The Wife Between Us

by Greer Hendricks

  “Is this what you’re looking for, Nellie?”

  I slowly rose to my feet and turned around.

  My husband stood in the doorway, wearing boxers and a T-shirt, holding my notebook. “You haven’t been writing this week. Although I guess you’ve been busy. You went to the grocery store on Tuesday right after I left for work, and yesterday you drove to the wineshop in Katonah. Sneaky, aren’t you?”

  He knew everything I was doing.

  He lifted up the journal. “You believe I’m the one who can’t get us pregnant? You think there’s something wrong with me?”

  He knew everything I was thinking.

  He moved closer to me and I cowered. But he merely took an object off the nightstand behind me. A pen.

  “You forgot something, Nellie. You left this here. I saw it the other day.” His voice was different, more high-pitched than I’d ever before heard it, and the cadence was almost playful. “Where there’s a pen, there must be paper.”

  He riffled through the pages. “This is fucking insane.” His sentences tumbled out faster and faster. “Duke! Lamb vindaloo! Turning your picture around! I set off the house alarm!” With every accusation, he tore out a new page. “My parents’ wedding photo! You snuck into the storage unit! You’re wondering about my parents’ cake topper? You’ve been going into the city to talk about our marriage to some stranger? You’re psychotic. You’re even worse than your mother!”

  I didn’t realize I was backing up until I felt the nightstand hit the back of my legs.

  “You were a pathetic waitress who couldn’t even walk down the street without thinking someone was going to come after you.” He dragged his hands through his hair, and part of it stood up. His T-shirt was rumpled and stubble coated his jawline. “You ungrateful bitch. How many women would kill to have a man like me? To live in this house, to vacation in Europe and drive a Mercedes.”

  All the blood seemed to rush out of my head; I felt dizzy with fear. “You’re right, you’re so good to me,” I began to plead. “Didn’t you see the other pages? I wrote how generous you were in paying for the animal shelter renovation. How much you helped me when my mom died. And how much I love you.”

  I wasn’t reaching him; he seemed to be looking through me. “Clean up this mess,” he ordered.

  I dropped to my knees and gathered the pages.

  “Tear them up.”

  I was crying now, but I obeyed, gathering a handful and trying to rip them in half. But my hands were shaking and the stack of pages was too thick for me to shred.

  “You’re so fucking incompetent.”

  I sensed a metallic change in the air; it felt swollen with pressure.

  “Please, Richard,” I sobbed. “I’m so sorry.… Please…”

  His first kick landed near my ribs. The pain was explosive. I curled into a ball and pulled my knees into my chest.

  “You want to leave me?” he shouted as he kicked me again.

  He climbed on top of me, forcing me onto my back and pinning my arms with his knees. His kneecaps ground into my elbows.

  “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” I tried to twist away from him, but he was sitting on my abdomen, trapping me in place.

  His hands closed around my neck. “You were supposed to love me forever.”

  I gagged as I thrashed and kicked beneath him, but he was too strong. My vision became spotty. I wrenched one hand free and clawed at his face as I grew light-headed.

  “You were supposed to save me.” His voice was soft and sad now.

  Those were the last words I heard before I blacked out. When I came to, I was still lying on the floor. The pages of my notebook had vanished.

  Richard was gone, too.

  My throat felt raw and desperately parched. I lay there for a long time. I didn’t know where Richard was. I rolled onto my side, my arms encircling my knees, shivering in my thin nightgown. After a while I reached up and pulled the comforter around me. Fear immobilized me; I couldn’t leave the room.

  Then I smelled fresh coffee.

  I heard Richard’s footsteps coming up the stairs. There was nowhere to hide. I couldn’t run, either; he was between me and the front door.

  He walked unhurriedly into the room, holding a mug.

  “Forgive me,” I blurted. My voice was hoarse. “I didn’t realize … I’ve been drinking and I haven’t been sleeping. I haven’t been thinking clearly.…”

  He just stared at me. He was capable of killing me. I had to convince him not to.

  “I wasn’t going to leave you,” I lied. “I don’t know why I wrote those bad things. You’re so good to me.”

  Richard took a sip of coffee, keeping his eyes on mine over the rim of his mug.

  “Sometimes I worry I am becoming like my mother. I need help.”

  “Of course you wouldn’t leave me. I know that.” He had regained his composure. I’d said the right words. “I acknowledge I lost my temper, but you pushed me,” he said, as if he’d merely snapped at me during a minor spat. “You’ve been lying to me. You’ve been deceiving me. You are not acting like the Nellie I married.” He paused. He patted the bed and I hesitantly climbed up to sit on its edge, keeping the comforter around me like a shield. He sat down next to me, and I felt the mattress sink beneath his weight, tilting me toward him.

  “I’ve thought about it, and this is partly my fault. I should have recognized the warning signs. I indulged your depression. What you need is structure. A routine. From now on you’ll get up with me. We’ll work out together in the morning. Then we’ll eat breakfast. More protein. You’ll get fresh air every day. Rejoin some committees at the club. You used to make an effort with dinner. I’d like for you to do that again.”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  “I am committed to our marriage, Nellie. Do not ever make me question whether you are again.”

  I quickly nodded, even though the motion hurt my neck.

  He left for work an hour later, telling me he would phone me when he got to the office and that he expected me to answer. I did exactly as he said. I could only swallow some yogurt for breakfast because of my throat, but it was high in protein. It was early fall, so I took a walk in the cool fresh air, keeping the ringer on my cell phone turned up as high as possible. I put on a turtleneck to cover the red, oval imprints that would turn into bruises, then went to the grocery store and selected filet mignon and white asparagus to serve to my husband.

  I was in the checkout lane when I heard the cashier saying, “Ma’am?” I realized she’d been waiting for me to pay for my groceries. I looked up from the bag of food I was starting at, wondering if he already knew what I was buying for his dinner. Somehow Richard was aware of every time I left the house; he’d found out about my secret journey into the city, the liquor store I frequented, the errands I ran.

  Even when I’m not there, I’m always with you.

  I looked at the woman at the next register over as she appeased a cranky toddler who wanted to be lifted out of the cart. I glanced up at the security camera near the door. I saw the pile of red baskets with gleaming metal handles, the display of tabloid magazines, the candy in bright, crinkly wrappers.

  I had no idea how my husband was constantly watching me. But his surveillance was no longer stealth. I could not deviate from the more stringent new rules of our marriage. And I could certainly never try to leave him.

  He would know.

  He would stop me.

  He would hurt me.

  He might kill me.

  * * *

  A week or two later, I looked up from the breakfast table and watched Richard select a crispy piece of turkey bacon that I’d prepared along with our scrambled eggs. His face was still slightly flushed from our morning workout. Steam curled from his cup of espresso; The Wall Street Journal was folded by his plate.

  He bit into the bacon. “This is perfectly cooked.”

  “Thank you.”

  “What are your plans for today?”

&n
bsp; “I’m going to shower and then head over to the club for the used-book drive. Lots of sorting to do.”

  He nodded. “Sounds good.” He wiped his fingertips on his napkin, then snapped opened the newspaper. “And don’t forget Diane’s retirement luncheon is next Friday. Can you pick up a nice card and I’ll put the cruise tickets inside?”

  “Of course.”

  He bent his head and began to scan the stocks.

  I stood up and cleared the table. I loaded the dishwasher and wiped down the counters. As I ran the sponge over the marbled granite, Richard approached me from behind and wrapped his arms around my waist. He kissed my neck.

  “I love you,” he whispered.

  “I love you, too.”

  He put on his suit jacket, then picked up his briefcase and walked toward the front door. I followed him, watching as he headed to his Mercedes.

  Everything was exactly as Richard wished it to be. When he came home tonight, dinner would be ready. I’d have changed out of my yoga pants into a pretty dress. I’d entertain him with a funny story about what Mindy had said at the club.

  Richard looked up at me through the big bay window as he walked toward the driveway.

  “Good-bye!” I called, waving.

  His smile was wide and genuine. He radiated contentment.

  I realized something in that moment. It felt like glimpsing a pinpoint of sunlight in the cottony, suffocating gray pressing in on me.

  There was one way my husband would let me go.

  It would need to be his idea to end our marriage.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-SIX

  I AM UPDATING my résumé on my laptop when my cell phone rings.

  Her name flashes across the screen. I hesitate before answering. I worry this could be another of Richard’s traps.

  “You were right,” says the husky voice I’ve come to know so well.

  I remain quiet.

  “About the Visa bill.” I fear that even my slightest utterance will cause Emma to stop talking, change her mind, hang up. “I called the credit card company. There was no wine charge from Sotheby’s. Richard never ordered the Raveneau.”

  I can hardly believe what I have just heard. Part of me still worries Richard may be behind this, but Emma’s tone is different from in the past. She no longer sounds contemptuous of me.

  “Vanessa, the way you looked when he said he would escort you downstairs … that’s what convinced me to check. I thought you were jealous. That you wanted him back. But you don’t, do you?”

  “No.”

  “You’re terrified of him,” Emma says bluntly. “He actually hit you? He tried to strangle you? I can’t believe Richard would—but—”

  “Where are you? Where is he?”

  “I’m home. He’s in Chicago on business.”

  I’m grateful she’s not at Richard’s apartment. Her place is probably safe. Although her phone may not be. “We need to meet in person.” But this time it will be in a public place.

  “How about the Starbucks on—”

  “No, you have to stick to your routine. What do you have planned today?”

  “I was going to take a yoga class this afternoon. And then go pick up my wedding gown.”

  We won’t be able to talk in a yoga studio. “The bridal shop. Where is it?”

  Emma gives me the address and time. I tell her I will meet her there.

  What she doesn’t know is that I’m going to arrive early to make sure I’m not ambushed again.

  * * *

  “What a perfect bride,” Brenda, the boutique’s owner, exclaims.

  Emma’s eyes meet mine in the mirror as she stands on the raised platform in a creamy silk sheath. She is unsmiling, but Brenda seems too busy surveying the final fit of the dress to notice Emma’s somber mood.

  “I don’t think it needs a single tweak,” Brenda continues. “I’ll just steam it and we’ll messenger it to you tomorrow.”

  “Actually, we can wait,” I say. “We’d like to take it with us.” The dressing area is empty, and in a corner are several armchairs. It’s private. Safe.

  “Would you care for some champagne, then?”

  “We’d love some,” I say, and Emma nods in agreement.

  As Emma slips out of the dress, I avert my gaze. Still, I see her reflection—smooth skin and lacy pink lingerie—in a half dozen angles in mirrors around the room. It is an oddly intimate moment.

  Brenda takes the gown and carefully places it onto a padded hanger while I impatiently wait for her to leave the room. Before Emma can even finish fastening the button on her skirt, I head to the chairs. This bridal shop is one place where I can be certain Richard won’t unexpectedly show up. It’s practically forbidden for a groom to see his fiancée in a wedding gown before the ceremony.

  “I thought you were crazy,” Emma says. “When I worked for Richard, I used to hear him on the phone with you, asking what you’d eaten for breakfast and if you’d gotten out for some fresh air. I had access to emails he sent asking where you were. Saying he’d phoned four times that day but you hadn’t answered. He was always so worried about you.”

  “I can see how it seemed that way.”

  We fall silent as Brenda returns with two flutes of champagne. “Congratulations, again.” I’m worried she will linger and chat, but she excuses herself to check on the dress.

  “I figured I had you sized up,” Emma tells me bluntly once Brenda is gone. She looks at me carefully, and I see an unexpected familiarity in her round blue eyes. Before I can place it, she continues, “You had this perfect life with this great guy. You didn’t even work, you just lounged around in the fancy house he paid for. I didn’t think you deserved any of it.”

  I let her continue.

  She tilts her head to the side. It’s almost as if she is seeing me for the first time. “You’re different than I imagined. I’ve thought about you so much. I wondered what it would feel like for you to know your husband was in love with someone else. It used to keep me up at night.”

  “It wasn’t your fault.” She has no idea how true that statement is.

  A loud ding emanates from Emma’s purse. She freezes with the flute almost touching her lips. We both stare at her bag.

  She pulls out her phone. “Richard texted me. He just arrived at his hotel in Chicago. He asked what I’m up to and wrote that he misses me.”

  “Text him and tell him you miss him, too, and that you love him.”

  She raises one eyebrow but does what I ask.

  “Now give me your phone.” I tap on it, then show it to Emma. “It’s tracking you.” I point to the screen. “Richard bought it for you, right? His name is on the account. He can access your phone’s location—your location—at any time.”

  He did the same thing to me after we got engaged. I eventually figured it out after that day in the grocery store when I wondered if he already knew what I’d be serving him for dinner. It was how he discovered my clandestine visit into the city, and to the wine store a few towns over.

  Richard was also responsible for the mysterious hang-ups that began after I met him, I’ve realized. Sometimes they served as punishment, such as during our honeymoon, when Richard thought I’d been flirting with the young scuba instructor. Other times I believe he was trying to keep me off-balance; to unnerve me so that he could subsequently reassure me. But I don’t tell this part to Emma.

  Emma is staring at her phone. “So he pretends he doesn’t know what I’m doing even though he does?” She sips her drink. “God, that’s sick.”

  “I realize it’s a lot to take in.” I recognize this is an extraordinary understatement.

  “Do you know what I keep thinking about? Richard showed up right after you slipped that letter under my door. He immediately tore it up, but I keep remembering this one line you wrote: ‘A part of you already knows who he is.’” Emma’s eyes grow unfocused and I suspect she is reliving the moment when she began to see her fiancé anew. “Richard wanted to�
�it was like he wanted to murder that letter. He kept ripping it into smaller and smaller bits, then he shoved them in his pocket. And his face—it didn’t even look like him.”

  She lingers in the memory for a long moment, then shakes it off and stares directly at me. “Will you tell me the truth about something?”

  “Of course.”

  “Right after the cocktail party at your house, he came in with a bad scratch on his cheek. When I asked him what happened, he said a neighbor’s cat did it when he tried to pick it up.”

  Richard could have covered the scratch or come up with a better story for it. But conclusions would be drawn after my sloppy conduct at our party; it was more proof of my instability, my volatility.

  Emma is very still now. “I grew up with a cat,” she says slowly. “I know that scratch was different.”

  I nod.

  Then I inhale deeply and blink hard. “I was trying to get him off me.”

  Emma doesn’t react initially. Perhaps she instinctively realizes that if she shows me sympathy, I’ll crumple into tears. She simply looks at me, then turns away.

  “I can’t believe I got this so wrong,” she finally says. “I thought you were the one … He’s coming back tomorrow. I’m supposed to spend the night at his place. Then Maureen’s coming to town. We’re meeting at my apartment so she can see my dress … then we’re all going to taste wedding cakes!”

  Her chatter is the only sign that she’s nervous, that our conversation has thrown her.

  Maureen is an added complication. I’m not surprised Richard and Emma are including her in the wedding preparations, though; I remember wanting to do the same. Along with the butterfly-clasp necklace I gave her, I sought out her opinion on whether Richard would want black-and-white or color photographs in the album that was my wedding gift to him. Richard also called her and put her on speakerphone while the three of us discussed entrée options for the meal.

  I put my arm around Emma. At first her body is rigid, but it softens for a brief moment before she pulls away. She must be holding back a tidal wave of emotions.

  Save her. Save her.

  I close my eyes and recall the girl I couldn’t save. “Don’t be scared. I’m going to help you.”