The Wives

by Tarryn Fisher

  Either way, they are his parents, and on principle, it feels right that I should meet them. I’ve earned that. A thought occurs to me that I’m not entirely comfortable with: What if they’ve already met Hannah? Would Seth even tell me if they had? After his reaction that left me bleeding, I’m too afraid to ask.

  I pour myself a glass of wine, my second for the hour, and wander into the living room to watch some TV. The only thing I can find to watch are episodes of trash reality shows that I’ve already seen. Somehow, the messy lives of reality stars make me feel better about my own. There is something dull and vapid about the plastic-looking women on those shows, despite their fame and fortune—no matter if they deserve it or not. There is something hopeful about that for the rest of us. We’re all fucked up, every single one of us, I think.

  But twenty minutes later, I can’t seem to focus. I turn off the TV and stare at a wall, my anger still festering. I go to the hall closet to retrieve the cards his parents have sent over the years, eight in total, and study the signatures at the bottom. The cards are generic, flowers or teddy bears on the front of them—all the same, never with anything personal aside from their hastily scratched names: Perry and Phyllis. That seems strange, doesn’t it? They might not know me, but they could at least express their desire to. Can’t wait to meet you! Hugs! Or maybe even, Seth says such wonderful things about you. I think about all the cards I’ve sent them, my eagerness spelled out in the notes I’ve written, telling them about our condo in Seattle and—before the miscarriage—the names we’d chosen for the baby. I feel silly about it now, sharing all of those details with them and them not caring enough to respond. I wish I could ask Hannah or Regina about them—what they thought, if they ever had any meaningful interaction.

  I’ve not so much as emailed with his mother, though I’ve asked on several occasions for her email address. I figure that if we can make some sort of connection online, we’ve made progress. Seth always tells me he’ll send it over and never quite gets around to it.

  The day before our wedding, his dad, Perry, had been rushed in for emergency gallbladder surgery and his mom hadn’t wanted to leave her husband’s side. I hadn’t seen the problem, since there were four other wives to tend to him, weren’t there?

  “She’s his legal wife. She has to be there to oversee things in case something comes up,” Seth told me.

  After they missed the wedding, they promised to come up for Christmas, but then his mother came down with pneumonia. For Easter it was strep throat, and the following Christmas it was something else. When I lost the baby, they sent flowers, which I’d thrown straight in the trash. I didn’t want any reminders of what had happened. They always send a card on my birthday, fifty dollars tucked inside.

  I finish my glass of wine and pull up Regina’s Facebook profile. Maybe she has pictures with them somewhere. It’s a long shot but worth a try. Seth doesn’t have any pictures of them. He says they hate cameras and cell phones, and for legal reasons never take any photos together. Just as I thought, Regina’s profile yields no information. Neither does Hannah’s. I don’t know if I should feel relieved or more upset.

  I turn away from my MacBook, frustrated. If I want answers there is only one thing I can do, and that includes me continuing to go behind Seth’s back. A message in my email says Regina has messaged Will back. I sign in to the site, feeling anxious. I’ve been wondering when she will request a meet-up, and trying to decide what I’ll say, but so far she seems okay to take things slow. The message is a long one. I upgrade from wine, pouring myself a vodka instead and settling on the couch, sucking on my bottom lip while I read.

  Hi, Will,

  Just got home after a day full of meetings. I’m blown. Will probably just order takeout and watch Netflix. It’s nice that you’re visiting family this weekend, have fun!

  My marriage...hmm, that’s a tough one. We worked hard at it for a few years, probably even after we both knew it was over. In the end, we were just very different people who wanted different things. He’s married to someone else now...happy, I hear.

  Sometimes it bothers me that he was able to move on so quickly while I needed time to heal, but I suppose we all deal with things differently. Why did your last relationship end? Were you together long?

  Regina

  I stare at the screen for a long time contemplating her words. Different people who wanted different things. Why is she lying? What does she have to gain by developing this relationship with a man over the internet? I know the answer even before I complete the thought: she’s lonely. Seth’s attention wanes thin and at times seems nonexistent, so the attention of a stranger would sate a deep need to be seen...and heard. Regardless of why, the fact is she actually is cheating. And Seth has no clue. I close the lid to my MacBook and stare out the window. I contemplate taking a walk; things can get claustrophobic in a high-rise. You can spend days going to the in-building gym, visiting the vending machine for drinks instead of walking the block to the market and staring out at the world beneath you instead of venturing out into it. I’ve found that more and more I am opting to stay home when I’m not at work, feeling less inclined to brave the drizzle when it isn’t for a good reason. Before, in my old life, you couldn’t keep me inside. If I’ve changed so much in the last few years, maybe Regina has, too. Perhaps she realizes she doesn’t want to be with Seth anymore, and this is her way of feeling out the dating scene. In which case her messages to Will are a good thing. For me at least. If I tell Seth what I know about her, I’ll have a lot of explaining to do. I decide not to say anything to Seth. I’ll wait to see what else she writes to Will before I decide. I’m flicking through channels on the TV ten minutes later when I stop on one of those shows about internet relationships. The show brings people together who’ve interacted solely through the internet, often to find that one or the other has been lied to in depth. I flinch, thinking of “Will,” the photos of my cousin I’ve uploaded to the site. What people present on the internet is seldom true to real life. If I want to know who Regina Coele really is, I need to see her in real life like I saw Hannah.

  I call the law firm of Markel & Abel and tell the receptionist that I would like to schedule an appointment with Regina Coele. I’m put on hold, and as I wait, there’s a twist in the pit of my stomach. I ask myself what I’m doing. This isn’t like me; for years I’ve accepted everything quietly...submissively. But it’s too late now; I opened one too many doors, and the lust for knowledge overpowers rationality. She transfers me to Regina’s secretary, who tells me that her earliest available appointment is three weeks from today. I feel a surge of disappointment. Three weeks seems like an eternity.

  “Are you sure there’s nothing sooner than that?” I ask.

  “I’m afraid not. Ms. Coele is booked through. I can put you on a wait-list, but to be honest, we hardly ever have cancellations.” Her voice is nasally and matter-of-fact—a real Hermione Granger if I’ve ever heard one.

  “All right, then,” I sigh. “I suppose I have no choice.”

  “I’ll just get you set up in the system with some basic information, then,” she tells me. I hear the clacking of computer keys and then she begins to ask me questions.

  I tell her that my name is Lauren Brian from Oregon. When she asks about the nature of my visit, I tell her that it’s concerning divorce, and suddenly she’s different, her voice much kinder. So much so that I wonder if she’s experienced a divorce herself. The thought of divorcing Seth makes me sick to my stomach. I don’t want to divorce him—I want him for myself. But first I need to know the nature of his relationship with Regina. She asks me a series of questions—are children involved, did we sign a prenup, how long have we been married? “Don’t worry,” she says before she hangs up. “Ms. Coele is one of the most competent attorneys in Oregon.”

  Competent Regina. I wonder if someone would describe me as the most competent nurse in Seattle? Lo most certainly wou
ldn’t.

  When I hang up the phone, I walk directly to the bar and make myself a vodka and soda. I’m lonely, I realize as the ice cubes crack beneath the vodka. Lonely and sad. I shouldn’t be; I am young and vibrant, and these are my best years. This is necessary, I tell myself, pushing aside the guilt of sneaking around. You have to figure this out.

  FOURTEEN

  I think about Hannah all morning. It’s becoming an obsession to wonder where she is and what she’s doing. I’m not sleeping well; even when I swallow the sleeping pills my doctor prescribed me, I wake in the middle of the night, my body covered in a sheen of sweat. I have forgotten what my own happiness means. What the definition is to me as a person. This influx of emotion was brought on by Regina’s last message to Will, when she asked him what makes him truly happy. I’d answered as Will: my family, my job. But when I switched gears and contemplated what made me happy, I was unable to come up with a good answer. I know what makes Seth happy, and I know that I feel happiness when he does, but doesn’t that point to the fact that I’ve completely lost my own identity to identify with him? I’ve become that woman—the one who is made happy by the happiness of others. It’s disappointing to me, that I’ve forgotten myself entirely. When Seth found me in that coffee shop, I was in the pursuit of it to some degree. I was metaphorically wet behind the ears, lacking experience. Sometimes I wonder if he’d known that and if that was why he chose me. How easy to convince a young girl in love that she can emotionally do the impossible. And plural marriage by all means is impossible on the heart and mind. But I am determined. Seth and I have gotten off track; the way he shoved me the other day proved that. We can make it back to each other—I just need Regina out of the picture.

  I decide to take a walk to clear my head. It’s probably too cold, but I’ve been cooped up in this condo with my thoughts for too long. If I had a friend nearby, things would be different. Someone to confide in, glean wisdom from. But this secret in my marriage prevents me from developing meaningful relationships. There are too many questions, too many lies you inevitably have to tell. It is almost comical to think of someone giving advice on something as bizarre as plural marriage: Be supportive of the other women! Remember to suck his dick as often as you can so you can be the favorite...

  Shrugging on my warmest coat, I slip my feet into my rain boots and head toward Westlake Center. The tree trunks in the square are painted cobalt blue for the Seahawks, and as I weave my way between them, I catch sight of a stand selling mulled wine and roasted chestnuts. I’ve already had too much to drink today, but one cup of mulled wine won’t hurt. As I wait in line, I tell myself that they probably cooked all of the wine out of it.

  I order a large and carry my steaming paper cup toward the shops on the other side of the street. I’m about to cross when I hear my name being called. I turn around and search the faces around me, surprised. I don’t know many people in the city. Most everyone has their heads bent against the rain, and as I stall on the sidewalk, they push past me in a herd, crossing the small intersection.

  And then I see her, her impossibly perfect blond hair tucked beneath a beanie and then the hood of a bright red raincoat. She looks innocent and eager, like a hipster version of Little Red Riding Hood. “Hey, I thought that was you.” Lauren approaches, her face pink from either exertion or cold. She rests a hand on my shoulder as she bends over to catch her breath. “I ran to catch up,” she says. “You were in your own world, didn’t hear me when I called.”

  “Sorry,” I say, glancing over my shoulder. The light has changed back to red and I missed my chance to cross. Great. That means I’ll be stuck at this intersection with Lauren for another few minutes.

  “Um...so what are you doing here?” I ask.

  I half expect her husband, John, to appear through the crowd, cheesy grin plastered to his face. John is forever smiling, begging the world to like him. I’m a good guy! Look at me smile! He wears beanies, too, always with three perfect curls strategically hanging over his forehead. I look around wearily. The last thing I need right now is their couple-ness.

  “Oh, I thought I’d come walk around the center for a bit,” she says. “Grab something to eat.”

  “Where’s—”

  “Working,” she says quickly. Someone bumps into me and my mulled wine sloshes out of the cup and onto my jacket. I stumble, unable to right my footing. Lauren grabs me before I can fall. I smile at her gratefully as I right myself.

  “Whoa,” she says. “How many of those have you had?” She means to be funny, and of course she has no idea that I’ve spent the greater part of my day drinking, but something in her voice makes me angry.

  “You don’t have to be so goddamn judgmental,” I snap. I dump the rest of the wine onto the sidewalk and march the empty cup over to the trash. There is no room for it, the garbage can overflowing. I set the empty cup on top of it and return to wait for the light. Lauren looks like I’ve slapped her, the smile falling off her face. I feel guilty right away. She was being really nice, and here I am, spewing my frustration all over the place.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, lifting a hand to my head. “I had a really shit day. Look, would you like to get a drink?”

  She nods without a word, and suddenly outside of my own troubles I see something else on her face. She’s not happy, either; there’s something wrong. I sigh. The last thing I need is to be someone else’s shrink today.

  “All right, then,” I say, glancing around. “There’s a tap house up that way, or we can go to a real bar, one with the hard stuff.”

  She contemplates this for a few seconds before nodding her head decidedly. “Hard stuff.”

  “Good,” I say. “I know where all the best places are. Follow me.”

  * * *

  I lead her past the tourist spots and well-lit restaurants to Post Alley, where I swing a left. We have to pass the gum wall, and Lo crinkles her nose at the sickly sweet smell of half-chewed bubble gum.

  “Gross,” I hear her say. “I can’t believe this is a tourist spot. What is even wrong with people?”

  “You’re being uptight again,” I call over my shoulder. A teenage girl to our right pretends to lick the mounds of gum as her friend takes a picture, and Lauren shudders.

  The foot traffic thins out and soon we’re the only ones walking down the alley. Lauren presses close to me like she’s afraid we’re going to be mugged.

  “How long have you lived here?” I ask. Her mouth is buried beneath a scarf; the only thing visible is her red-tipped nose.

  “Four years.”

  I nod. Four years is relatively new to the city. You’re still trying to figure out which streets to avoid and frequenting chain restaurants.

  “You were born here?” she asks.

  “Oregon, but my parents moved here when I was little.”

  I lead her down another alley and stop in front of a grass wall. “You okay with this place?” I ask. Lo eyes the place warily, then nods.

  The interior of the bar is lit by neon pink lights that run along the walls and the ceiling. It’s the type of place one might call seedy. The first time we came here, Seth said the place had eighties porn vibes. It was one of the few times we were out in public together, and as Lauren and I walk through the doors it hits me that he probably brought me here because there was little chance of being seen by anyone he knows.

  We find a little table in the corner and begin the task of unwrapping ourselves from scarves and jackets. I try not to look at her because I don’t know why I’m doing this, except there is something sad in her eyes, something that matches how I feel. I tell myself that if she brings up our lack of children I’m going to leave. I order shots to start. We need something to cut the edge, and fast.

  “What do you normally drink?”

  I expect her to say rosé or champagne, but she says, “Whiskey,” matter-of-factly and then downs her shot like she’
s at a college frat party. Nice.

  We order fries, and by the time our food arrives, we’ve had three shots each and are sufficiently sloshed. Lauren can’t figure out how to work the lid on the ketchup and, in a fit of giggles, drops the bottle on the floor. She retrieves it and wedges the lid open with her teeth.

  “And you thought I was uptight,” she says, eyeing me over the bottle.

  “You’re drunk,” I tell her, dipping a fry into the ketchup and folding it into my mouth. “Your picture-perfect life doesn’t allow you to be anything but uptight.”

  Lo snorts. “So perfect.” She closes her eyes, an exaggerated expression on her face. “It’s not what you think.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask. I know she’s had more than her fair share to drink, but I don’t stop her when she begins to talk. If she’s going to regret telling me things, she can do it tomorrow when I’m not around.

  “Do you really want to know?”

  “I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t,” I say. She toys with her napkin, ripping it in half, then balling it up in her fist. When she’s destroyed it, she drops the wadded-up paper in her water glass. I watch it float before lifting my eyes to her face.

  “He cheats on me,” she says. “All the time. The trips we go on are always after I’ve caught him. To buy me back, I suppose.”

  I don’t know what to say, so I stare at her dumbly until she speaks again.

  “It’s all a farce. I’m a farce. I thought if we had a baby, things would get better, he’d be more hesitant to break up our family, but then it was hard to get pregnant and even harder to keep a baby in my body. Now I can’t have children at all and this is just my reality.”

  I reach across the fries and empty shot glasses and touch her hand—lightly at first, and then I hold it. “I’m sorry,” I say, though the words sound shallow and uncomforting even to my own ears. “Have you thought about leaving him?”