Mystery Girl: A Novel Read Online Free PDF Page A

ring and a gold band together on one long, knobby finger.
    I looked at my wife, who looked back at me, eyebrows urging me to speak, like in a restaurant when she was too embarrassed to ask for more bread.
    “I don’t know,” I said. “It was Lala’s idea. I mean Natalie.” I blinked and micronodded at her. “You tell her.”
    “OK, fine, I’ll begin,” she said, as if doing me a favor, and pulled out a legal pad. I glimpsed a long list, similar to the lists of gift ideas (for herself) that she generously provided in advance of Christmas and her birthdays. Her frank and childlike lust for things used to stun me, but there was something fetching about it back then. I was the cosseted middle-class child who could never think of anything he wanted, who didn’t see why he needed new jeans when he had a pair. She was the poor girl from beat-rural Mexico whose wish lists, along with wild hopes for cameras and watches, also asked for “socks,” “good books,” and “nice stationery and envelopes (different colors).” The idea of her covering those rainbow pages with her small, clear hand, sealing them, and sending them off to her friends, all of whom lived within a few miles, made me want to hug her so hard that the poor little girl she once was could feel my squeeze.
    This current list, however, did not make me want to hug her, exactly. From what I could see it was longer than the ones she sent to Santa.
    “Jesus,” I muttered. “That’s some list.” I turned to Gladys apologetically. “I didn’t even know there was homework.”
    She giggled and blinked brightly. “That’s OK,” she said. “Let’s let Natalia begin with her top five and maybe you’ll think of something later.”
    “Well, number one,” Lala read. “Sam finds a job. Number two,does more chores around the house. Also, number three, you can do more errands, like for example, when I’m working you could do the grocery shopping and get dinner started. Or instead of sitting in your room all day you could be cleaning the garage or doing the yard.”
    “Hey,” I said. “I have an idea. Why do I waste time sleeping when I could be polishing your shoes?”
    Gladys chuckled, but Lala wasn’t amused. She spoke in her new, icy businesslady’s voice. “I’m just not getting my needs met in this marriage anymore.”
    “Your needs met? What am I, a needs provider? It sounds like you’re changing banks, not husbands.”
    Gladys laughed again and Lala glared at her. Gladys shrugged. “You’ve got to admit, he’s funny…”
    “Very,” Lala said.
    “I’m sorry,” I said, though secretly I was thrilled that the therapist seemed to like me, as if pleasing her were the point, as if she would pick a winner and decide our fate. “I just don’t see why that’s my job. I don’t remember agreeing to any of this when we got married. I just promised to love you. And I have.” I reached around, gazing at the affirmative posters for a hint. “Unconditionally.”
    Gladys held up her hands. “Let’s take a breath. All of us.” We did. “Good. Now, there are three areas in which healthy couples have reasonable expectations: first, money and chores, and who contributes what, then emotional support, and lastly sex. We’ve touched on the first two. How is your sex life?”
    Embarrassed to be asked this by a grandma type with lipstick on her teeth and reading glasses on her head, I shrugged.
    “Normal,” I said.
    Lala snorted. “What sex life?”
    “Well now,” Gladys said, “keeping that spark alive can be tough in a long-term relationship or when the stresses of life intrude. But it’s very important. For example, my husband, Myron, and I go tospouse-swap events on the weekend and take our vacations at nudist ranches in the desert. It recharges our batteries. Last year we went to a swingers’ retreat in Mexico. It was wonderfully refreshing.”
    I nodded, hoping the horror I felt wasn’t clear on my face. Where did Lala find this