“Definitely,” I say.
“You should join a gym,” my mother suggests.
“I will.” I nod.
“Well, then...” My father sits up. His job is done. He is free to go home and watch the news, and eat the meals my mother serves him.
“I’m really tired,” I offer.
My father looks relieved. “You go on to bed, then,” he says. “We love you.”
It’s a lie. I hate him.
* * *
I see them to the door, already formulating what I’m going to do as soon as the lock latches behind them. Call Hannah...pack a bag...leave. Call Hannah...pack a bag...leave. But I don’t even make it to the bedroom to look for my phone when Seth is walking through the door. He has that Honey, I’m home! look about him. Swooping in to rescue me from myself. I straighten up where I’m bent over the nightstand, silently cursing myself for not getting rid of my parents sooner.
“What are you up to?” It would be such a normal question if not for everything that’s transpired the last few weeks. Now his tone frightens me.
“Looking for my cortisone cream.” I smile. “I think the medication is giving me a rash.” I scratch at my arm absently.
“Wouldn’t it be in the medicine cabinet?”
“I had it next to the bed a few months ago, but maybe...” I look toward the bathroom, still scratching.
“I’ll get it for you.” His tone is bright but I see the barely perceptible shift in his eyes. He’s walking differently: his steps stiffer, his shoulders held at a rigid angle. What are you up to? My shiver is delayed as I watch him step toward the bathroom, flicking on the light. He comes back with the cream a few seconds later. I paste a smile onto my face, like I’m grateful...relieved. It’s a smile I would have worn months ago and meant it. I make a show of uncapping the tube and rubbing the cream on my arm. Seth leans in to examine the spot. I notice for the first time how much his hair is graying. The stress of three wives and the stress of keeping up with his lies must be taking a toll on him. He’s put on weight, too. “I don’t see anything,” he says.
“It’s itchy.” My words sound flat even to my own ears.
He straightens up and meets my eyes. “I didn’t say it wasn’t.”
We stand there like that for what seems like minutes but I know is only a few seconds, staring each other down.
“My mother—” I start to tell him that she was here with my father. Seth’s eyes are on my arm again.
“She said she’d be back tomorrow. She will stay with you then,” he says without looking up.
“I don’t need a babysitter,” I say. “I’m fine.”
He turns away for the first time. “We care about you, Thursday. Until you’re well again, someone will be here to stay with you.”
I have to get out of here. I have to go.
* * *
We go to bed at the same time—couple’s bedtime—but Seth doesn’t sleep in the bed with me. He sleeps on the sofa, the television playing all night. It’s the only time I’m alone and I’m grateful to have the bed to myself. It’s all too much, this pretending. When I go to the bathroom he knocks on the door and asks if I’m all right. On my fifth day home, Seth gives me my phone back—gives my phone back like I’m a child who needs permission. There are texts from my boss wishing me a speedy recovery and telling me that my shifts have been covered, texts from Lauren before she found out where I was and texts from Anna from four days prior asking when we could chat next. I send a quick text to Anna apologizing for being busy and tell her I’ll call soon.
When I look for the texts from Hannah, I find that they’ve been deleted, along with her number.
“My voice mails are empty,” I say casually. “Did you delete them?”
He looks up from the book he’s reading, a thriller he chose from my collection. He’s not turned a page in five minutes. He shakes his head, his mouth dipping at the corners as he glances up at me. “No.”
That’s it? No? He goes back to “reading” his book, but his eyes aren’t moving. He’s watching me. I set the phone down, humming as I move things around on my little desk, pretending to swipe at the dust. I am a happy wife. I feel safe and secure with my husband here. When he looks at me again, I smile as I straighten a stack of bills, making sure their corners are neat. What are you up to, you fucking bastard?
My fingers itch for my laptop, to search Hannah’s name like I did that first time. It’s been sitting on my desk, charging since the last time I used it. My laptop is password protected, so there’s no way Seth could have guessed my password and wiped everything from there, too.
But the truth is I’m scared. I saw the look in his eyes the day I fell and knocked myself out in the kitchen. And Hannah—he hit Hannah. God, I don’t even know if she’s okay.
I bide my time. On the sixth night, I crush up one of my sleeping pills while I’m heating the soup on the stove. Seth is trying to find us something to watch on TV, since we’ve already worked our way through two seasons of some mindless reality show.
I ladle out the soup and stir the powder into his bowl of minestrone, then add hot sauce—just the way he likes it. We make it through one episode of Friends before he nods off on the couch, his mouth hanging open and his head thrown back as he snores. I say his name—“Seth...” and then, “Seth...?” a little louder. When he doesn’t respond after a hard poke on the arm, I stand up carefully, my heart pounding. The carpet cushions my steps but still they sound like an elephant stampede. What would he do if he caught me? I’ve never gone through his phone before. There were no set rules about privacy other than in regard to the wives. I just never looked through his things and he never looked though mine. That is, until he went through it to delete Hannah’s texts. It is a new age in our marriage.
His phone sits facedown on the coffee table. I try to remember if that is normal, if he’s done this before. But no—his phone is always faceup, open and willingly exposed. A friend in college once told me about her cheating boyfriend, who she caught always putting his phone facedown. I should have known, she’d said. That’s such a clear indicator. But Seth isn’t exactly cheating, is he? He doesn’t want me to see their names pop up on his screen. He’s busy trying to convince me that they don’t exist. I reach for his phone, never taking my eyes from his face. There is a commercial on TV about a woman with crocodile skin, when she uses their lotion she becomes magically smooth. She runs her fingers across her arm and smiles at me convincingly as I type in Seth’s password.
His password has always been the same thing since we met, something horribly predictable I’d seen him type into his phone a hundred times. I’m surprised when his screen lights up and I’m given access to his home screen. Of course he hasn’t changed it—he’s in control of the situation, he’s in control of me. His phone never leaves his side and I am, for the most part, supervised every minute of the day. Or he wants me to see. I go first to his contacts and search Hannah’s and Regina’s names. Nothing comes up, nothing. My husband does not know a single Hannah or Regina. But just a few weeks ago we’d been drinking cider at the market when Regina’s name had popped up on his phone: a call about their dog. I hadn’t imagined that. His text messages are void of anything interesting: my mother, my sister checking on how I am, work, clients, contractors...me. His voice mails are the same and so is his email.
I’ve not moved from the spot where I’m standing, but I’m breathing hard. He’s cleared everything. He wanted me to find this and see...nothing. I set his phone back on the coffee table, careful to position it just the way he had it, then I creep over to my laptop. But it won’t turn on. The power button stays stubbornly dark even when I hold it down. He’s done something to it. I wipe my sweaty palms on my pants; my hands are shaking as I punch at the button one last time. I don’t know if I’m angry or afraid. Why would he do this? Or maybe it wasn’t him. Computers stop working a
ll the time. Two...three...four...it doesn’t turn on. No, I bought this computer just a year ago. It was fine before...before I told my husband that I’d found his other wife, that is.
I find my phone in a rush to text Lo and tell her what’s happened. My thoughts come out in bursts as I glance over my shoulder to see if Seth has stirred in his sleep. I send one text after another until there are dozens of little blue bubbles on my screen. It looks manic and I immediately regret sending them. I delete each one in case Seth looks at my phone, and then wait for her to text me back, for the bubble to appear to acknowledge that she’s seen what I’ve sent, but it doesn’t come.
Seth has hidden my car keys and wallet. It’s just past seven when I grab a change of clothes and dig out the spare car key fob I keep hidden in the junk drawer. I’ll need cash. I bite hard on my lip as I slide the crisp hundred dollar bill from his wallet. He keeps another five hundred in the bread box for emergencies. My walk to the kitchen is a long one, and I agonize over what I’ll do if the money is gone, but when I lift the lid, the first thing I see is the wad of cash, cello-wrapped in the corner and sitting next to one lonely raisin. I stuff an armful of necessitites into a bag and, with Seth still slumbering on the sofa, I head for the door. I freeze when the door chimes, the noise so loud in my own ears I’m convinced it has woken everyone in the building. My body tenses; Seth’s hands would be on me at any moment, pulling me back. I whip my head around to see how close he is, ready to sprint away before he gets a grip, but when my eyes search the room, I see him still slumped across the sofa in sleep.
I don’t really know how long I’ll be gone. If I run out of cash I could call Anna, ask her for some money, but she’d insist on coming out here and then I’d have to explain everything. No...think...there has to be another way. And then it comes to me. I head to the elevator, my stomach in my throat. What if he woke up? What would he do to stop me? If he tried to restrain me, would I be able to get away? I could scream, and perhaps a neighbor would come to help. I jab at the elevator button, imagining every terrible thing that could go wrong. Hurry, hurry... It will take him a bit to figure out where I’m going. He’ll check with my mother and Anna first, perhaps the hospital to see if anyone’s heard from me. That will buy me a few hours. As a last resort, he’ll assume I went to see Hannah, but by that time I’ll already be there. As the elevator jars to life, it occurs to me that Seth may have placed a tracking device on my phone. I wouldn’t put it past him, would I? There are apps for that. Phone locators. I hold the phone in my palm and stare down at it. Seth is a planner, Seth leaves no corner unswept. When the doors open, I hesitate only for a moment before I drop it on the floor of the elevator and step out.
TWENTY-FIVE
There are new planters in front of the house, great big ceramic things that look like they weigh a hundred pounds each. I wonder if Seth hauled them from the car to the path, positioned them for her as she stood a few feet away, calling out instructions. A happy family. She’s planted bright orange and yellow calendulas in them. They sit neatly in the soil, new to the neighborhood and still tame in their growth.
I wonder what else has changed, if she’ll be showing when she opens the door, holding her stomach while she talks to me. I had a habit of doing that even before I was showing, always conscientious of the life growing inside of me. I make my way past the planters and up the path that leads to the front door. I can hear the TV on inside, a show with a laugh track. Good, that means she’s home.
I pause before ringing the bell. I left the house in a hurry and failed to even smooth my hair in the car before rushing out. Oh, well. Too late now. I ring the bell and stand back. A minute later, I hear footsteps and then the click of the lock. The door suctions open and the smell of cinnamon tangles with the night air.
Hannah is standing barefoot in the doorway looking very different than the last time I saw her. She’s wearing pajama pants and a tank top, her hair pulled back in a low ponytail. I’m relieved to see her, and she looks well. Her eyebrows pull up when she sees me, her head tilting ever so slightly to the side. Why that face? I think. But then I’m suddenly self-conscious about my clothes, my hair. I probably look as unhinged as I feel. Hannah—ever so shiny and put together, like a beautiful china piece.
“I—You left a message—I didn’t know if you were okay. You look great!” and then when she stares at me oddly, I add, “I haven’t had my phone...”
My voice catches in my throat. Something isn’t right. Hannah’s face is polite, but stony. The only indication that she’s heard me is the slight widening of her eyes, the whites flashing before her lids drop, sleepy and low, once again.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m not sure I understand. Who are you here for?”
“You...” I say softly. “I’m here for you.” My voice is a wisp, unsure and quickly evaporated. I right my face, trying to look certain.
She lifts a hand and touches it lightly to the spot below her collarbone. She’s confused, blinking hard. “I don’t know you,” she says. “Do you have the wrong house?” She looks past me to the street, as if to see if anyone is waiting for me, or if I am alone. “What house number are you looking for? I know most of the people on this street,” she asks helpfully.
My mouth opens and closes and I feel a rush of cold prickling my skin from my neck to my heels. My breathing spikes and my eyelids grow warm.
“Hannah...?” I try one last time.
She shakes her head. “I’m sorry...” Her voice is firmer now; she wants to get back to her laugh track show.
“I—” I look around, up the street and down. There’s no one outside, just the neat exteriors of the houses, windows lit by warm, yellow light. I feel locked out, isolated inside of myself. The warm, yellow light is not for me, it’s for other people. I take a step back.
“It’s me, Thursday,” I say. “We’re both... I’m married to Seth, too.”
Her eyebrows draw together and she glances behind her into the house.
“I’m sorry, I think there’s been a mistake. Let me get my husband, maybe he can help you...”
She’s turning around, calling to someone inside. That’s when I notice then that her hair isn’t tied back in a low ponytail like I thought; rather, it’s cropped short—a pixie cut.
“Your hair,” I say. “Did you cut it recently?” I notice her belly, too, the flatness. I almost lift a hand to my own in confusion.
She looks afraid now, her eyes darting around for help. She lifts a hand to touch it, right at the nape of her neck.
“I hope you find who you’re looking for,” she says, and then shuts the door in my face. The smell of cinnamon is cut off and I’m left with the smell of damp earth and rotting leaves.
I stumble back, turning around halfway down the path and running across the street to my parked car. As I fumble with the door, I turn back to look at the house, and see a shift of the drapes on the second floor, like someone is peeking out. Her—Hannah. But why is she claiming not to know me? What is happening? I climb into the car and rest my forehead against the steering wheel, my breath hissing from my lips in soundless heaves. This is crazy, I feel crazy. The thought is so uncomfortable that I quickly turn the car on and drive away from the house. I’m afraid she will call the police. How would I explain?
After pulling up an address on my car’s GPS, I head for the freeway. Seth would check the larger hotels first—the hotels with robes and a minibar. He’d never consider anything else because he married a woman who prefers the finer things in life.
My head is aching and I realize I have nothing to ease it with; my travel tube of aspirin is in the purse Seth hid. For the first time in days my thoughts are sharp and clear—my headache is probably a result of my body coming down from the drugs I only pretended to take the last few days. I think of the orange bottles next to the kettle, the bitter taste of them as they melted to paste on my tongue. They were supposed
to help, but they made me feel crazy, suffocating my thoughts, making me unsure of myself. Had that been what Seth wanted? To make me doubt myself and trust him instead?
Ten minutes later, the car’s GPS takes me down a long dirt road. It’s dark, but I know that to my left and through a heavy copse of trees is a lake. In the daytime, the lake is dotted with Jet Skis and paddleboarders—a weekend spot for college students and families. The road ends and I put the car in Park. The house in front of me is dark, large windows looming like hollow eyes. I grab my bag from the passenger seat and step out of the car. Please, God, let this work, I think as I head for the house. The house is two stories, surrounded by woods and down a long winding driveway. It’s a boxy design that was popular in the sixties. There is still construction equipment lying about and I have to sidestep a large metal pipe when I get out of the car. I make my way across the curved driveway, my shoes crunching on the gravel. The lockbox hangs from the front door and I kneel in front of it, wishing I’d thought to bring a flashlight. The code is the same for all of Seth’s houses; he’d told me that once when we were dating and he’d taken me to see a house he was building in Seattle. We’d wandered around the ten-thousand-square-foot mansion—me oohing and ahhing at everything inside—and then we’d had sex on the island in the kitchen.
I type the numbers into the lockbox, praying Seth hasn’t changed the code. It opens with a satisfying click and I shake the key into my hand. I slide it into the keyhole, the door opens and I step inside. I stare around, feeling a deep sense of accomplishment. I’m hiding in plain sight. The air smells like cigarettes and damp towels, so I breathe through my mouth as I walk slowly into the house, my eyes darting around. The Cottonmouth house: source of endless headaches. It’s on 66 Cottonmouth Road, which is why Seth nicknamed it the snake house. Four months ago, the owner of the house had a stroke and was hospitalized. His son, not knowing what the fate of his father would be and unwilling to foot the bill himself, put the project on hold indefinitely. Seth has been frustrated by the whole ordeal and has complained about it often, which is why I have all the details memorized. I open the drapes, letting dull yellow moonlight stream into the small entry space. The carpet is overworked, a once royal blue now faded to a patchy denim. It’s rolled up in places where the contractors had started work on the floors. I gaze out of the window and up at the night sky. If the sun were out, the sky would be a goose gray, the clouds oppressively heavy. Time—this place has had so much time to crack, curl and fade. I walk over to the tiny entryway bathroom and risk turning on the light. I squat as I pee, scrunching my nose at the stale smell coming from the drain. There are rust stains in the outdated sink and a grating noise when I turn the tap off. When I lift my eyes to the mirror, I see pale, washed-out skin, dark moons in the scoops beneath my eyes. No wonder Hannah had looked so alarmed when she opened the door.
The Wives Page 18