagined for her.

      I’ve recited her death story so many times the details are stripped of their meaning. Sometimes when people ask about my mother I’m filled with a strange, not entirely unpleasant nostalgia. I can vividly summon up the streets of Brockton, Massachusetts, that on that December day must have been garlanded with tinsel and lights. There would have been lines of people at the liquor store, their carts packed with cases of beer and jugs of wine, and the air would have smelled of pine needles from the Christmas tree lot. But that nostalgia for what came immediately before is soon vanquished by the opaque after. Then my head fills with the cheesy opening soundtrack to Magnum, P.I. That’s what my father was watching when the phone rang and a woman on the other end gently informed us there had been an accident.

      Why am I thinking about this tonight? Is it, as William asks, a midlife thing? The clock is certainly ticking. This September when I turn forty-five, I will be exactly the same age my mother was when she died. This is my tipping-point year.

      Up until now I’ve been able to comfort myself with the fact that even though my mother is dead, she was always out in front of me. I had yet to cross all the thresholds she had crossed and so she was still somehow alive. But what happens when I move past her? When no more of her thresholds exist?

      I glance over at William. Would my mother approve of him? Would she approve of my children, my career—my marriage?

      “Do you want to stop at 7-Eleven?” asks William.

      Ducking into 7-Eleven for a Kit Kat bar after a night out on the town is a tradition for us.

      “No. I’m full.”

      “Thanks for coming to the launch.”

      Is that his way of apologizing for how dismissive he was tonight?

      “Uh-huh.”

      “Did you have fun?”

      “Sure.”

      William pauses. “You’re a very bad liar, Alice Buckle.”

      3

      April 30

      1:15 A.M.

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