The Wives

by Tarryn Fisher

  “I miss you,” I said as soon as he picked up. “I don’t want to miss you but I do.”

  And then I’d asked if his wife knew if he was looking for someone new to have his babies. There was a long pause on Seth’s end, longer than I would have liked. I was about to tell him to forget I even asked when he replied with a breathy, “Yes.”

  “Wait,” I said, pressing the phone closer to my ear. “Did you say yes?”

  “We agreed on this together,” he said with more confidence. “That I needed to be with someone who wanted the same things as I do.”

  “You told her?” I asked again.

  “After our first date, I thought we had something and I told her that. I knew it was a risk, but we had something. A connection.”

  “And she was just okay with it?”

  “No... Yes. I mean, it’s hard. She said it was time to look at our options. That she loved me but understood.”

  I was quiet on my end of the phone, digesting everything he was saying.

  “Can I see you?” he’d asked. “Just for a drink or a coffee. Something simple.”

  I wanted to say no, to be the type of strong, resolved woman who didn’t budge. But instead, I found myself making plans to meet him at a local coffee shop the following week. When I hung up, I had to remind myself that I’d been the one to call him and he hadn’t manipulated me into anything. You’re in control, I told myself. You’ll be his legal wife. I was so, so wrong.

  THREE

  I arrive home Saturday morning after my shift and immediately fall into bed. It had been a long night, the kind that stretches you into mental and emotional exhaustion. There was a ten-car pileup on 5 that brought a dozen people into the emergency room, and then a domestic disturbance sent a husband into the ER with three gunshot wounds in his abdomen. His wife had run in ten minutes later with a toddler on her hip, blood soaking through her yellow shirt. She was screaming that it was all a mistake. Every night in the ER was a horror movie: open wounds, crying, pain. By the end of the night, the floors were sticky with blood, slicked over with vomit. I wear black scrubs so the mess doesn’t show.

  I’m just dozing off when I hear the front door open and close, followed by the sound of a train whistle. The whistle part of our security system notifies me every time the front door opens. I bolt upright in bed, my eyes wide. Did I dream that or did it just happen? Seth is in Portland; he texted me last night and never mentioned coming home. I wait, completely still, ears pricked—ready to shoot out of bed and—

  My head swivels left and right as I look for a weapon, my heart pounding. The gun my father gave me for my twenty-first birthday is stashed somewhere in my closet. I try to recall where but I’m trembling from fear. Another weapon, then... My bedroom is a collection of soft, feminine things; there are no weapons on hand. I throw off blankets, struggling to my feet. I’m a stupid, defenseless girl who has a gun and doesn’t know where it is or how to use it. Did I forget to lock the door? I’d been half-asleep when I got home, stumbling around, kicking off shoes... And then I hear my mother’s voice from the foyer, calling my name. My panic recedes, but my heart is still pounding. I hold a hand over it, closing my eyes. A jingle—when my mother moves, she jingles. I relax, my shoulders slumping into a normal, relaxed position. That’s right. She was coming over today to have lunch. How had I forgotten? You’re tired, you need to sleep, I tell myself. I straighten my hair in the dresser mirror and scrub the sleep from my eyes before stepping out of the bedroom and into the hall. I arrange my face into something cheerful.

  “Mom, hi,” I say, stepping forward to give her a quick hug. “I just got home. Sorry, I haven’t had time to shower.”

  My mother steps out of my embrace to look me over; her perfectly coiffed hair catches the light from the window and I see she has fresh highlights.

  “You look fantastic,” I say. It’s what I’m supposed to say, but she really does.

  “You look tired,” she tsks. “Why don’t you shower and I’ll make lunch for us here instead of going out.” Just like that, I’m dismissed in my own home. It’s uncanny how she can still make me feel like a teenager.

  I nod, feeling a rush of gratitude, despite her tone. After the night I had, the thought of getting dressed to go out is unbearable.

  I take a quick shower, and when I come out wrapped in my robe, my mother has whipped up chicken salad on a croissant. A tall mimosa sits next to my plate. I slide into my chair, grateful. My freshly stocked fridge hadn’t disappointed her. I learned to cook by watching her, and if there was one thing she emphasized, it was to always keep your fridge stocked for that surprise meal you’ll have to cook.

  “How’s Seth?” is her first question as she takes her seat across from me. My mother: always to the point, always on time, always organized. She is the perfect homemaker and wife.

  “He was tired on Thursday when he was here. We didn’t have a chance to talk very much.” The truth. I’m afraid my voice has betrayed more, but when I glance up at her face, she’s preoccupied with her food.

  “That poor man,” she says, cutting into her croissant with determination. The undersides of her arms flap as she saws at the roll, her mouth pinched in disapproval. “All of that commuting back and forth. I know it was the right decision for both of you, but it’s still very hard.” The only reason she’s saying it was the right decision is to not upset me. She’d told me in no uncertain terms that my duty was to be with Seth, and that I should give up my job to be wherever he was. She used to nag about marrying him, and now she’s transitioned comfortably into the topic of a baby.

  I nod. I have no desire to have this discussion with my mother. She always finds a way to make me feel like a failure at being Seth’s wife. Mostly, it’s about giving him a child. She’s convinced he’ll stop loving me if my uterus doesn’t woman-up. I could silence her by telling her that he already has another wife, two actually, who fill the spaces where I fail. That one of them is growing his baby as we speak.

  “You could always rent this place out and join him in Oregon,” she offers. “It’s not so bad. We lived there for a year when you were two, in Grandma’s house. You’ve always loved that house so much.” She says this like I don’t know, as if I haven’t heard the stories before.

  “Can’t,” I tell her through a mouthful. “He has to be in the Seattle office two days a week. We’d have to have a place here, anyway. And besides, I don’t want to leave. My life is here, my friends are here and I love my job.” True, true, not true. I’ve never liked Portland; I thought of it as the poor man’s Seattle: same scenery, similar weather, grubbier city. My grandparents lived and died there, never once leaving the state. Aside from their main house, they had a vacation home in the south, near California. The thought of Portland makes me feel claustrophobic.

  My mother looks at me disapprovingly, a fleck of mayonnaise smeared across a pearly pink fingernail. She’s old-school that way. In her mind, you went wherever your man went or he became susceptible to cheating. If only she knew.

  “This was the agreement we made and it makes the most sense,” I say firmly. And then I add, “For now,” to appease her. And it is true. Seth is a builder. He recently opened up an office in Portland, and while his business partner, Alex, oversees the Seattle branch, Seth has to spend most of his week in the Portland office overseeing his projects there.

  Monday and Tuesday are there, living in the city. They get to see the most of him and it makes me sick with jealousy. He often has lunch with one of them during the day, a luxury I don’t have, since he spends most of Thursday traveling back to Seattle to see me. On Fridays, he spends the day in the Seattle office, and then sometimes meets me for dinner before heading back to Portland on Saturday. The rotating day the wives share is spent on travel for the time being, but with two of his wives living in Oregon, I’ve begun to think it will be permanent. It’s hard being part of something so u
nusual and not having anyone to talk to about it. None of my friends know, though I’ve almost blurted the truth to my best friend, Anna, half a dozen times.

  Sometimes I wish I could reach out to one of the wives, have a support group. But Seth is set on doing things differently than what he grew up around. We, the wives, have no contact with each other, and I’ve respected his wishes not to snoop. I don’t even know their names.

  “When will you try for a baby?” my mother asks.

  Again. She asks this every time we’re together and I’m quite sick of it. She doesn’t know the truth and I haven’t had the heart to tell her.

  “If you had a baby, he’d be forced to be here more permanently,” she says conspiratorially.

  I stare at her, my mouth open. My sister and I were the sum of my mother’s life. Our successes were her successes; our failures, her failures. I suppose it was fine and dandy to live for your children while you raised them, but what happened after? When they went off to live their own lives and you were left with nothing—no hobbies, no career, no identity.

  “Mother, are you suggesting I trap Seth with a baby?” I ask, setting my fork down and staring at her in shock.

  My mother is a bit of a live wire, known to make offhanded comments about other people’s lives. But telling me to get pregnant to force my husband home is too far, even for her.

  “Well, it’s not like it’s never been done before...” She’s chuffing, her eyes darting around. She knows she’s gone too far. I feel a wash of guilt. I never told my mother about the emergency hysterectomy. At the time I hadn’t wanted to talk about it, and admitting it now would make me even more of a failure in her eyes.

  “That’s not who I am. That’s not who we are as a couple. Besides, who would take over for Seth at the Portland office?” I snap. “You’re talking about our finances and our future.” Not just mine, either. Seth has a rather large family to support. I drop my face into my hands, and my mother stands up and comes around the table to comfort me.

  “I’m sorry, little girl,” she says, using her pet name for me. “I overstepped. You know what’s right for your relationship.”

  I nod appreciatively and pick up a stray piece of chicken salad with my finger, licking it off my thumb. None of this is normal, and if Seth and I are going to make it work, I need to have a talk with him about my feelings. I’ve spent so much time pretending to be cool with everything that he has no clue about my struggles. That isn’t fair to him or to me.

  My mother leaves an hour later, promising to take me to lunch on Monday instead. “Rest up,” she says, giving me a hug.

  I close the door behind her and breathe a sigh of relief.

  I’m desperately tired, but instead of heading to bed, I wander into Seth’s little closet. Despite being gone for most of the week, he keeps a stash of clothes here. I run my hands over the suit jackets and dress pants, lifting a shirt to my nose to find his smell. I love him so much, and despite the awful uniqueness of our situation, I can’t imagine being married to anyone else. And that’s what love is about, isn’t it? Working with what your partner came with. And mine came with two other women.

  I’m about to turn off the little overhead light and leave when something catches my eye. Poking out of a dress pants’ pocket is the corner of a piece of paper. I pull it out, at first worried the pants will be washed with the paper in the pocket and ruin the rest of the wash, but once I have it in my hands, I’m curious. It’s folded into a neat square. I only hold it in my palm for a moment before opening it to have a look. A doctor’s bill. I scan the words, wondering if something is wrong or if Seth went in for a checkup, but his name isn’t anywhere on the paper. In fact, the bill is made out to a Hannah Ovark, her address listed in the top corner as 324 Galatia Lane, Portland, Oregon. Seth’s doctor is in Seattle.

  “Hannah,” I say out loud. The receipt in my hand says she was in for a checkup and labs. Could Hannah be...Monday?

  I turn off the closet light and carry the paper with me to the living room, unsure of what to do. Should I ask Seth about it, or pretend I never saw it? My MacBook is sitting next to me on the sofa. I shift it into my lap and open Facebook. I have a vague sense that I’m breaking some sort of rule.

  I type her name into the search bar and tap my finger on my knee while I wait for the results. Three profiles come up: one is an older woman, perhaps in her forties, who lives in Atlanta; the other is a pink-haired girl who looks to be in her early teens. I click on the third profile. Seth told me that Monday was blond, but had never given any other details about her appearance. My vision of a chill-looking surfer girl is shattered as I stare at Hannah Ovark. She isn’t a surfer, and she doesn’t have the blond innocence I was hoping for. I shut my laptop rather abruptly and stalk off to the bathroom to find my sleeping pills. I desperately need sleep. I’m feeling loopy and it’s starting to affect the way I see things.

  A row of orange bottles stares out at me from the medicine cabinet. Little sentinels with purposes ranging from drowsy numbness to staying alert. I reach for the Ambien and lay a pill on my tongue. I drink water straight from the tap to wash it down and then I curl up on the bed and wait to sink into oblivion.

  FOUR

  I wake up disoriented and groggy. The sun sits high outside of the window, but hadn’t it been early evening when I fell asleep? I reach for my alarm clock to check the time and see that I’ve been asleep for thirteen hours. I hop out of bed too quickly and the room spins around me.

  “Shit, shit, shit.” I grab on to the wall to steady myself and stay there until I feel sturdy on my feet. My phone sits facedown on the dresser, the battery almost depleted. I have seven missed calls from Seth, and three voice messages. I call him back without listening to the messages, a sense of dread growing with each ring.

  “Are you all right?” is the first thing he says to me when he picks up. His voice is strained and I immediately feel guilty for making him worry.

  “Yes, I’m fine,” I tell him. “I took a sleeping pill and must have conked out for the night. I’m sorry, I feel like such a jerk.”

  “I was worried,” he says, his voice sounding less tense than it did a moment ago. “I almost called the hospital to see when you left.”

  “I’m truly sorry,” I say. “Is everything all right on that side?”

  It’s not. I can already tell by the sound of his voice. He couldn’t possibly know that I’d found Hannah, could he? I wrap a strand of hair around and around my finger while I wait for him to speak.

  “Just some trouble at work,” he says. “Unreliable contractors. I can’t talk about it right now. I just wanted to hear your voice.”

  I thrill that it’s my voice he wanted to hear. Not the others’. Mine.

  “I wish I could see you,” I say.

  “You could take a few days off of work. Drive down and spend a couple of days in Portland with me...”

  I almost drop the phone in my excitement. “Really? You would...want that?” I’m staring at myself in the dresser mirror as I speak. My hair is longer than I’ve ever grown it; it needs professional attention. I touch a limp strand and wonder if my stylist can fit me in before I leave. A little getaway seems like a good reason for some grooming.

  “Of course,” he says. “Come tomorrow. You have all of that vacation time you haven’t used.”

  My eyes rove over the bedroom furniture, the whitewashed woods, and rustic baskets. Maybe a change of scenery is exactly what I need. I haven’t felt myself lately.

  “But where will I stay?”

  “Hold on a sec...” His voice is muffled as I hear someone on his end say something to him, then he comes back on the line.

  “I have to go. I’ll book a room at the Dossier. See you tomorrow?”

  I want to ask him about Monday and Tuesday, if he plans on ditching them for me, but he’s in a rush.

  “I’m so
excited,” I say. “Tomorrow. Love you.”

  “Love you, too, baby.” And then he hangs up.

  I call work straightaway and arrange to have three of my shifts covered, and then I call my stylist, who says she’s had a cancellation and can see me in an hour. Two hours later, I am home with a fresh color and cut, and heading to my closet to pack. I don’t remember the paper I found or Hannah Ovark until I go looking for my MacBook, which I plan on taking with me. I slump onto the sofa and stare at the screen, at the evidence of my stalking. My main screen is still open to Facebook, her smiling face staring up at me. It feels different to be doing this in the light of day, more deliberate and sneaky. I hesitate, my mouse hovering over her profile. Once I have information about her I can’t go back; it will be there imprinted in my mind forever. I click on her profile, holding my breath, but when the screen loads, I see she has everything set to private. Frowning, I close the browser and shut down my computer.

  Hannah is more of a supermodel than a laid-back surfer. Her lips are full and perfect and she has the type of cheekbones you only see on Scandinavian models.

  The next morning I wake up still thinking about Hannah. I try to clear my mind of her face as I carry my overnight bag down to the carport. But at the last moment, I take the elevator back upstairs and retrieve the paper from my nightstand, tucking it into the deepest, most hidden pocket of my wallet. Just in case I need her address. But why would you need it? I ask myself as I buckle my seat belt and pull out of the carport.

  Just in case... Just in case I want to see what she looks like in real life. Just in case I want to have a conversation with her. That type of just in case. It is my right, isn’t it? To know who I am sharing my husband with? Perhaps I am tired of wondering.

  * * *

  The drive to Portland is around two hours if the traffic gods are feeling generous. I roll my window all the way down and turn up the music. When my hair is a tangled mess, I decide to give the music a break and phone my best friend, Anna, instead. Anna moved to Venice Beach a few months ago for a guy she met online.