Wife 22 (30 page)

“I just don’t.”

“Okay. Well, what do you want to be called?”

Please don’t let him say Pedro 3000 or Dr. P-Dro or Archibald.

“I was thinking—Peter.”

“Peter?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well, that’s a lovely name. I like Peter. It suits you. Should I be the one to break it to your father or should you?”

Peter unmutes the movie.

Billy Crystal:
There are two kinds of women: high maintenance and low maintenance.

Meg Ryan:
Which one am I?

Billy Crystal:
You’re the worst kind. You’re high maintenance but you think you’re low maintenance.

Peter mutes the movie again. “Why did you think I was gay?”

“I didn’t think you were gay.”

Peter gives me a skeptical look.

“Okay, I thought there might be a possibility.”

“Why, Mom?”

“You just gave off—a vibe.”

“Examples?”

“Well. You changed your name to Pedro.”

“Right—there are so many gay Pedros. Go on.”

“You hated Eric Haber. Too much.”

“That’s because he liked Briana too. He was my competition. But he and Pippa Klein are going out, so now he’s cool.”

“Um—your hair swirls counterclockwise.”

Peter shakes his head at me. “You are a kook.”

“And because you use words like ‘kook.’ ”

“Because
you
use words like ‘kook’! I’m straight, Mom.”

“I know, Peter.”

“Wow, I haven’t heard ‘Peter’ in a long time.”

“Sounds good, doesn’t it?”

“Don’t think I’ve forgotten that it’s slang for penis.”

“Of course not. But doesn’t that give it a sort of edge?” I poke him.

“Ow!”

I sigh. “I’m going to miss my gay son who would never leave me for another woman. I know
that’s
homophobic—thinking you’ll stay unnaturally attached to me because you’re gay. Either way, you’re leaving me eventually.”

“If it makes you feel better, you could still think of me as your gay son in private. Besides, what kind of a straight twelve-year-old would agree to watch
When Harry Met Sally
with his mother?” asks Peter.

He unmutes the movie and chuckles.

“That’s exactly the vibe I was talking about,” I say.

“What? Precocious? Smart? Funny? Straight people can be those things, too. You’re so heterophobic.”

After the movie (both of us tear up at the ending), Peter goes in search of something to eat and I log on to Facebook. There’s nothing from Researcher 101, which is not really a surprise: I did tell him I was going to be off-line for a few days. There is, however, no shortage of postings on my wall.

Within minutes of logging on, I feel sick, for two reasons. One—the Mumble Bumbles, Pat, Tita, and Shonda, are stalking me through the ethers. If I don’t agree to breakfast at the Egg Shop soon, they’ll ring my doorbell, throw me in the car, and drive me there. And two—because falling down a rabbit hole into the past frequently has this effect on me. Helen’s posted a load of photos from our Peavey Patterson days. The one I can’t stop looking at was taken the night William won his Clio. It’s of him and Helen sitting at the table, heads tipped toward another, as if in deep conversation. And there in the background, sitting at another table, is me, staring at them hungrily like a madwoman. Helen’s posted this embarrassing photo on purpose.

Helen friended me right after she friended William, with only one intention as far as I can see: to let me know that losing William didn’t ruin her life. She married a man named Parminder, and she and her husband started their own ad agency, which, according to her profile on LinkedIn, has offices in Boston, New York, and San Francisco, and had over $10 million in billings last year. She’s on Facebook all the time; she
makes me look like a Luddite. She is no longer zaftig—she golfs, does the tango, and spins, and as of today, weighs a svelte 122 pounds. She uploads photos constantly. Here are her three children sitting at the table making homemade valentines. Here is her cutting garden. And here she is with her new haircut. Do you
Like
? And although I know her page is curated meticulously, I can’t help falling for her pitch. She has an enviable life. Perhaps she even won, if the markers for winning are a toned body, highlights, and an estate in Brookline.

At least Weight Watchers won’t make me feel envious. I log on and open up my Plan Manager. I scroll back to February 10, the last day I used it.

Now I remember why I stopped Weight Watchers. Counting every morsel of food made me feel incredibly hopeful for the first half of the day, then when one tablespoon of Fluff turned into five an hour before dinner, utterly guilty. Hey, whatever happened to my idea for a Guilt Diet? The same template would work beautifully, with just a few little tweaks.