A Tight Ship, a Red Typewriter
Regina took a lot of pills. It was Forrest’s job to keep track of them all. Every few hours he’d be there with a glass of water and another pill—more likely a few of them. Sometimes she protested. “What does it matter, anyway?” she’d sigh. “Whether I take this or I don’t, I’ll still feel bad.”
Times like that, he’d just put his arm around her and stroke her hair. She basically ignored this—though sometimes, too, she treated him like a fly buzzing too close around her head. Flicked him away.
I’d never be like that if it were my hair he stroked.
He never stopped trying. If the two of them were out on the patio together, or in the living room, he’d rest a hand on her knee or adjust the shawl around her shoulders.
He kept checking to see if she needed anything.
Water, shade, her book, her knitting, something to put her feet up on.
The way some new parents are with a baby, that was Forrest, overseeing Regina.
If she was there in the room, his eyes looked over to where she reclined.
If she was out of the room, he went to check on her.
“What do you think I’m going to do, jump out a window or something?” she snapped at him one time, when she’d left the table in the middle of dinner and drifted down to the high ledge above their wide stone patio.
Maybe he did think that.
But here was a surprising thing about Regina.
As tuned-out and depressed as she appeared to be most of the time—as many pills as she appeared to ingest—she ran a tight ship at Wonderland.
The children’s schedules—tennis lessons, sailing lessons, golf clinic, swim class, playdates—were set out on the breakfast table, with stars in blue marker for Hayward, pink for Jilly—along with a menu for Prudence, laying out what foods she should prepare for them every day of the week but Sunday, her day off.
Alongside this, she had laid out instructions for Forrest—shopping lists, meetings of the country club board, the Library Foundation, her massage appointments and visits to her various doctors.
He drove her to those. Every day’s list featured reminders to drop off and pick up dry cleaning and prescriptions. Those, especially.
Regina didn’t just scribble her lists down on a notepad, like other people.
She typed them. She did this on a beautiful red Italian typewriter that sat on her desk in a corner of the kitchen.
An identical typewriter sat in her bedroom, evidently.
I hadn’t laid eyes on that one yet. But from the first morning of my time at Wonderland, the typewritten instructions began to appear.
Regina communicated with everyone in the family this way, including the children.
Reminder to Family: Drink plenty of water. And Hayward: Two Reese’s Pieces, maximum. Even for Jilly, who was only just learning to read, the word Floss.
The list Regina provided for me every day was the most detailed.
Along with the time of every one of that day’s commitments, she’d include suggestions for what clothes Jilly should wear and instructions concerning how many minutes Hayward was allowed to play video games—a number she calculated based on his behavior the day before.
Along with this she offered running commentary.
Playdate for Jilly at the home of her friend Laura. Laura’s a tattletale, and her mother babies her. Name: Annette.
Hayward hasn’t been taking his daily shower lately. Bad smell!!
She included suggestions for me as well, even on Day One: I notice your hair is looking a little greasy.
I left out a brand of shampoo that may help you with this problem.
Also, if you stop at the Caboose after tennis, remember french fries are high in calories.
Look out for Coca-Cola. Check out the diet sodas.
Every day I read through my list before stuffing it in my pocket.
I consulted it throughout the day to make sure I didn’t forget anything.
The next morning, a new list would await me on the breakfast table.
I never understood when Regina got around to writing them, but she must have done this late in the night, because the list was always waiting next to the box of Honey Nut Cheerios when I got up.
(Calorie count for the Cheerios also provided.)
Regina used carbon paper when she typed her lists.
One copy for herself. One for Prudence. One for Forrest. One for me.
Every morning Forrest and I read our lists, side by side.
It felt like one more thing we shared. Sometimes, reading them over together at the start of the day, I’d hear him chuckle.
“Be sure Jilly’s vitamins are sugar-free,” Forrest read out loud from his list. “Also, Hayward needs new shoelaces.”
“My wife is an amazing woman,” he said. “She thinks of everything, doesn’t she?”