The Perfect Wife(41)

“Wow,” Tim said, considering. He put the bread away. “You know, sometimes you remind me a little bit of me,” he added.

So would it be the fifth date when things finally turned intimate? we wondered. It seemed not. The fifth date was a cooking class at a high-end restaurant. But there was no indication the next day of the two of them having consummated the relationship.

Eventually someone made a comment to Abbie, who was quite open about it.

“I guess we’re taking things kind of slow. Slow and steady.” She paused. “My last relationship was a bit wild. Too wild, actually. It’s nice to be with a guy who respects me.”

It was at least six weeks before someone summoned to Tim’s office to discuss a new proposal that, just yesterday, had been judged astounding but was now terrible, idiotic, the dumbest idea ever, noticed a hand-painted mouse pad on Tim’s otherwise fastidiously bare desk. It was a colorful piece of graffiti framing the words ENGINEERS DO IT BETTER! We recognized Abbie’s street-art style.

Of course, we didn’t tell her that it was ten years since anyone in our line of work last used a mouse pad.

But it was sweet to see Abbie and Tim reaching for each other’s hands as they passed each other by the coffee machine, lacing their fingers together briefly when they thought no one was looking.





31


You wake up feeling more positive. It’s a gorgeous day and everything looks better in the sunlight, even the TV vans parked beyond the gates. Of course your relationship can survive without sex. You had a marriage, with all that entails. The physical side was nice, but you were so much more than that.

You feel almost ashamed for doubting it, when Tim so clearly doesn’t. Somehow, together, you’ll make this work.

Tim’s cheerful, too. Mike called first thing to tell him that John Renton, Scott Robotics’ biggest investor, saw the TV interview and wants you to come along to the meeting Tim’s arranged with him.

“Mike said he sounded impressed,” Tim reports over breakfast. “That’s good.”

“Where’s the meeting?”

“We haven’t set that yet.”

“What about having it here? I could cook.” Tim frowns, but you forestall him. “I know, I know—I don’t have to. But I like cooking, remember? And we have all this great equipment.” An idea occurs to you. “I’ll make a bouillabaisse, like I used to before. I’ll call Sea Forager and get everything delivered.”

“Well, if you’re sure.” He gets up from the table. “I’ll go see how Danny’s doing with dressing.”

Danny has an idiosyncratic approach to breakfast. Even on a good day, the only thing he’ll usually eat is dry Cheerios without milk, and even then he’s as likely to comb his fingers through the bowl, transfixed, as eat them. Toast is a no-no, unless cut into precise one-inch squares. And on a bad day, you’re happy if you can get him to eat a few red M&M’s.

Today you’re trying something you read about on an ABA website: Instead of asking what he wants, you offer Danny a picture menu. The theory is that if you say “Apples or grapes?” the person with autism will generally repeat “grapes,” even though he doesn’t actually want them. By letting Danny point, you’re giving him time to process the information.

Sure enough, Danny points to fish fingers, then jelly. The fish fingers, you know, will also have to be cut up into one-inch squares before having the jelly smeared over them. But that’s okay—the main thing is, he made a choice, and one you’d never have thought to offer him yourself. There’ll be time for improving the healthiness of his choices later.

After Danny and Tim have left the house, for school and the office respectively, you organize the shopping for tonight’s dinner. Your voice is now almost indistinguishable from your old one: The man who takes the order clearly has no idea you’re not just another customer. It’ll be delivered by lunchtime, he promises. Persuading him to give you spare fish bones for the stock is trickier. He only agrees to throw some in when he decides you want them for a cat.



* * *



—

Capitalizing on your good mood, you decide to change your hair. From cornrows to French braids, in honor of your menu tonight. You go upstairs to look for some hair ties. Tim said he kept all your things, so they must be here somewhere. But where?

In the drawers beside your bed, you guess.

At the door to the master bedroom—Tim’s bedroom, now—you hesitate. You haven’t been in here since that first day. Your self-portrait stares down at you from the wall, an imperious, commanding presence, making you feel like an intruder.

Which is ridiculous. That portrait is of you. And this was your room, too.

You crouch down by what used to be your side of the bed and pull open the bottom drawer of the nightstand. It sticks a little, and you have to ease it upward to get it open. Inside are a jumble of old creams and bottles. And, at the bottom, some hair ties.

As you scrabble for them, your fingers encounter something else. Batteries. They’re very old, leaking now. You take them out to throw away.

Another flash of memory. A glimpse—an organic one, like when you remembered swimming in the pool. You, standing in this very room. And Tim, something in his hand.

Your vibrator. He’s holding it at arm’s length, distastefully, the way someone might hold an empty vodka bottle they’d just found hidden under a pile of laundry.