The Perfect Wife(10)

You look at the canvas doubtfully. It seems to you that what you’ve retained is technique, not talent. Your painting is as accurate, and as devoid of personality, as a photograph.

But Tim is delighted. He gets you to sign it. Abbie Cullen-Scott. The swooping, confident signature looks like yours. But it’s a forgery, whatever anyone says. A digitally generated facsimile. Just like the rest of you.



* * *



—

Next he orders a selection of gym equipment. Not to burn calories—your weight will be forever fixed at 160 pounds—but to make your movements more natural. There’s even a Wii. It’s difficult at first, and more than once you crash to the floor playing Dance Party on the lowest setting. But with every session you become a little less awkward.

You braid your hair the way it was in the self-portrait upstairs. You even experiment with makeup. You barely used it before, but this new face requires a more hands-on approach. It’s a good thing you’re an artist, you think: Gradually, you work out how to soften these blank, rubbery features with highlights and shadows, until they could almost pass for the real thing.

At Tim’s suggestion, you try yoga. You’re surprised to find you can do all the poses, even the most advanced—the King Pigeon, the Peacock, the Tittibhasana. He watches with quiet pride. Your body is as perfectly engineered as a racing car, you realize. You just have to learn how to drive it.

His third gift is an Olympic-sized trampoline. Watching the deliverymen assemble it on the lawn, you have a sudden memory of one of the first dates he ever took you on, to House of Air, the indoor trampoline park near Golden Gate Bridge. That was when you’d realized that, as well as being ferociously driven, Tim could also be fun.

Afterward, you’d walked the Bay Trail together to Fort Point, where you sat looking out over the ocean, holding hands.

“We should go to Fort Point again,” you say now, suddenly nostalgic for that time. “I loved that date.”

Tim hesitates. “That’s a good idea. But not just yet.”

“Why not?”

“Going outside might be difficult right now.”

You look at him, puzzled. “You mean I can’t leave the house?”

“Soon, yes,” he says quickly. “We just need to…prepare you, that’s all.”

When the deliverymen are done, he kicks off his shoes and climbs aboard the trampoline. “Ready?” he says, holding out his hands.

Gingerly, you get on. It’s hard to balance at first, and he keeps a tight hold of you, bouncing you gently to build up momentum.

“That’s it,” he says encouragingly. “You’re getting it.” He does an impression of a NASA countdown, timing it to his bounces. “T minus twelve and counting…eight, seven, six, five…Main engine start. Liftoff!”

As he says Liftoff he gives one last, harder push. You feel your knees bend, one-two-three, and then suddenly everything falls into place and you’re airborne. He lets go of your hands and you’re soaring, higher and higher with every bounce, your braids flying, legs scissoring, the two of you laughing and shouting as you leap together, pulling absurd shapes in the air.

And for the first time since he brought you home, you feel it—the joy that’s indistinguishable from love; the happiness that only comes from being happy with one particular person, the person you trust to protect your happiness with his life. I love you, you think ecstatically. Tim, I love you. And though what comes from your mouth as you tumble through the air is just a wild shriek of exultation and delight, you can tell from his huge grin he understands.





8


On Saturday, Danny has time off from his therapy. You find him sitting on the side of his bed, aimlessly bouncing himself up and down. It gives you an idea.

“Shall we play on the trampoline, Danny?”

He groans. It’s often hard to interpret Danny’s noises. Tim says most are probably just vocal “stims,” self-stimulations. No one knows why people with autism do this, but there’s a theory that it gives them a sense of control in an overwhelming world. The bed bouncing, which Danny can do for hours, is another example. When he gets stressed he creates bigger sensory inputs, for example by biting the backs of his hands.

“Danny?” you repeat. “Would you like to come outside and play?”

After a moment he shakes his head. “Nuh!”

Encouraged by the fact he answered at all, you hold out your hand. “Come on, Danny! It’ll be fun!”

“Whoa!” Sian’s voice says behind you. “What are you doing?”

You turn around. The therapist is standing there, watching disapprovingly.

“I’m trying to get Danny on the trampoline,” you explain, although surely it was perfectly obvious what you were doing.

“Well, you’re doing it wrong. You need to break it down into a series of clear instructions. Say, Danny, stand up. Then Danny, hold my hand. Then Danny, walk downstairs with me, and so on. Each time he complies, you say Good job and give the next instruction.”

“I’m his mother. I was trying to sound friendly.”

Sian gives you a strange look, and for a moment you think she’s going to call you on that word mother. But all she says is, “Maybe, but what you did was confusing to him. You asked if he wanted to go outside, and he answered accurately by telling you that no, he didn’t. You should have praised him for identifying his response and then articulating it. Instead the consequence of him answering correctly was that he got asked the same question all over again.” She shrugs. “When you said, Would you like to…, what you actually meant was I would like you to. Sure, it sounded nice, and most kids soon pick up on what we really mean, but it’s unfair on those like Danny who find language difficult.”