The Betrayed Wife

by Kevin O'Brien

  To so many of his other affairs since then, Sheila had managed to turn a blind eye. She convinced herself that he still loved her. He was a good provider and a devoted father. No matter what he did outside their marriage, he always stayed with her. And when each affair ended, there was usually a honeymoon period in which he was so devoted to her.

  He compartmentalized when it came to his infidelities. These other women were something totally separate from his real life. His family mattered to him more than anything, she knew that. He was wonderful with the kids, and they adored him. Despite his faults, Sheila loved him—and the way he was with their children.

  A few times, she’d threatened to divorce him, but they both knew she didn’t mean it. She didn’t want to nag him or be a watchdog. So she simply tried to ignore all the little red flags that came up when he was cheating. She didn’t want to divorce him. She couldn’t imagine trying to raise their children without him.

  Besides, she’d known what she was getting into when she married him. All her friends thought he was an outstanding catch. Her parents adored him. He came from a well-to-do, respectable family. He was ambitious, charming, generous, and devastatingly handsome. Just walking down the street with him, Sheila would watch the passersby, their gazes locking onto Dylan. Sometimes, she felt like the invisible woman. At restaurants, they always got terrific service. Hostesses, waitresses, and even most waiters flirted shamelessly with him in front of her. Dylan lapped it up and chatted with them. In all the times they’d gone out to eat, his water glass had never been empty. She often felt compelled to tell him, “This isn’t what it’s like for normal people.” In addition to being so good-looking, he was also naturally friendly. So everyone loved him—and remembered him. Sheila had lost track of how many times at parties someone would start to introduce them and have no difficulty remembering Dylan’s name, but wouldn’t remember hers.

  About two years ago, Dylan had had a brief fling with a twentysomething barista. He was uncharacteristically sloppy about covering it up. Maybe, on some level, he’d wanted her to catch on and help terminate it. When she asked him why he felt compelled to see these other women, Dylan couldn’t really answer her. He honestly didn’t seem to know. “They’re there,” he’d said with a sorry shrug. Sheila didn’t press the matter, maybe because she didn’t want to hear if it was somehow her fault.

  She remembered, during one of her bouts with insomnia around that time, she’d found an article online from Psychology Today listing ten reasons married men cheat. Dylan neatly fit into two of the categories: Immaturity: He didn’t think his actions had consequences. If he got away with cheating, it was like he’d never cheated. What the wife didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her, and all that. Sheila remembered seeing a clip on the national news during a hot spell and drought in New York City. Some kids had screwed open a fire hydrant to play in the spray of water. When a reporter asked one of the kids on the street why they were wasting water during a serious drought, the child replied “They shouldn’t make it so easy for us.”

  That was Dylan with other women. It was so easy for him. And he was like a kid. No wonder he related so well to their children.

  The other potential reason for his cheating was his Uniqueness. Dylan knew he was handsome and charming. He was special. He probably felt entitled when it came to sex. The rules simply didn’t apply to him.

  The Psychology Today article didn’t address special circumstances—like the cheating husband being devastatingly handsome. Sheila had gotten used to Dylan’s looks ages ago, but she still hadn’t completely acclimated to the way other people reacted to him. Everyone thought she was so damn lucky to be married to him.

  They didn’t know what she had to put up with. In a way, she felt grateful that at least he was usually painstakingly discreet about his infidelities. He made it easy for her to ignore what went on behind her back. Privately and publicly, he was very hands-on and affectionate with her. So everyone thought she was quite lucky indeed.

  But as of this afternoon, all bets were off. Sheila couldn’t ignore the fact that he had an illegitimate daughter, conceived during the absolute darkest period of her life. And that girl was in their lives now—a walking, breathing, eating reminder of his infidelity and that horrible time.

  Her cell phone rang.

  Sheila reached inside her purse and checked the Caller ID. Dylan again.

  She wasn’t picking up. So far, there had been two texts, and this would be the second voicemail.

  She thought about the public humiliation. It would soon get around that he’d had an extramarital affair and a child with another woman. Sheila realized people would stop thinking of her as lucky. Now they’d just think she was stupid, a complete nincompoop. That was a word no one used anymore, yet it seemed wildly appropriate for how she felt about herself at this moment.

  Dylan was finished leaving voicemail number two.

  Sheila gently swayed back and forth on the swing. She listened to the rusty chains squeak—and then she listened to Dylan’s message: “Hey, honey, it’s me again,” he whispered. “Please, call or text me so I know you’re okay. I’m going out of my mind here. Like I started to tell you in the last message, I managed to get a walk-in at this clinic, and the girl and I took a paternity test. They said I’ll get the results tonight or tomorrow morning. After that, I dropped her off at the place she’s staying while in town. God, it’s a real dump, too. Anyway, she’s there now. So she won’t be coming back here to the house tonight. I called Matt Leonard and talked to him about all the legal angles—you know, custody, and what’s going to happen to her mother’s estate. I guess what I’m saying here is that we have to prepare ourselves for the possibility the test will be positive. I haven’t said anything to the kids. I figure we should wait for the test results. Why tell them about it unless we absolutely have to? They’re home. I convinced them you had a thing at the retirement home. Anyway . . . please, please, call and tell me you’re okay. Or better yet, just come home. I can’t stand this. I’m so sorry. I really—”

  The voicemail cut him off.

  Sheila shut off her phone. The kids were fine, that was all she needed to know. The rest of it was his problem.

  And wasn’t it just like him to be so practical about the whole thing? The poor girl came to them for help, and here he was, making her take a paternity test and phoning their lawyer. Of course, it was the smart thing to do. Sheila wondered what he planned on telling their children. That this girl was a long-lost cousin?

  The wind off the lake seemed to whip through her, and she shuddered. She really should have brought along a jacket. Hell, she should have packed a bag. She didn’t want to go back home tonight.

  Sheila wasn’t sure she wanted to go back at all.

  9/24 Mon—5:30 P.M.

  Glad I brought this journal with me. Gives me something to do while I watch her. I’m sitting in the car, across the street from a little park.

  I didn’t think she’d stick around the house in light of this afternoon’s revelation. From the way she swills down the bourbon late at night, I was betting she’d go on a bender in some bar. Instead the stupid bitch came here to this playground, like a little kid running away from home. She’s been here practically two hours now, just sitting on the swing. I can only guess what’s going on inside that half a brain of hers.

  I keep thinking about the gun I have tucked under the seat here. Wouldn’t it be perfect if I could walk across the street, blow her brains out, put the gun in her hand, and then drive away? If only the gun were registered in her name, and there weren’t people around. They’d find her there by the swing set. Troubled, mentally unbalanced wife shoots herself. Once investigators got an earful of what happened to her this afternoon, it would be an open-and-shut case of suicide. And if that wasn’t good enough, they just needed to check into her history and what happened down in Portland.

  Wouldn’t it be funny if she just got up, walked down to the beach, right into the water, and then jus
t kept walking until the lake swallowed her up? I’d sit right here and watch her drown herself. Maybe I’d even applaud.

  Then all my work and planning would be in vain, of course. But I wouldn’t mind. It would be a sweet sight to see.

  Unfortunately, I know Sheila too well. She’ll sit there and stew a while longer. Then she’ll grab dinner someplace. After that, she’ll slink home to the kiddies, and to him. That’s how it’s going to happen.

  The poor, silly stupid bitch.

  I’m going to make her sorry she didn’t drown herself when she had the chance.

  It was nearly seven o’clock. Dylan was making the kids breakfast for dinner: pancakes, eggs, bacon, and sausage. The last time he’d cooked a big breakfast for everyone like this had been brunch on Mother’s Day. Tonight, he was throwing the meal together out of desperation. The boys were excited, like it was a special occasion. But Hannah was being a pill, acting as if he was trying to poison her. She insisted on turkey bacon and egg whites only. Until last year, she’d eaten like a truck driver all the time and looked absolutely fine. Now she was skin and bones. What killed him was that later tonight, she’d probably eat half a bag of Cheetos with a Diet Coke. So really, why not have regular bacon and eggs for her meal?

  The cooking was a welcome distraction. Sheila had been gone only three and a half hours, but he was terrified that she would do something rash. This wasn’t the first time he’d been on suicide watch with her, but it was the first time in Seattle. Any minute now, he expected the phone to ring, and it would be some official-sounding voice on the other end of the line telling him that Mrs. O’Rourke had tied up rush-hour traffic while jumping off the Aurora Bridge, and they were still fishing her body out of Lake Union right now. Could he come down to the morgue in an hour to identify her?

  He wished she would at least text him back: I’m OK. But then that would relieve some of his suffering, wouldn’t it? As if he weren’t paying enough for his sins with this girl showing up out of nowhere. Actually, he didn’t blame Sheila for putting him through the wringer. But he knew how depressed she could get, and he was worried sick. He couldn’t shake this sense of doom.

  He knew it was too early for the paternity test results to be ready, but that didn’t stop him from checking his email twice—just in case. Still nothing.

  At one point, while he was flipping the pancakes, it occurred to him that if this were a regular Monday night, he’d have gone to the gym. And maybe he would have seen Brooke again. More than anything, he wished it were just a regular Monday night.

  He’d told the kids they could eat in front of the TV downstairs or wherever they wanted. As he was serving up the plates, he kept thinking that, in all likelihood, there would be one more for dinner tomorrow night—and for many, many nights after that.

  *

  The Caller ID showed the time of his last voicemail: 9:23. That had been just a few minutes ago. Once again, Sheila hadn’t picked up. Dylan had been pretty brief with this latest message.

  Sheila sat at a window table in a pub called McGilvra’s, across from Madison Park Beach. It had two walls of windows that looked out at Lake Washington. The waiter had cleared away her half-eaten French dip dinner over an hour ago. Nursing her second glass of merlot, Sheila feigned interest in the football game on the big-screen TV. She still didn’t want to go home any more than she wanted to talk to Dylan.

  Yet she checked his message: “Hey, Sheila,” he whispered. She imagined him up in their bedroom, someplace out of earshot of the kids. “You’ve been gone over six hours now, and I’m going pretty crazy with worry here. I got the paternity test results back from the lab. They emailed me about ten minutes ago. I didn’t know they worked this late, but I guess they do. So—I’ll tell you about it when you come home. Then we can discuss it. Hurry home, okay? And please, be careful. And—just know, we’ll work this out.”

  The son of a bitch, he figured he’d dangle that hook out there, and she’d bite. He must have assumed her curiosity would get the best of her. To find out the results of the paternity test, she’d either have to text him or go home. Either way, he could stop worrying about her—if he really was so terribly worried, like he said.

  If not for the kids, she wouldn’t be going back home tonight.

  She already knew the test results. Sheila was almost certain the girl was his daughter. And they’d be responsible for her now.

  Swell. She was stepmother to the pierced, peroxided, shoplifting street urchin who had been stalking and harassing her. And at one point earlier today, her darling new stepdaughter had called her a fucking bitch.

  Sheila managed the household budget and accounts. As flighty as Dylan made her feel sometimes, she was actually the responsible, practical one. Financially, they were comfortable. They could afford college for both Hannah and Steve. But having three kids in college at the same time would plunge them into debt. Of course, Eden would probably be in jail in a couple of years. So they wouldn’t have to worry about college tuition for Little Miss Sunshine.

  Actually, Sheila felt sorry for her.

  But at the same time, she hoped to God the girl didn’t expect to stay with them. Sheila didn’t think she could take it.

  Someone was standing by her table.

  Startled, Sheila looked up at the waiter. She realized she had tears in her eyes.

  “Um, can I get you something else?” he asked, a bit bewildered.

  She quickly wiped her eyes. “No, I guess I better head home,” she said quietly. “May I have the check, please?”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Monday—9:52 P.M.

  “I think something’s up with Mom or Dad,” Steve whispered. “Since when does Mom have a sudden thing at the retirement home? I get the feeling there’s trouble. Dad’s kind of on edge, like super serious tonight. Have you noticed?”

  “Not really,” Hannah sighed, her thumbs working on the keypad of her phone.

  She sat on the other end of the sectional sofa from Steve. They were in the family room in the basement, watching some decent-to-horrible singing auditions on The Voice. But Steve had to back up and replay it every few minutes for things Hannah missed because she couldn’t put her stupid phone down for two seconds. He used to love watching this type of TV show with her because they’d make fun of the contestants and crack each other up. But now, she was always so busy texting with her friends during every movie or show that it was a total drag to watch TV with her—and a painful reminder that he had no friends of his own.

  Until last year, he and his older sister had been close. Hannah used to hang out with a very small group of sweet, funny, not-especially-cool girls she’d grown up with. They were like older sisters to Steve, and they seemed to like him, too. Then all of a sudden, Hannah got super status conscious and dumped those longtime friends. They never came over to the house anymore. She had this whole new set of friends, each one prettier, skinnier, and more stuck-up than the next. And Hannah and her new crowd wanted nothing to do with him.

  She was pretty, too, now. Of course, she paid more attention to her looks than she ever had in her life. The only thing she stared at more than her phone was the mirror. She wore makeup now, and her long, light brown hair always looked beautiful. She’d become a total clotheshorse, too. Suddenly, she was popular. But as far as Steve was concerned, Hannah had been a lot more fun before she became cool.

  Steve looked at her and then at the TV. She was so uninvolved, she might as well not have been in the room. He would have had a better time watching TV with Gabe, who had already gone to bed.

  “Did you see that mess on top of Dad’s desk earlier?” Steve asked.

  Eyes on her phone, Hannah shook her head.

  “Well, he’s put most of it away,” Steve explained. “But when I came home, his desk was totally covered with heaps of paper and crap. And he’s really distracted. He keeps checking his phone. I mean, usually he shuts it off when he comes home. Earlier, I heard him talking to someone. He mentioned a cl
inic and test results. Do you think one of them is sick, like seriously sick?” Steve glanced over at her. “Are you even listening to me?”

  Tearing her eyes off the phone, Hannah looked up at him for a second and sighed. “Neither one of them is dying, you drama queen.”

  “Drama queen?” Steve repeated. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Oh, it’s just an expression, stupid. It’s not a slur on your precious manhood.”

  “Okay, you explain to me what’s going on. Mom supposedly has this unscheduled thing at the retirement home, and I hear Dad talking about some kind of medical tests . . .”

  “If it’s anything at all,” Hannah said, “I’ll bet one of those old farts at the home croaked, probably one of Mom’s favorites. Either that or someone there just got the bad news that they’re going to croak. Remember last year with Hildie, or whatever her name was? They told her she was terminal, and then Mom was over there all the time, and she was moping around here for like two weeks until the lady finally died. That’s probably what it is.”

  “Maybe,” Steve said. But why would his parents be so secretive about it? He was convinced that whatever was going on, it was something dire, something that would have an effect on all of them.

  Steve didn’t say anything for a few minutes. On TV, a young woman in a wheelchair was belting out Aretha Franklin’s “Respect.”

  “Your girlfriend, Barbie Grimes, might be breaking up with her boyfriend,” Hannah announced, consulting her phone. “Now’s your chance to make your big move on her, hotshot.”