Shortly after the Philharmonic, Richard flew to Dallas for a meeting. By then I was making it a point to keep better track of his schedule. This was an important client to Richard. Emma would accompany him. I was not surprised by this: Diane had traveled with him on occasion, too.
But Richard didn’t call or text me to say good night.
I was certain their affair was under way after that trip. Call it a wife’s intuition. I went into the city a few weeks later. I wanted another look at Emma. I lingered in the courtyard outside their building, shielding my face with a newspaper. That was the day Richard, gently touching the small of her back, held the door for my replacement as they came outdoors. She wore a blush-pink dress that matched the tinge on her cheek as she looked up at my husband from beneath her eyelashes.
I could have confronted them. Or I could have called out, feigning enthusiasm, and suggested we all have lunch together. But I simply watched them go.
* * *
Now I frantically press all the intercom buttons belonging to the residents of Emma’s building, hoping someone will let me in. I hear the door buzz a second later and I burst inside the modest small lobby. I glance at the row of mailboxes, grateful that her last name reveals her floor and apartment number: 5C. As I run up the stairs, I wonder if she will take Richard’s name. If we will be linked in that way, too.
I stand in front of her apartment and knock loudly.
“Who is it?” she calls.
I stand to one side so she can’t see me through the peephole. If Emma recognizes my voice, she may not read my note. So I just push the envelope through the crack at the bottom of her door. I watch my note disappear, then I run back down the hallway to the stairs, hoping I’ll get out before Richard arrives.
I picture her unfolding my letter, and I think of all the things it didn’t say.
Like how I faked my stomach flu the night of the Philharmonic.
“Why don’t you take Emma?” I had suggested to Richard when I called him to cancel. I made sure my voice sounded weak. “I remember being young and poor in the city. It would be a real treat for her.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course. All I want to do is sleep. And I’d hate for you to miss it.”
He agreed.
The moment we hung up, I made myself a cup of tea and began to think about my next move.
I knew I had to be careful. I couldn’t afford a single mistake. My attention to detail needed to be as scrupulous as Richard’s always was.
When I went to bed that evening, I put a bottle of Pepto-Bismol on my nightstand, next to my water.
I paced myself. I didn’t even mention her for weeks, but when Richard closed a big deal, I suggested he thank Emma for her help by giving her a generous gift certificate to Barneys.
For a moment, I worried I’d gone too far. He paused in shaving and looked at me carefully. “You never reminded me to do anything for Diane.”
I shrugged and reached for my hairbrush. Trying to cover, I said, “I guess I identify with Emma. Diane was married. She had a family. Emma reminds me of myself when I first came to New York. I think it would go a long way toward making her feel appreciated.”
“Good idea.”
I slowly released the breath I’d been holding.
I imagined her opening the certificate, her eyebrows rising in surprise. Perhaps she’d go into his office to thank him. Maybe, a few days later, she’d wear to the office a dress she’d bought with his certificate and show it to him.
The stakes were so high. I tried to continue with my usual routines, but adrenaline flooded me. I found myself constantly pacing. My appetite evaporated and weight fell off me. I lay awake beside Richard at night, mentally reviewing my plan, searching for holes and weaknesses. I was desperate to hurry things along, but I forced myself to bide my time. I was a hunter in a blind, waiting for my prey to wander into position.
My big break came when Emma called me one evening from Dallas, saying Richard needed to catch a later flight because his meeting was running long.
I’d prayed for an opportunity exactly like this one. Everything hinged on what would happen next; I had to play my part seamlessly. Emma couldn’t suspect I’d been creating a house of cards; that I was poised to set the final one in place.
“Poor guy,” I’d said. “He’s been working so hard. He must be exhausted.”
“I know. This client is really demanding!”
“You’ve been working hard, too,” I said as if it had just occurred to me. “He doesn’t need to rush. Why don’t you suggest he have a nice dinner and book a hotel? Just come back in the morning. It’ll be easier on both of you.” Please, take the bait.
“Are you sure, Vanessa? I know he wants to get home to you.”
“I insist.” I faked a yawn. “To tell you the truth, I’m looking forward to watching some trashy television and vegging out. And he’ll just want to talk about work.”
The idle, dull wife. That was how I’d wanted her to think of me.
Richard deserved better, didn’t he? He needed someone who could appreciate the intricacies of his job; who would take care of him after a rough day. Someone who wouldn’t embarrass him in front of his colleagues. Someone who was eager to be with him every night.
Someone exactly like her.
Please, I’d thought again.
“Okay,” Emma had eventually replied. “I’ll just check with him, and then if he agrees, I’ll let you know what time we land tomorrow once I switch the flights.”
“Thank you.”
As I hung up the phone, I realized that, for the first time in a long while, I was smiling.
I’d found my perfect replacement. Soon Richard would be done with me and I’d finally be free.
Neither of them knew what I’d orchestrated. They still don’t.
PART
THREE
CHAPTER
THIRTY-ONE
I TEAR DOWN THE STAIRS, slipping as I round the corner to the third floor. My hip smacks against the edge of a step before I can catch myself on the railing, sending pain radiating up the left side of my body. Yanking myself upright, I press on with barely a pause. If Richard decides to take the stairs rather than the elevator, we will run right into each other.
The thought propels me even faster, and I burst out of the stairwell into the lobby just as the elevator doors press themselves together. I want to watch the numbers flash on the panel above the elevator to see if it stops on Emma’s floor. But I can’t risk taking even a few seconds to check. I race onto the street, where a cab is pulling away from the curb. I bang on the trunk and the red brake lights flash.
Scrambling in, I lock the door before collapsing against my seat. I open my mouth to give the address of Aunt Charlotte’s apartment, but my words catch in my throat.
The aroma of lemons surrounds me. It winds through my hair and permeates my skin. I can feel the sharp citrus notes invading my nose and trickling down into my lungs. Richard must have just exited this cab. Whenever he was agitated—when his features tightened and the man I loved seemed to disappear—his scent always grew stronger.
I want to flee again, but I can’t afford to wait for another taxi. So I roll down the window as far as it will go as I give the driver my destination.
My letter is only a page long; it will take just a minute for Emma to scan it. I hope she has time to do so before Richard makes it to her door.
The driver turns onto the next block, and after a final glance out the window assures me that Richard isn’t following, I lean my head back against my seat. I wonder how I’d missed the flaw in my plan to escape my husband. I had so much time to formulate it; after his office holiday party, it became my full-time job, then my obsession. I was so careful, and yet I’d made the greatest possible miscalculation.
I didn’t think about how I would be sacrificing an innocent young woman. I could only desperately latch onto my getaway. I’d almost given up hoping it might be possible. Until
I realized he’d never let me go unless he believed it was his idea.
I was certain of this because of what he’d done to me before when he’d thought I was trying to leave him.
* * *
I had begun to withdraw from my marriage right before the Alvin Ailey gala. I was still relatively young and strong. I hadn’t yet been broken.
Immediately after the gala, when Richard confronted me in the kitchen, he’d looked down at my right wrist, which was turning white in his strong hands. It was as if he didn’t even realize he was twisting it; as if someone else were responsible for the birdlike cry of pain that had escaped from my lips.
Richard hadn’t hurt me bad before that night. Not physically, anyway.
At times he’d paused at the brink of what I now recognize as the edge. I’d recorded each of those episodes in my black Moleskine notebook: in the cab after I’d kissed Nick at my bachelorette party; at Sfoglia when a man at the bar had bought me a drink; and on the evening when I’d confronted Richard about Duke’s disappearance. At other times he’d come even closer. Once he’d thrown our framed wedding picture to the floor, shattering the glass and also hurling a ludicrous accusation at me: that I’d been flirting with Eric, the scuba instructor, during our honeymoon. I saw him stop by our room, Richard had yelled at me, as I recalled how my husband had left bruises on my upper arm after helping me out of the boat. Another time, shortly after one of our visits to the fertility doctor, when he’d lost a big client, Richard slammed the door of his office so hard a vase fell off an étagère.
He’d also seized my upper arm on a few more occasions, squeezing it too tightly, and once when he was questioning me about my drinking and I dropped my eyes, he grabbed my jaw and yanked my head upright so I was forced to look at him.
In those instances, he’d always been able to contain his fury; to retreat into a guest room or to leave our home and come back once his anger was spent.
The night after the Alvin Ailey gala, it seemed at first as if my high-pitched whimper had cut through to him.
“I’m sorry,” he’d said as he released my wrist. He’d taken a step back. Run a hand through his hair. Exhaled slowly. “But why the fuck did you lie to me?”
“Aunt Charlotte,” I whispered again. “I swear I just went to see her.”
I shouldn’t have said that. But I worried that admitting I’d gone to talk to someone about our marriage might cause him to erupt further—or ask questions I wasn’t prepared to answer.
My repeated lie made something snap within him. He lost the struggle.
The sound of his palm against my cheek was like a gunshot. I fell onto the hard tiled floor. Shock suppressed my pain for a moment as I lay there in the gorgeous dress he’d given me, now crumpled around my thighs. I stared up at him, holding my hand to my face. “What—how could you—”
He reached down and I thought he was going to help me to my feet, to beg my forgiveness, to explain he’d meant to strike the cabinet behind me.
Instead he grabbed my hair in his fist and yanked me upright.
I stood on my tiptoes, clawing at his fingers, desperate for him to release me. It felt as if he were tearing my scalp from my skull. Tears streamed out of my eyes. “Stop, please,” I begged.
He let go but then leaned in to pin me against the edge of the counter. He wasn’t hurting me now. But I knew it was the most dangerous moment of the night. Of my life.
Everything in his face compressed. His narrowed eyes darkened. But the eeriest part was his voice. It was the only piece of him I still recognized; it was the voice that had soothed me on so many nights and had vowed to love and protect me.
“You need to remember that even when I’m not there, I’m always with you.”
He stared at me for a moment.
Then my husband reemerged. He took a step back. “You should go to bed now, Nellie.”
* * *
Richard brought me a breakfast tray the next morning. I hadn’t slept nor had I moved from the bed.
“Thank you.” I kept my voice quiet and even. I was terrified of setting him off again.
His glance fell on my right wrist, which was already bruised. He left the room and returned with an ice pack. Wordlessly, he placed it on the injury.
“I’ll be home early, sweetheart. I’ll pick up dinner.”
I obediently ate the granola and berries. Even though my face was unmarked, my jaw felt tender and chewing was painful. I went downstairs and rinsed my bowl, wincing when I unthinkingly pulled on the dishwasher door using my hurt arm.
I made the bed, being careful to not jar my wrist when I tucked in the corners. I took a shower, flinching when the heavy spray hit my scalp. I couldn’t bear to shampoo my hair or aim a blow-dryer at it, so I left it damp. When I opened my closet door, I found the Alexander McQueen dress hanging neatly right in front. I couldn’t remember even taking it off; the rest of the night had been a blur. I only recalled the sensation of trying to shrink; of wanting to become as physically small as possible. Of willing myself to be invisible.
I walked past the dress and reached for layers: leggings and thick socks, a long-sleeved T-shirt and a cardigan. From a high shelf my suitcases beckoned. I stared at them.
I could have packed some of my things and walked out then. I could have booked a hotel or gone to my aunt’s place. I could even have called Sam, though we hadn’t spoken in a long time, since a rift had cleaved us apart. But I knew leaving Richard wouldn’t be that easy.
When he’d departed that morning, I’d heard the beeps that meant Richard was activating our alarm, then the thud of the front door closing behind him.
But what I heard loudest of all was the echo of his words: I’m always with you.
The doorbell rang while I was still staring at the suitcases.
I raised my head. It was such an unfamiliar sound; we almost never had unannounced visitors. There was no need for me to answer; it was probably a delivery person leaving a package.
But the bell chimed again, and a moment later the house phone rang. When I lifted the receiver, I heard Richard’s voice. “Baby, where are you?” He sounded worried.
I looked at the clock on the nightstand. Somehow it was already eleven. “Just getting out of the shower.” I could hear someone knocking.
“You should go answer the door.”
I hung up and descended the stairs, feeling my chest growing tight. I used my good arm to deactivate the alarm and unlatch the lock. My hands were shaking. I had no idea what was on the other side, but Richard had told me what I needed to do.
I shivered as the winter air blew against my face. A courier stood there, holding an electronic clipboard and a small black bag. “Vanessa Thompson?”
I nodded.
“Please sign here.” He extended the clipboard toward me. It was hard to grip the pen. I wrote my name gingerly. When I looked up, I saw that he was staring at my wrist. Bruises the color of an eggplant were peeking out from beneath the sleeve of my cardigan.
The courier caught himself quickly. “This is for you.” He handed me the package.
“I was playing tennis. I had a fall.”
I could see the relief seep into his eyes. But then he turned and glanced at the snow blanketing our neighborhood, and he looked back at me.
I closed the door quickly.
I untied the ribbon on the bag and saw a box inside. When I lifted the lid, it revealed a thick gold cuff from Verdura, at least two inches in diameter.
I reached into the box and held it up. The bracelet Richard had sent would perfectly cover the ugly bruises ringing my wrist.
Before I even had the chance to decide if I would ever be able to wear it, we got the call that my mother had died.
* * *
For years, I have allowed fear to dominate me. But as I sit in the cab, I realize another emotion is rising to the surface: anger. It felt cathartic to unleash my rage at Richard after absorbing his for so long.
I suffocated my feelin
gs during our marriage. I doused them with alcohol; I buried them in denial. I tiptoed around my husband’s moods, hoping that if I created a pleasing enough environment—if I said and did the right things—I could control the climate of our household, just as I used to Velcro a smiling sun to the weather chart in my Cubs’ classroom.
Sometimes I was successful. My collection of jewelry—the Verdura cuff was the first of the items Richard had delivered to me following what he called our “misunderstandings”—reminds me of the times I was not. I didn’t consider packing those pieces when I left. Even if I sold them, the money I received would feel tainted.
During my marriage and even beyond it, Richard’s words would echo in my mind, causing me to constantly second-guess myself, and limiting my actions. But now I remember what Aunt Charlotte said to me just this morning: I’m not afraid of storms, for I’m learning how to sail my ship.
I close my eyes and inhale the June air streaming through my open window, clearing away the last of Richard’s scent.
It’s not enough that I’ve escaped from my husband. And I know it won’t be enough to simply stop the wedding. Even if Emma leaves Richard, I am certain he’ll just move on to another young woman. Yet another replacement.
What I must do is find a way to stop Richard.
Where is he at this exact moment? I see him folding Emma into a hug, telling her how sorry he is that his ex is targeting her. He pulls the letter out of her hand and scans it, then crumples it into a ball. He is angry—but perhaps she thinks it is justified given my actions. What I hope, though, is that I’ve convinced her to reexamine their past, to look at their history through a new lens. Maybe she is recalling times when Richard’s reactions had seemed slightly off. When his need for control revealed itself in subtle ways.
What will be his next move?
He will retaliate against me.
The Wife Between Us Page 26