Wife 22 by Melanie Gideon Page A

they ask you what kind of bag you want at the grocery store. I open her closet door and while I’m rifling through her size-4 shift dresses I wonder what is going on in her life, why she won’t tell me, how she can be so self-possessed at fifteen, it’s unnatural, it’s intimidating—is that
my
yellow cardigan?
    I have to stand on tiptoes to reach it and when I grab it, a box of Hostess cupcakes, a box of Ding Dongs, and a box of Yodels come tumbling down, as well as three pilled, oniony-smelling cardigan sweaters. One should not buy vintage sweaters: BO never comes out of the wool—I could have told Zoe that had she asked.
    “Whoopsie.” Caroline stands in the doorway.
    “Zoe’s door was open,” I say.
    “Sure,” says Caroline.
    “I was looking for my sweater,” I say, trying to process the fact that Zoe has secreted away boxes of bakery products in her closet.
    “Let me help you put those back.”
    Caroline kneels beside the boxes, her brow furrowed. “Is Zoe a perfectionist? So many girls her age are. Would she have alphabetized them? Cupcakes, Ding Dongs, obviously Yodels go last. Can’t hurt to alphabetize just in case.”
    “She’s got an eating disorder,” I cry. “How could I have missed it!”
    “Whoa,” says Caroline, calmly stacking the boxes. “Hold on. I wouldn’t jump to that conclusion.”
    “My daughter has a hundred cupcakes in her closet.”
    “Uh—that’s a bit of an exaggeration.”
    “How many in a box?”
    “Ten. But all of the boxes are opened. Maybe she’s got a business. Maybe she sells them at school,” says Caroline. “Or maybe she’s just got a sweet tooth.”
    I imagine Zoe cramming Ding Dongs into her mouth at night after we’ve all gone to bed. At least it’s better than cramming Jude’s ding dong into her mouth at night after we’ve all gone to bed. Yes, God help me, this is what I think.
    “You don’t understand. Zoe would never eat junk food.”
    “Not in public, anyway. Maybe you should see if she shows any of the signs of an eating disorder before you say anything,” she suggests.
    There was a time not so long ago when Zoe and I spent every Friday afternoon together. I’d pick her up from school and take her somewhere special: the bead store, Colonial Donuts, to Macy’s to try on lip gloss. My heart would seize with happiness the moment she climbed into the car. It still seizes with happiness, but I have to hide it now. I have learned to ignore her blank stares and rolling eyes. I knock when her door is shut and I try not to eavesdrop when she’s video chatting. My point is, other than this closet transgression, I am usually very good at letting her have a life—but I miss her terribly. Of course I heard the war stories from parents with older children. I just thought, as every parent smugly does, that we would be the exception; I would never lose her.
    “You’re probably right,” I say. “I’ll do some research.” I wince. My ankle is throbbing. It’s black and blue.
    “What did you do to your ankle?” asks Caroline.
    “I fell. After you left. Tripped on a pinecone.”
    “Oh, no! Did you ice it?” asks Caroline.
    I nod.
    “For how long?”
    “Not long enough, apparently.”
    Caroline jumps to her feet and stacks the boxes in Zoe’s closet. Expertly she folds the sweaters—“The Gap, every summer in high school,” she explains—and stacks them in front of the boxes. I hand her my yellow sweater. Caroline takes it wordlessly, puts it on the pile, then shuts the closet door. She holds out her hand.
    “Now. Let’s go get you some more ice.”

28
    35. And so we had a secret. Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday we met in front of the Charles Hotel at lunchtime for a run. In the office we pretended that we didn’t work out together every other day. We pretended we didn’t know the shape of each other’s thighs, or the scars on our ankles and knees, or the brand of each other’s running shoes, or who was a pronator and who