The Wives

by Tarryn Fisher

  I smile. “Yeah, but now I feel like I can’t get enough of you. Probably because I have to share.”

  “I’m yours,” he says. “I love you so much.”

  His voice sounds flat to me. Has it always sounded like that? You’re being paranoid and nitpicking everything to death, I tell myself. He hasn’t changed, you have.

  It’s hard not to wonder how often he says that to the others. Hannah’s face fills my mind and I feel a rush of insecurity. This is why Seth keeps us apart—so we won’t focus on jealousy and each other, but rather on our relationship with him. I bite back my feelings. That’s what I do: compartmentalize, organize, prioritize.

  Seth orders a steak and I opt for the salmon. We chat about the hospital and the new house he’s building over in Lake Oswego for a retired actress. It’s all very banal and normal, a typical married couple discussing the small details of their lives. I almost feel better about everything, the wine softening the sharp corners of my anxiety, until I see a young blond woman walk up to the host stand cradling a newborn baby. The only thing visible is the crown of the baby’s head where a patch of dark hair peeps past the blanket. Jealousy rolls over me hot and heavy. I feel as if I can’t breathe, and yet I can’t tear my eyes away. The woman’s partner fusses over her, touching her tenderly, and then wrapping a protective arm around her as they stare down at their tiny creation, together. I freeze, watching them carefully, the familiar tide of pain creeping in. They share an intimacy because they made a child together. No, that’s not true of everyone. Plenty of people have children together and that’s all they have. But I can’t help but think of Hannah and Seth, how they’ll have something together that I won’t.

  Seth sees me watching them and grabs my hand. “I love you,” he says, looking at me with concern.

  Sometimes I think he can tell that I’m thinking about them—the others—and he rushes at me with words. Word salve for the second, barren wife. You couldn’t give me what I wanted most in the world, but hey! I still love you so very much.

  “I know.” I smile sadly and look away from the happy family.

  “You’re enough for me,” he says. “You know that, right?”

  I want to lash out at him, ask if I’m enough, then why is he having a baby with someone else? Why is there anyone else? But I don’t. I don’t want to be that maudlin girl, a nagger. My mother was a nagger. I grew up seeing my father’s pained expressions when she’d rant on and on and I felt sorry for him. And her biting comments seemed to intensify with age, as did the crease lines on my father’s weathered forehead. His face was well-worked leather while hers was a veneer of Botox and filler.

  “You look upset,” I say.

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “Hard week at work.”

  I nod sympathetically. “Anything I can do to help?”

  When Seth looks at me, his eyes are soft. He reaches for my hand, a sexy half smile on his lips.

  “I chose this life and everything in it. I can manage. I worry about you, though. After—”

  “You don’t need to worry. I’m fine.” I nod reassuringly. It’s a blatant lie, and perhaps if he weren’t so distracted—stretched so thin—he would see through it. I’m not fine, but I can be. In my weakness, I thought I could talk to him about my struggles, but he has enough of his own. Besides, if Hannah can do it, so can I. She’s expecting a baby with a man who has multiple wives, and yet when I was with her, I didn’t pick up on any insecurities. She appeared to be a happy woman. Then I think of the bruises on her arm, the purple marks, dark as plums, that resembled fingers, and my eyes narrow.

  “What’s wrong?” Seth asks. “You did that thing with your eyebrows...” His hand grips my thigh underneath the table, squeezing gently, and I feel a tingling between my legs. My body betraying my mind, typical of me; I have no discipline. Not when it comes to Seth.

  “What thing?” I ask, but I know what thing. I just like to hear him say it.

  “Where you scrunch them up and then your lips pucker like you want to be kissed.”

  “Maybe I do,” I throw back. “Have you thought of that?”

  “I have.” Seth leans in to kiss me and I feel the softness of his lips press to mine. He smells of wine and himself and suddenly I want him to see the lingerie. I want to watch the lust rise in his eyes before he pushes me onto the bed. It’s a good thing to want your husband and to want him to want you, I think.

  We are full-on making out like two teenagers when I hear a woman’s voice nearby—insolent, a little riled up. Seth pulls back to look over his shoulder, but I am still hazy-eyed and picturing the bed at the hotel.

  “Lovers’ quarrel,” he says, turning back to me. Over his shoulder, I see a couple arguing at the bar.

  I run my finger around the rim of my wineglass while I watch his face. I can tell he’s straining to hear what they’re saying as he stares at his water glass in concentration. He seems to be enjoying the sound of their voices, which are strained with tension. I watch the set of his lips to see if he’s taking a side, but no, he’s just listening. Seth and I rarely fight, probably on account of how agreeable I force myself to be. Had I ever seen him lose his temper? I flip through my memories, trying to conjure an image of my husband being angry enough to hit...grab...push.

  “Seth,” I say. “How often do you fight with them?”

  The wine has loosened my tongue, my facade of indifference dropping away as I study my husband’s face.

  He doesn’t meet my eyes. “Everyone fights.”

  “Yes, I suppose,” I say, already bored with his answer. “What sorts of things do you fight about?”

  Seth looks uncomfortable as he reaches for his glass. It’s empty, of course, and his head jerks around to look for our server so he can cushion my question with alcohol. My eyes stay glued to his face. I want to know.

  “Regular things.”

  “Why are you being evasive?” I drum my fingers on the tabletop. I’m aggravated. I rarely ask questions, and when I do, I expect an answer. I expect answers for my compliance. My role isn’t an easy one.

  “Look, I’ve had a really hard week. Being with you is a break from all that. I’d rather just enjoy your company instead of drudging up every fight I’ve had with them.”

  I feel myself soften. Tucking my hands under the table, I smile at him apologetically. Seth looks relieved. I was being unfair. Why spend our time together talking about his other relationships when we could focus on strengthening our bond? I push Hannah and her bruises from my mind.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “Would you like one more drink before we leave?”

  Seth orders two more drinks, and after they arrive, he looks at me with what can only be described as solemn guilt.

  “What? I know that look. Spit it out.”

  He laughs a little and leans over to kiss me on the lips. “You know me so well.” He grins.

  I lean back against the firm leather of the booth, waiting for the bad news.

  “Actually, I really need to talk to you about something.”

  “Okay...”

  I watch as he takes another sip of his bourbon, stalling for time, arranging the words in his mind. I imagine that if he had something bad to tell me all along, he’s already rehearsed what he’s going to say. It makes me prickly to think he invited me all the way here just to butter me up for bad news.

  “It’s about Monday,” he says.

  Something in my belly twists and I feel a wave of panic. He found out I’ve been to see Hannah. My lips are dry. I lick them, already composing the words—the excuses I’m going to give him.

  “Monday?”

  “Everything with the baby is fine. So far. But I was thinking that it’s a bad idea for you and me to take our vacation this year with the baby due...”

  His words drop between us and all I can do is stare at him, dumbfounded. It’s n
ot as bad as I thought, but also just as bad.

  “Why?” I blurt. “What difference does it make? We can go before she has it.”

  “That’s just it,” Seth says. The waiter comes by and Seth passes him his credit card without looking at the bill. “I’ll need the time off when the baby gets here. I can’t take a vacation. On top of that, things are busy at work. I need to be there.”

  I fold my arms across my chest and stare out the window, suddenly not feeling as special and loved as I had hours ago. I feel cast off, abandoned. I am not the one having his baby—she is—and so my needs matter less. Oh my God, he invited me to Portland to soften the blow. This wasn’t a stolen romantic getaway, it was a manipulation: the soft words, the flirting, the nice dinner—the realization stings.

  “I’ve sacrificed a lot, Seth...” I want to cringe at the bitterness I hear in my voice. I don’t want to act like a child, but being robbed of my time with him is unbearable.

  “I know you have. It hurts me to ask you to do this,” he says.

  I balk at his tone. It’s like he’s speaking to a child, one he’s about to discipline.

  I look at him in alarm, weighing my urge to lash out and say something that will hurt him. “Ask me? It sounds more like you’re telling me.”

  It begins to rain, and a couple dashes from the restaurant and across the street toward the parking garage. I watch their progress and wonder what it’s like to be with a man who wants only you. I didn’t date much before Seth. I was one of those serious students who avoided relationships to focus on my studies. If I had more experience under my belt, maybe I wouldn’t have agreed to the life Seth offered me so easily.

  “You know that’s not true.” He reaches out to touch my hand and I pull it away, placing it under the table on my lap. Tears sting my eyes.

  “I’d like to leave,” I say.

  Seth actually has the audacity to frown at me. “You can’t run away from this. We have to talk about things. That’s how it works in a relationship. You knew when I married her what that would entail. You agreed.”

  I am so enraged I stand up, knocking over my empty water glass as I push out of the half-moon booth and rush toward the door. I hear him call my name, but nothing he says could make me stop. I need to be alone, to think about all of this. How dare he lecture me on marriage? His path is the easy one.

  SIX

  The next morning I’m woken by the sound of the door opening. In my haste to climb into bed, I’d forgotten to hang the Do Not Disturb sign. I hear a tentative “Housekeeping...” and I call out a muffled “Later!” I wait until the door closes again before I roll over in bed and see that I have seven text messages and five missed calls from Seth. If I were to call this much when I didn’t hear from him, I’d look needy and insecure. I turn my phone off without reading the texts and jump out of bed to pack the few things I brought with me. I want to be home. It was a mistake coming here. I am craving the familiarity of my condo, the cold Coke that waits in the fridge. I plan on climbing under the covers and staying there until I have to go back to work. I want to call my mother or Anna and tell them what happened, but then I’d have to tell them the whole truth, and I’m not ready for that. I’m on my way down to the lobby when I think of Hannah and have the sudden urge to see her again. She’s the only one who knows what this is like, the torture of sharing your spouse. I send her a text as I march toward the parking garage, the straps of my duffel digging into my arm. I’d been so distracted last night I don’t remember where I parked my car. I walk up and down the rows of cars, switching my bag back and forth on my arm when it becomes too heavy. When I finally find it and unlock the door, I see a bouquet of lavender roses propped on the front seat, a card propped against the steering wheel. I move them to the passenger side without opening the card and climb in, gunning the engine. I didn’t want his flowers or his Hallmark apologies. I wanted him: his attention, his time, his favor. I am almost to the freeway, having momentarily forgotten about the text I sent to Hannah, when my phone chimes to tell me I have a text. I’d asked her if she was free to grab a late breakfast before I headed out of town. Her response causes my heart to beat wildly.

  I’d love to! Meet you at Orson’s in ten? Here’s the address.

  I type the address into my phone and make a U-turn. I barely glanced at myself in the mirror before I left this morning. As I wait for a light to change, I pull down the car’s visor and, flipping open the mirror, I study my face. I look pale and washed out, and my eyes are puffy from last night’s crying. I dig in my bag for a lipstick and quickly mop it across my lips.

  Orson’s is a hole-in-the-wall breakfast spot with a block-letter sign above the door. There is a golf-ball-size hole in the O with a series of spiderweb cracks around it. I walk inside, the smell of eggs and coffee thick in the air, and look around for an empty table.

  The place is packed, filled with the type of people I can’t imagine Hannah and her fine cheekbones being friends with. Mohawks, pink hair, tattoos—one woman has seven piercings in her face alone.

  I find a table by a window where I can see the door and toss my purse into the empty seat across from me. Too often I’d been in coffee shops where desperate people try to pilfer your chairs. Hannah walks in ten minutes later, wearing a red dress and glossy black flats. Her hair is pinned back, but wisps of it fall around her face like she was caught in a strong wind.

  She looks frazzled as she slides into her seat and pushes the strands behind her ears. “Sorry I’m late. I’d just gotten out of the shower when I got your text.” She pulls off her sunglasses and sets them on the table while she presses her fingers to the bridge of her nose.

  “Headache?” I ask.

  She nods. “Caffeine headache. I’ve been trying to cut back, but I think I’ll have one today.”

  “I’ll go grab us coffees if you tell me what you want,” I say, standing up. I have the sudden urge to protect her. She nods, looking around.

  “Yeah, I suppose we can’t risk losing our table.”

  She tells me her order and I walk up to the register and get in line. It’s then that I start sweating. Like, what the hell am I doing? Is this to get back at Seth? No, I tell myself as I reach the front of the line. I’m searching for my own form of community. I need to understand myself, and the only way to do that is to get to know the other woman who has made similar choices. Besides, it isn’t like I could find a polygamy group online, like one of those MOPS meetings mothers attend.

  I place our order and carry the number on a stand back to the table. Hannah is chewing on her nails and staring at a coffee stain on the table.

  I glance at her arm, to the place where I saw the bruise yesterday. It’s gone from purple to a dim blue.

  She sees me looking and covers it with her hand, perfectly manicured fingers wrapping around her arm.

  “An accident,” she says.

  “Looks like finger marks.” My comment is offhanded, but she looks startled, like I’ve just slapped her. I study her eyes. They’re so perfectly blue they look painted, her lashes flicked up with expertly applied mascara. It’s all too perfect, I think. When things are that perfect, something is wrong.

  While we wait, she chats about another renovation she wants to do on the house, but her husband is dragging his feet. I gravitate between liking and hating her as I smile and nod. How ungrateful to live in such a beautiful place and to never be satisfied with it. Wasn’t Seth exhausted by her demands? I imagine he’ll tell me about it soon, ask what I think about the renovation she wants. Seth always confers with me about these things, almost like he’s asking permission. I’d tell him to give her what she wants, of course. It would make me look good. Hannah suddenly changes the subject and asks questions about my condo and how I’ve decorated it. Her interest flatters and confuses me. I’m grateful when our food and drinks arrive. I stare down at my plate, at the omelet that is healthier than o
ne I would have ordered had I been by myself, and have the desperate urge to tell her something personal. “I found out last night that my husband is cheating on me.”

  Hannah drops her fork. It clatters onto her plate and then does a flip landing on the floor. We both stare at it.

  “What?” she says. Her response is so delayed it’s almost funny.

  I shrug. “I’m not sure how to process it. We had a fight last night and I stormed off.”

  Hannah shakes her head and bends to pick up her fork. Instead of asking for a new one, she pulls an antibacterial wipe from her handbag and polishes it clean.

  “I’m sorry,” she says. “My God, here I am blabbing about... I’m really sorry.”

  She sets down her fork and stares at me. “Seriously, that’s terrible. I’d be an absolute mess. How are you even holding up?”

  “I don’t know,” I say honestly. “I love him.” She nods, like this is answer enough.

  She studies me over her plate of egg whites. She’s barely touched her food. I want to tell her to eat, that she has a baby to grow.

  “I’m pregnant,” she says.

  I feign surprise. I don’t have to try very hard because I’m genuinely shocked that she told me, a complete stranger.

  My eyes travel to her belly, flat and firm.

  “I’m not very far along,” she admits. “I haven’t told anyone.”

  “Your...husband?” I ask. Though I want to say, “Our husband?”

  “Yes,” she sighs, “he knows.”

  “And...is he...happy?” I already know the answer, of course—Seth was over the fucking moon—but I want to hear about it from Hannah’s mouth. What does my husband’s excitement look like to her?

  “He’s happy.”

  “You’re saying something without saying it.” I wipe my mouth and stare at her pointedly. My mother can’t stand this side of me; she says I’m too forward, but Hannah doesn’t seem bothered by my statement. She wipes her mouth with a paper napkin and sighs.