The Next Wife

by Kaira Rouda

  I hear him outside, talking to himself and laughing. I guess he’s drunk. I do make a mean margarita, and with the altitude and the lies he’s holding inside, he’s probably a wreck. I should keep up appearances and get some food in him before he passes out. I can’t believe he won’t admit what he’s done wrong, especially since he’s buzzed. But he acts all innocent and loving.

  “I’m starving out here. Something smells good.”

  Charming that he yells to me like a servant. For some reason the phrase pretty please with a cherry on top pops into my head. I chuckle.

  “I’ll be right out,” I yell back. I grab the dish and shove it all into the microwave, push the reheat button, and close the door. I should have used it all along. The microwave dings, and voilà, a perfectly reheated chicken enchilada dish can be served. I’m glad I had the housekeeper freeze some meals. They come in handy at times like this when your husband gets trashed, fast, with a little help from yours truly.

  I still can’t believe I have a housekeeper—sorry, house manager—for each home. How far I’ve come since childhood. I think of my mom. Another woman in her house wouldn’t have lasted a day. I barely survived.

  I start to laugh, imagining my mom with a house manager of all things. But then I see my first stepdad. Just before he’s going to throw something. Just before all hell would break loose. John sort of reminds me of good old Dad about now. Bellowing orders. I don’t remember him much. Mom replaced him with another like she did my real dad. But I remember his anger, things breaking, me hiding.

  I was always hiding when I was a child.

  I place the glass dish on the island. I just want to stop this, stop John. Them. Back with Kate? How dare he? He will not humiliate me like this. They will not humiliate me like this.

  I cut the enchilada and use a spoon to coat his meal with salsa. John should eat. I cooked dinner. He will have food in his stomach. It’s date night.

  I walk to the deck with a smile, enjoying the dark silhouette of the mountain, like a serpent guarding the town. I place the plate in front of John and note how he’s sloping to the side. Gross.

  He’s on the phone. “John, who are you talking to?”

  “Oh, hi, Tish. It’s nobody,” he slurs, still leaning to the right.

  “John, it’s time for you to say goodbye. It’s time to eat something. You’ve had too much to drink.” I use a commanding voice, and he snaps to it.

  “Tish says I have to go now. Bye-bye.” He stabs at the “End” button.

  It’s hard to watch as his fingers pick clumsily at the phone like a toddler, and his head tilts to the side. I wonder what he said before I caught him. Whatever it was, I’ll deal with it later.

  “Here, let me help you.” I cut a bite and put it on the fork. Together we guide it into his mouth. Captain of industry, really?

  I watch closely as he chews and swallows. It’s time for another. Where’s the bib?

  “Thanks,” John manages as he takes another bite. He leans back in the chair, midchew.

  “Hey, wait, chew that. You’ll choke.” I slap his cheek.

  John barely responds. I’m worried he’ll fall asleep before he swallows his bite. “Hey. Hey!” I push his shoulders forward from behind, and he wakes up. “Chew, John.”

  I watch with relief as he does what I say. I can’t have him die choking on a chicken enchilada on the deck. How embarrassing. Ashlyn would kill me.

  As I watch him chew, I think more about little Ashlyn. She was a teenager when I met her, a spoiled only child. Meanwhile, I came from another world. I couldn’t imagine the kind of gilded childhood she had. The organic packed lunch and a ride to school every day, even though school was just a block away. The kind of childhood where you earned ribbons just for being there, where praise flowed like a river, and the real world never intruded with problems like bad teeth or too-short pants.

  There weren’t any ribbons in my bedroom, but to be honest, I never really had a room to myself. There was a curtain hanging between my mom’s bed and mine. It didn’t seem to mean anything, not to anyone. A curtain isn’t a locked door. It’s something to be pushed aside, ignored.

  I shudder. No, I can’t blame Ashlyn for becoming the teenager she became. For being the woman she is today.

  But you shouldn’t blame me for who I became, either. We’re all creatures of our environment. I’m the type of person who figures out how to get ahead. And it worked out for both of us. Ashlyn needed a little real-world experience, and I needed an ally in the office. So when I say that her little internship was all my idea, believe me, it was. If it weren’t for me, Ashlyn would have spent another summer lying by the pool at the country club, flirting with the boys, and perfecting her suntan. It’s too bad she turned on me once she started working at EventCo.

  Shit. John’s head is on the table. He’s literally passed out on our deck. I cannot have anyone zipping by on the gondola seeing this. I mean, he’s in the news now, with the IPO. This is unacceptable.

  “John, John, wake up!” I shake him, but there is no response. OK, deep breath. I can handle this.

  John moans. He’s in there. I just need to activate him. He’s drooling on himself. Ugh. His face is pale, but that could be the moonlight.

  “John, look, we’re going to go to bed. I’ve got you. Stand up.”

  He’s doing it. We’re walking inside. He’s heavy, leaning on me with all his weight. It’s all I can do to get him to the couch. I’ll just let him rest here. That’s what I’ll do. I make sure he’s settled across the couch and then cover him with the blanket.

  He just needs to sleep it off. I wipe drool off his face. Nice, John.

  While he’s resting, I clean up the kitchen. I carry a tray out to the deck and clear all the glasses and dishes. I rinse everything in the sink with soap and pop it all in the dishwasher, setting the cycle to pots and pans. I like dishes extra clean, extra sanitized.

  I didn’t even know that was a thing until I married John. We never had one of these fancy dishwashers.

  With the kitchen all tidy, I look around to see if anything else in the condominium is out of place. John’s phone is on the kitchen counter. I put it on the coffee table in front of the couch where John has passed out. I’d rather have him in the guest bedroom, in case the cleaning crew comes tomorrow. I’ve expressly asked them not to come tomorrow because of our romantic weekend. But you can never be too sure. Sometimes people just don’t do what you want them to do. They lie. They cheat. I shake my head and look over at John.

  The thing is, a lot of guys pass out on the couch watching sports or something on TV. I find the remote, and the screen flickers to life. I have no idea what channel has sports, or even what summer sports could be. I find two women playing tennis. Perfect.

  John fell asleep while watching a tennis match. Happens every day. No one needs to know that he isn’t a tennis fan.

  I kiss him lightly on the forehead. It’s slimy with sweat. I wipe my lips on the sleeve of my shirt. That was gross. This is gross. All of it.

  I hope it’s almost over. I look at his phone where I put it on the coffee table and see a text from her. How sweet! She wants John.

  Call me when you can get away. Rather demanding, isn’t she? And she’s violating our private time by texting him. I feel my hands clenching into fists. I want to punch someone, something.

  She thinks she’s won. She thinks he can get away from me.

  I drop the phone back onto the coffee table.

  She’s so wrong.

  CHAPTER 12

  JOHN

  Where am I? Why am I so thirsty?

  I roll to my side and fall to the floor, landing on a soft rug.

  I just fell off my own couch.

  Before I can make sense of it, my stomach heaves. I need to get to the bathroom. It’s not pretty, but I’m crawling across the great room. It’s dark, but I know I’m in Telluride, in my condo, and I’m headed in the right direction. Man, the altitude is really hitting this
time. Oh, and the margaritas. Probably shouldn’t have had so many.

  Probably shouldn’t have done a lot of things.

  My stomach has calmed down, but I’m parched. I pull myself up to the sink and stick my head under the faucet, gulping water like I’ve just survived a desert trek. I relieve myself and limp back to the couch. My phone is on the coffee table. It’s one in the morning. I just need to sleep this off, start fresh in the morning, but still I open my text messages and see there’s just one. It came in while I was passed out.

  Call me when you can get away.

  I smile. She cares.

  I hope Tish didn’t see the text, but I’m certain she probably did. She’s always nosing around in my business. I know it’s late, but my eyes can’t focus to text so I call instead. Her voice mail picks up. “Hey, listen I’m uh, really, really drunk but I uh, just wanted to call and you know, say hi and well, I love you. I’ll see you tomorrow as soon as I can get out of here I, uh, I will. I don’t feel so good. And, uh—”

  Another wave of nausea hits, and I’m sweating profusely. I drop the phone on my stomach, force my eyes shut despite the feeling of being on a sinking ship, and will myself to fall back asleep. It’s the only antidote for a situation like this one. It’s my fault I drank too much. I’ve made my bed, as they say.

  I don’t know how long I’ve been asleep on the couch, or if I have slept.

  Right now, I know I need help.

  “Tish?” I think I called out my wife’s name.

  I wait for an answer, but there isn’t one.

  The vise that’s been squeezing my chest clamps down. I can’t catch my breath. My heart pounds against my rib cage.

  I use my right hand to check my pulse on my left wrist, but the blood pumping through my fingers makes it impossible to count beats. My chest seizes.

  And then I know. Oh my god, I’m having a heart attack.

  I’m panting as I sit up and reach for my phone. It’s fallen under the coffee table. I slide from the couch to the floor. With the last bit of energy, I reach toward my phone as my chest seizes again. I can’t breathe.

  My fingers wrap around the phone. My lifeline. My hope. I slide my finger across the screen, opening the text message: Call Me.

  I want to. More than anything. I love you. I want to call you. I want to be anywhere but here, with anyone but her. I want to call, but my fingers aren’t working. My hands are numb. I’m sitting on the floor as my head lolls to the side, my neck unable to hold it up. I have a big head. A heavy, big head.

  My breath catches in my throat as panic washes over me.

  Suddenly, a stabbing pain grips my chest. I collapse forward, landing on my face, unable to break the fall with my numb hands. My nose is bleeding. I taste the rusty metal. Blood. I roll onto my back to escape the flood of blood.

  The pain is unbearable, a million pounds of pressure and a bolt of lightning.

  I can’t breathe.

  There is only darkness.

  CHAPTER 13

  TISH

  I stretch and hop out of bed, taking my time as I walk across the wide-plank wood floor (heated, of course) and pull back the ugly floral (of course) curtains in the master bedroom. It’s a beautiful, sunshine-filled mountain day. I slept like a baby with the bed all to myself. It’s late, almost ten in the morning. I decide to shower and get ready for the day before making coffee. I know I need a little more time before I go downstairs.

  An hour later, I’m looking good. I’m wearing a black EventCo T-shirt—for old times’ sake I guess—jeans, and tennis shoes. I check my phone, and I’m surprised it’s already 11:00 a.m. Time flies.

  I pull open the double doors to the master bedroom and walk out into the still-dark great room. I closed all the blackout shades last night before going to bed, and even in the brightness of midday, they do a remarkable job. Small shafts of light escape from the crevices of a few windows, but for the most part, it’s like a cave in here. Or a tomb.

  “Time to wake up, sleepyhead.” I walk toward the couch and notice a foul odor I can’t describe, a smell unlike anything I’ve encountered. “John?” I find him sprawled on the floor, halfway under the coffee table.

  “Oh my god.” I run to the kitchen, my stomach lurching, and dial 911 from the landline. They answer immediately.

  “What’s your emergency?” the operator asks.

  “It’s my husband. He’s passed out on the floor. Unconscious. Something is wrong. He’s vomited all over, and I think wet himself. Oh my god.” I think I’m screaming. I don’t know. This is disgusting. Worse than anything I could have imagined. I’m shaking all over. My voice quavers, “Hurry, please.”

  “Help is on the way. The squad will be there in two minutes. You’re at 565 Mountain Village Boulevard. What unit?”

  “Penthouse 401. At the Plaza. Oh my god. Please hurry.”

  “Ma’am, is your husband breathing?” the operator asks. “You need to try to perform CPR. Do you know how to do that?”

  “No. I meant to learn, but I was too busy.” I’m sobbing now. I know she is trying to help, but I can’t go over there, touch him. It’s too awful. I won’t do it. I grab a dish towel and drench it with cold water. I ring it out and hold it on my forehead.

  “Keep talking to me and walk to his side. Now!”

  I do as I’m told, pinching my nose with my fingers. I can’t see John’s upper torso, it’s under the coffee table. Why is he under the coffee table?

  “I’m here. By his side. Oh god.” I pull on John’s arm. On TV they put their finger somewhere on the wrist, right?

  “Is he breathing?”

  “I don’t know,” I answer. I lean over and wipe his face with my towel, cleaning him up from the mess he’s made.

  There’s a loud, hard bang on the door. “Paramedics!”

  “Let them in, ma’am.”

  I jump up and rush to the door, flinging it open as a team of four medics push past me and invade the living room. Without my directions, they’ve found John and pulled him out from under the table. One man is pushing on his chest while another starts an IV. I watch in horror until a woman emergency worker approaches me.

  “Ma’am, your husband is in cardiac arrest. We’re going to have to transport him.” We watch together as John is rolled onto a stretcher.

  “I need to go with him. I’m his wife.” I’m chasing after the stretcher when someone grabs me. “Take your hands off me.”

  “Ma’am, I’ll drive you to the Telluride Regional Medical Center where they’ll stabilize him before transporting him on. Come with me.” And then he starts the questions: “How long have you been in town? Does he have a heart condition? Did he overdo it yesterday? Activity and altitude increase the risk of a heart attack.”

  I’m numb. I don’t have any answers. I don’t want to talk to this stranger. As we step off the elevator, everything starts flashing black and white. I drop to the floor as I hear, “She’s passing out.”

  I wake up in the lobby of our condo building, aware there is a crowd gathering around me. I couldn’t have been out for long. I stand up quickly. “Take me to John.”

  The EMT doesn’t say anything as he leads me out the door. Once we’re outside, the sunshine is blinding. I blink. He stops and touches my shoulder.

  “We need to hurry. What are you doing? I need to get to my husband. Now,” I demand. I love him.

  “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Nelson. Your husband died en route to the hospital.”

  John’s dead?

  My mind goes blank as a tiny thought makes its way through to the surface. Is this real, true?

  “I don’t believe you. Take me to John.”

  PART 2:

  TISH, KATE, AND ASHLYN

  CHAPTER 14

  KATE

  I stand at the kitchen sink and look toward the fountain gurgling in my back courtyard, birds splashing in the water. It’s going to be a good day. Ashlyn and I had a late breakfast together. We managed to enjoy a full meal withou
t an argument and without a harsh word. I chalked it up to her hangover. She’d been out with old high school buddies, a last fling before they head back to college.

  We’re getting close again, my daughter and I. It warms my heart. She is my life. Her, and the company. They are all I care about.

  My phone rings as I’m rinsing the dishes. I check to see who is calling. It’s Lance from the office, so I answer.

  “Where are you?” he asks.

  I don’t like the frantic sound of his voice.

  “Um, I’m talking to you from my kitchen. What’s wrong? What’s happened?” Deep down, I think I was expecting this call. My mind races through a million scenarios. The stock stopped selling, someone ran a negative story on EventCo. Some scandal, made up but credible, had taken us down.

  “Are you alone?”

  “No, Ashlyn is here. What the hell is wrong?” I yell into the phone.

  “It’s John. He’s . . . he’s dead.” Lance sobs into the phone.

  My knees buckle, and I slide down the cabinet onto the kitchen floor. “No, this isn’t true.”

  “I’ll come over. I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Oh my god, I’m so sorry, but it’s true.”

  “How do you know?” I wrap my arms around myself. I am shaking.

  “Tish called me from the hospital. They just declared John dead. I don’t know what else to say. I’m so sorry.”

  I knew John’s heart was trouble. I pinch myself. This is real.

  “Kate. Are you there?”

  “Yes,” I manage.

  “I’m coming over.” Lance hangs up.

  John’s dead. My brain is having trouble accepting the fact of it. Not yet. So far it’s just Lance’s words.

  My mind shifts to John, nervous, on one knee, proposing to me. We’d been dating and living together, working on the company. We were in Maine, at a small bed-and-breakfast he’d heard about from a mutual friend. It was private and isolated and tiny. At Small Point Inn, I learned how to properly eat a whole Maine lobster, how to appreciate a purple lupine, how to dress for a forty-degree temperature shift. And on the last evening of our visit, before we joined the other guests for cocktail hour on the screened porch, I learned how romantic John could be.