“You bitch,” he breathes. “Nothing is ever enough for you. I’ve risked everything...”
A fleck of spittle lands on my lip. I wrench my shoulders out of his grasp, pushing at his chest with my forearms, but instead of letting me go, his hands move to my wrists. I’m a prisoner. I can’t believe he’s saying that. I’m the one who’s risked everything. I’m the one who’s made the sacrifices.
I pant into his face, not daring to move. I couldn’t deny any of this now, her bruises, my shove. I’m awake! I think. There would be no going back. It feels like he’s going to snap the bones in my wrists, meager bones against strong hands. I’ve always liked that Seth is so much bigger than I am, but now as I cower under his strength, I curse myself. I’m in shock, trembling like a cornered animal.
He says it again, this time his words pronounced louder, more carefully, like I was too stupid to understand them the first time.
“Who. Were. You. With?”
“Hannah,” I say smoothly. “I was with Hannah.”
Both of our eyes make a choreographed move to his bandaged hand.
For a moment, his grip on me falters, his fingers go slack. I think he’s willing himself to have misheard me. I realize I’ve confirmed his fear and I need to get away from him.
I yank one arm free and shove at his chest to get him to move. If I could just get to my phone I could call somebody to help. But who? Who would believe me? What would I tell the police? My husband is yelling at me because he thinks I’ve cheated on him? Seth barely budges and now his eyes are narrowed, boring into me with intensity. I’ve never seen that look on his face before. It’s like I’m seeing a different man.
“Why?” His eyes flutter. “How? We had an arrangement. Why would you do that?”
“Yeah?” I seethe. “Or you had an arrangement. I’m sick of it. I wanted to know who she is. See her face. You get everything you want, three wives, and we’re just left to pine after you.”
“We had an agreement,” he says. “You wanted this.”
“I wanted it because it was the only way to have you. You’re hitting her. I saw the bruises.”
He shakes his head. “You’re crazy.” He looks aghast that I would accuse him of such an ugly thing.
He releases me, and all of the pressure that was pushing against me a minute ago is gone. I slump against the counter, massaging my wrists as Seth paces across the small kitchen.
His face is blanched white, causing the dark circles under his eyes to look even more pronounced. He looks sick. But I suppose you’d feel a little sick after hitting your pregnant wife, drinking all night and then being confronted by your barren wife. I feel my anger build as I watch him—the man I’d always thought so beautiful, a chiseled god. He looks a little melted, if I’m being honest—a discarded idol low on luster. I want to check my phone, see if Hannah called. What if he hurt her really badly? I move slightly toward the doorway; if I make a dash for it I can reach my handbag in the foyer. My phone is in the pocket, next to a half-eaten roll of Life Savers and my pill compact.
“Listen to me. You’re sick. It’s happening again...”
I stare at him in astonishment. “Sick...? You’re the sick one,” I spit. “How can you even say something like that to me after you asked me to live this lifestyle? You get to have as many women as you want, and we are your emotional prisoners.” Once the words are out of my mouth I realize how much I mean them. I’ve never allowed myself to think it; I was overcome by love—pressing, pressing, pressing my feelings down to accommodate him. Isn’t that what we do as women?
“Have you been taking your pills?”
“My pills?” I echo. “What would I need to take pills for?” I think of the compact, the one I’d bought at a touristy shop at Pike Place Market with the pink rose on the lid. What was inside of it? Aspirin...a couple of old Xanax from Anna? The drip, drip, drip of the sink is grating on me. There are no pills I need to be taking. That ended a long time ago.
Seth’s lips part as he blinks rapidly—gunshot blinks. He looks around as if searching the kitchen for help, all the white and silver we painstakingly chose together is blinding in this moment. I want to close my eyes and be somewhere warmer. I almost suggest moving this little accusation party to the living room when his eyes narrow sharply on me.
“I was at your house,” I say boldly. “Why didn’t you tell me you bought her a house and remodeled it? Did you think I would be too jealous to deal with it?”
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
He holds up his hands, palms splayed toward me, his eyes wide. I flinch even though he’s clearly not threatening me. His chest is heaving, which causes me to look down at my own chest. I seem to be holding my breath, because it doesn’t move at all.
“This is over,” he says, closing his eyes. “I thought you could handle this. We had an agreement... I can’t believe this.” He says that last part to himself.
Anger and pain tangle in my chest. A sob escapes my lips. I’m so confused. I reach up and touch my face, feel my features; this isn’t a dream, this is real.
Seth’s face softens. “Listen to me. I’ve been trying so hard. What we had was real, but things change. After you lost the baby, you changed.”
“No!” I shout. “I’m going to tell everyone who you are and what you’ve done. You can’t keep your lifestyle a secret anymore. Even Regina is cheating on you.”
There is a sharp silence following my words. His eyes grow wide and I can see the red streaks on the whites as he says, “Stop it.”
I throw back my head and let my throat churn out a hoarse chord of laughter. “Are you kidding me right now?” My fear has morphed into anger. It’s better to be angry than to be afraid, I decide. “You’re going to be exposed for what you are.”
“I’m calling your doctor,” he says. He roots for his phone, pulling it from his back pocket, never taking his eyes off me as he places his thumb on the screen to unlock it. A deep furrow appears between his brows as his fingers dart across the screen.
“I found the doctor’s bill in your pants pocket—Hannah’s. I went to see her.” I say all of this calmly, watching his face for a betrayal. He’s pretending that this is all in my head, why?
“What doctor’s bill?” He shakes his head, and then I see it. A spark of recognition. He sets his phone on the counter next to the coffeemaker, forgotten. “Oh my God,” he says. “Oh my God.” He shakes his head. “When I was at the doctor, a woman checked out in front of me. She got distracted by her phone and walked out of the office without it. I ran it out to her, except once I was out there I couldn’t find her. She must have driven off. I stuffed it in my pocket. I should have turned it into the receptionist, but I didn’t even think to do that. That’s what you found.”
I don’t believe him, not even for a second. This is crazy. He’s lying.
“You need help. You’re having delusions again.”
Again? I’m so angry that it’s me who launches at him this time, my hands extended like I can claw his eyes out with my bitten-down fingernails.
“Liar,” I scream.
I ram into his chest—that was a mistake. Once I’m in his range, he uses his strength against me, holding me at arm’s length. I can’t reach him, but my arms flail, anyway, as I try to make contact with something. His open water bottle falls from the counter and makes a dull thud against the wood floor. Water pools around our feet, and as I struggle to get away from him I feel myself slipping. Seth tries to catch me, but as my feet lose grip and slide out from under me, so do his. We fall in a tangle; I slam into the ground, my shoulder blades hitting the floor with Seth’s weight on top of me, and then I see nothing but the dark.
EIGHTEEN
“Hello, Thursday. Can you hear me?”
A voice tugs at my consciousness, unfamiliar. It pulls me forward like a hand in the fog. A blinding headache p
ounds behind my eyes and I know that the moment I open them it will be ten times worse. I roll my tongue over the roof of my mouth and I wake to a bright room—not naturally bright, but lit by the fizzing hum of fluorescents overhead.
A woman leans over me and I register navy blue scrubs and the stethoscope, which hangs like jewelry from her neck.
“There you are,” she says brightly—too brightly. “You’re going to have a headache—we’ve given you something for that. You should feel better in a bit.”
I let my head fall to the right where an IV stands sentinel beside the bed. I am terribly thirsty.
“You were extremely dehydrated,” she says. “We’re fixing you up. Would you like some water?”
I nod, and a pain shoots through my head, causing me to flinch.
“Try not to move around too much.” She disappears and comes back with a thick plastic cup, color unidentifiable, straw perched from its lip. The water tastes like plastic, but it’s cold, and I close my eyes as I suck it down.
“Which hospital am I in? Where’s my husband?”
I listen to the squelch of her shoes as she crosses the room, a familiar and soothing sound. Years ago, a patient told me that the sound a nurse’s shoes make on a hospital floor made her have a panic attack. It’s when you know they’re coming to inject you with more shit, or to tell you bad news, she’d said.
“You’re in Queen County. I haven’t seen a husband, but it’s past visiting hours and I’m sure he’ll be back tomorrow.”
Queen County! I try to sit up in bed, but yelp when a pain shoots through my head.
“Easy,” she says, rushing over. “You have a concussion. It’s minor but—”
“Why am I in Queen County? Where’s the doctor? I need to speak to him.”
She opens my chart, glancing at me disapprovingly over the top of it. Her eyebrows are two sandy brown caterpillars—she’s in need of a good pluck. I don’t know why I’m being so mean except that she has answers and I don’t.
“Says here you came in by ambulance. That’s all I can tell you for now until you speak to your doctor.” She snaps it shut with an air of finality and I know it won’t do me any good to keep hounding her. I know her type; she has the whole nurse hard-ass thing going on. We have three or four of them at my hospital. They’re always assigned the more difficult patients as a mercy to the rest of us.
Momentarily defeated, I allow my back to rest against the flat hospital pillow and squeeze my eyes shut. What happened exactly? Why didn’t they take me to Seattle General? My friends and colleagues are there. I’d receive the best care among my own. Queen County has a reputation for bringing in a rougher sort of crowd. I know, because this isn’t the first time I’ve been here. Queen County is your criminal uncle you only see on holidays: grubby, sagging and tagged up. It’s the house whose lawn has soda cans and beer bottles dotting its yard like weeds, the shopping cart abandoned on the street corner. It’s a place where dreams never have the soil to grow, everything lost in the cracks.
I have a flash of memory: a wheelchair, blood—plenty of blood—and the tense face of my husband as he leaned over me, assuring me everything was going to be all right. I’d half believed him at the time because that’s what love does. It gives you a sense of well-being—like bad things will evaporate under the strength of two people who adore each other. But it hadn’t been all right, and I’m much emptier in my marriage than when I arrived that first time.
I grimace at the memory. I bunch the sheets up at my neck, suddenly cold, turning on my side as I lie as still as possible. My head feels tender, like even the slightest movement could make unbearable pain explode. I want to see Seth. I want my mother. I want someone to tell me that everything is going to be all right, even if it’s not true. Why would he leave me here alone with no note, no explanation?
My eyes snap open, and very carefully I look around the room for my handbag or phone. No, the nurse said I’d been brought in by ambulance; my phone would be at home. I have the faintest memory of my handbag sitting near the front door—in the foyer. I’m suddenly very tired. The drugs, I think to myself. They’ve given me something for the pain and it’s going to knock me out. I let my eyes close and drift backward like a leaf floating in water.
* * *
When I wake up, there is a different nurse in the room. Her back is to me, a narrow braid hanging down the center of it, almost reaching her waist. She’s young—I’d guess not a year out of nursing school. Sensing my eyes on her, she turns and sees that I’m awake.
“Hello there.” She moves fluidly, like a cat—her shoulders rolling forward as she walks. She checks the monitor while I watch her, still too out of it to speak.
“I’m Sarah,” she says. “You’ve been sleeping for a while. How do you feel?”
“Better,” I croak. “Groggy. Do I have a concussion?” My throat hurts and I glance at the plastic water jug to my right. Seeing my look of longing, she pours me a fresh cup and I glance at her gratefully. I already like her better than Nurse Hard-ass from yesterday.
“Let me get the doctor to come talk to you now that you’re awake.”
“Seth...?” I ask as she heads for the door.
“He was here while you were asleep. But I’m sure he’ll be back soon...”
My lips pull away from the straw and a line of water runs down my chin. I wipe it away with the back of my hand. “What day is it?”
“Friday.” And then with an almost embarrassed laugh, she says, “TGIF.”
I refrain from rolling my eyes—actually, I don’t think I can roll my eyes. I feel like I’m underwater, my body moving like a piece of seaweed dragged along the ocean floor.
“Sarah...?” I call out. She’s halfway out the door, an almost-escape, when she peeps her head around the corner.
“What medication do they have me on?” Is my voice slurring or am I imagining it?
She blinks and I can see she doesn’t want to answer without the doctor speaking to me first.
“Haldol.”
I struggle to sit up, the lines in my arm tugging uncomfortably as I push aside the sheets. Haldol, Haldol, Haldol! My brain is screaming. Where is Seth? What happened? I try to remember the events that led me here and I can’t. It’s like trying to pound through a brick wall.
Sarah comes rushing back in the room, her face pinched with worry. I’m the patient they trained her for—keep her calm, call for help. I see her glance over her shoulder, trying to catch a view of someone in the hallway. I don’t want her to do that; they’ll fill me with more medication until I can’t remember my own name. I calm, relaxing my hands, smoothing out my face. Sarah seems to buy my show because she slows down, approaching the bed like someone would approach a live scorpion.
“Why am I on Haldol?” I’ve been on it once before. An antipsychotic that doctors only use in extreme cases of violent behavior.
Sarah’s face is blanched, her lips pursing and squishing for an answer. Silly girl, she’ll get the hang of it in a year or so. She’s required to tell me what drugs they’ve given me; she’s not required, however, to tell me why. I want to take advantage of her lack of experience before someone with more knowledge comes in, but then the doctor is there, his pinched face stern and unyielding. Sarah scurries from the room and he narrows in on me, tall and bent—the kind of figure that could be frightening, if you watch too many horror films.
“Haldol?” I ask again. “Why?”
“Hello to you, too, Thursday,” he says. “I’m hoping you’re comfortable.”
If comfortable means drugged up, then yes, I’m sure I am. I stare at him, refusing to play this game. I’m terrified, my stomach in knots, my brain fighting through the drugs to gain control. I want Seth to be here; I long for the reassurance of his unwavering confidence, and yet I’m disgusted with him, too. Why? Why can’t I remember?
“I’m Dr
. Steinbridge. I was a consulting doctor on your case last time you were with us.”
“The last time Seth had me locked me up in the nuthouse?” My voice is hoarse. I lift a hand to touch my throat, then change my mind, dropping it to the sheet instead.
“Do you remember the circumstances that brought you here, Thursday?”
I hate the way he keeps saying my name. I grind my teeth, the humiliation sinking deep into my body. I don’t remember and admitting that will make me sound crazy.
“No,” I say simply. “I’m afraid the memories have disappeared along with my husband.”
Dr. Steinbridge makes no indication that he’s heard my snark. His long, gangly legs make their way over to the bed, and it looks as if the bones in them could snap at any moment and send him sprawling to the floor.
I don’t suppose if I ask directly where Seth is, he’d answer me, either. That’s the thing about these doctors—they answer questions selectively, often turning your own questions around on you. It’s funny that I’ve spoken to enough shrinks to know how they do things.
“I’m going to ask you some questions, just to rule out a concussion,” he says. “Can you tell me your name?”
“Thursday Ellington,” I answer easily. Second wife of Seth Arnold Ellington.
“And how old are you, Thursday?” he asks.
“Twenty-eight.”
“Who is the current president?”
I scrunch up my nose. “Trump.”
He chuckles a little at that one, and I relax.
“Okay, good, good. You’re doing great.”
The Wives Page 13