The Wives

by Tarryn Fisher

  After the locksmith changed both locks on the front door, I walked downtown, my shiny new keys in my pocket, to replace my phone and computer. Since I’d been gone for five days, the week ahead held appointments and phone calls. I needed to be able to check my emails and voice messages, my little burner phone useless except to make calls and send texts. As I waited to cross the street, the same street where I’d bumped into Lauren what seemed like a lifetime ago, I watched the faces of the people around me. When you removed yourself from your own thoughts and stopped to look at people—really look at them—you saw something surprising. Each of them—from the businessmen, phones pressed to their ears, loafers sidestepping puddles, to the tourists who lingered on street corners wondering which direction to walk—held a certain vulnerability about them. Did their parents love them? Did a man—a woman? And if the person who loved them left, how immense would their pain be? We busy ourselves trying not to be lonely, trying to find purpose in careers, and lovers, and children, but at any moment, those things we work so hard to possess could be taken from us. I feel better knowing I’m not alone, that the whole world is as fragile and lonely as I am.

  With the lock and alarm code changed and the gun sitting on my nightstand, I manage to sleep that first night. But not without bad dreams.

  * * *

  Seth has not tried to contact me, though on the Monday after my return home, Regina calls my burner phone, which I’ve left on the charger, forgotten in the corner of my bedroom. At first, the noise startles me, the unfamiliar tinkling of the ringer. When I see it’s her number I pick up right away, pressing the phone to my ear and using my free hand to block out the noise of the TV.

  “Hello... Thursday?”

  “Yes,” I say.

  “I found her. I know where he has Hannah.”

  I leave for Portland an hour later. The only things I take are my cell phone and the gun, which I drop into my purse right before walking out the door. I have to hurry. I replay Regina’s words over and over in my head.

  That day in the diner, Regina had told me a story of manipulation and abuse. Not the obvious kind; it was the type she didn’t see coming. She’d married the charming and lively Seth, and their first year together had been magical. But soon after they moved to Seattle, he’d changed. She described him as sullen and moody. Most nights he’d not come to bed at all, and in the morning she’d get up and find him where she’d left him the night before: sitting in front of the TV with glassy eyes. He refused to bathe and only ate once a day. It began to scare her and she encouraged him to get help. Seth told her he was struggling with depression and promised that things would get better soon. He started working with Alex, building the company, and things did seem to get better for a while.

  It was by accident that she saw the emails from his father. Seth had forgotten to close out the window and when Regina sat down at the computer she was able to see them all. She said the emails were sent before Seth’s father had killed his wife and then himself. The emails were convoluted. His father raved about conspiracies the government had to kill him and his wives and take his children. He suspected Seth’s mother of slipping medication into his food to make him tired and foggy. The very last email he’d sent Seth was the day before he died, where he’d outlined his plan to kill his wife and then himself. It would only be the two of them—he would spare his other wives. Regina had searched Seth’s in-box for his replies, sure he’d tried to talk his father down, convince him to get help, but there was nothing of the sort. She’d confronted Seth about it and he’d gotten angry. It was the only time I’d seen Regina show any emotion other than her hard coldness. Her eyes had filled with tears as she told me how he’d smashed everything around him: vases, plates, he’d even tossed the television onto the floor. He accused her of snooping where she didn’t belong. Then he’d threatened her. Grabbing her by the neck, he’d pushed her up against a wall until Regina had screamed out that she was pregnant.

  Seth had dropped his hands immediately and smiled like the last ten minutes hadn’t happened. And then he’d cried. Wrapping his arms around her waist, he’d sobbed uncontrollably, saying that he was sorry, and that talking about his parents’ deaths had triggered something in him. As Regina stood numbly with his arms wrapped around her waist, Seth had promised to get help, saying things would change. They’d moved on from there and for the first months of her pregnancy, everything had been perfect: Seth, the doting father-to-be. She’d almost forgotten about the incident. And then, suddenly, she’d miscarried at twenty-one weeks along. She’d had a bump, and she’d already felt the baby move. She had to give birth to it—a girl. Seth had acted devastated, promising they could try again. But Regina refused. Frightened of experiencing the same thing, she got on birth control—the kind they insert into your arm—and focused on her career instead. He’d pleaded with her take it out and when she refused, they’d grown apart. Eventually, Seth suggested a plural marriage, because he wanted children. When Regina said no, he’d asked for a divorce and she’d given it to him, though he didn’t stop coming around. He was paying half of her bills, as that had been the agreement when she’d given him the divorce. So when he came to Portland for work, he stayed at their old house, first in the guest room, and then back in their bed. I’d almost seen shame on her face when she told me they’d still have sex when he visited, even though he was married to another woman. She told me that she’d never known about Hannah, and I believed her.

  “The week before my miscarriage, he’d started making me tea,” she’d said. “I thought it was strange because he’d never been one to do much in the kitchen. He didn’t even make coffee in the mornings, and then all of a sudden, he’s boiling water and seeping leaves like an expert. It didn’t occur to me until you mentioned it.”

  “It could be a coincidence,” I’d said.

  Regina had shaken her head. “He was the oldest of his siblings, and he resented them. Thought they took attention away from him. He told me that he hated having to share space with a bunch of toddlers...”

  “What are you saying?”

  She’d just stared at me like she expected me to get it and then she’d finally said, “I think he’s going to do the same thing to this other girl, Hannah. We have to stop him. I need a few days to find out where she is.”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Regina sends me an address in the Pearl District and I punch it into my phone as I wait at the light to turn onto 5. I can feel my heart beating; it feels like it’s lodged in my throat. I try to quell the panic rising in my chest. I have to hurry. I have to help Hannah. I’d only ever been to the Pearl District in passing, driving through what was once the warehouse district, now known for its art galleries and upscale residences. Seth and I had eaten lunch there at a restaurant that sat on the Willamette River, sucking oysters from their shells, and then held hands as we walked back to our car. It was a perfect day. Not long after, I’d found out I was pregnant, and wondered if our baby had been conceived that night under the crisp hotel sheets.

  I make a few necessary calls as I drive, my voice calm despite the level of mania I’m feeling on the inside. I’d tried calling Regina after she sent the text, but my call had gone straight to voice mail. She will be there, I tell myself. We’re working as a team. Something lingers in the back of my mind but I push it away. She’s all I have and I’m going to have to trust her. I’m jittery through the drive, leaning forward in my seat and talking to the cars that get in my way. Was Hannah all right or was Seth keeping her prisoner? Will she be relieved to see me or act like she doesn’t know who I am?

  It’s all so unsettling, the type of wandering thoughts that could make you question your own sanity. I’ve certainly done enough of that in the last weeks. I push down on the accelerator and my car lurches forward, almost rear-ending a truck. I ride his bumper until he moves out of the fast lane. He gives me the finger as I speed by, yelling something into the wind. I ignore him an
d move on to the next car, almost slamming into the back of it, too. This continues for several miles until I see the flashing red and blue lights in my rearview mirror; the brief shrill of the siren sounds behind me, and I’m forced to move over two lanes to reach the shoulder. I wait for the officer to walk up to my window, my stomach clenching in knots.

  “Ma’am, license and registration, please.”

  I’m ready. I pass them through the window, willing him to look into my eyes. He does, though I can’t see his hidden behind reflective glasses—the type you see the police wear in movies. He disappears back to his cruiser, my paper held in his hand. After a few minutes he comes back.

  “Do you know why I pulled you over?”

  “I was speeding,” I say without hesitation.

  His face doesn’t betray anything; he stares from behind his glasses, stony and expectant.

  “I’m late. My fault, I totally deserve a ticket.”

  Still nothing. I tap my finger on the wheel, wishing he’d hurry up and get on with things. He hands me my papers.

  “Be more careful next time.”

  That’s all? I look at his badge: Officer Morales.

  “Um...thank you,” I say.

  “You’re all set,” he says. “Have a good one.”

  It takes me ten minutes to merge back onto the highway, my heart still ringing in my chest. But once I am on my way I almost feel good—better than I had before. I ease up on the gas and follow behind a semi, keeping to the speed limit this time.

  * * *

  I cross the bridge into the city just as the sun is making its descent. Warm orange light illuminates the buildings, and for a moment, I get the impression that it’s summer—a long time from now. This is all sorted out, a big misunderstanding, and my life is back to normal. The feeling is so powerful that I have to fight it back, push it away. A woman’s greatest foe is sometimes her hope that she’s imagined it all. That she herself is crazy rather than the circumstances of her life. Funny the emotional responsibility a woman is willing to take on just to maintain an illusion. I think about what it feels like outside: the air cold enough to show my breath. My life a twisted, frightening mess of deceit, my mind easily beguiled...that’s my lesson as of late: things are not always what they seem. I shake off the last of the feeling, my resolve returning as I drive off the bridge and turn into the bustle of downtown Portland. Seth and his little harem. I’d checked my bank account before I left and found a pattern of cash withdrawals: two a week for the past six months. How had I not noticed before? Seth was syphoning money from my account to pay Regina back. I wonder if she knows where he’s getting the money from, if it would have made a difference? He is going to answer for all of it. I push down on the gas pedal.

  My GPS directs me to a building that is still under construction. Condominiums, four floors of them, brand new; there are signs along the street advertising their prices. Visit Our Sales Office! The west side is inhabited, while scaffolding still hangs on to the east side, plastic sheets covering the empty units that have yet to get their walls. I park and hesitantly step out. How could Seth afford this for Hannah while Regina lives in that dump? He was still trying to impress Hannah, I think. He’d have made a way to give his pregnant wife security. I call Regina as I stand next to my car, but it goes straight to her voice mail. I leave a message, my voice shaking.

  “Regina... I’m here at Hannah’s... I was hoping you’d be here... I’m going in. I just... I have to stop what’s happening...” I hang up before I start to cry.

  The doors into the building don’t require a card for entry like mine does. The whole process of getting to Hannah’s floor is relatively easy due to the lax rules surrounding the construction. I look at a laminated map of the building taped to the lobby wall and find that her unit is located on the second floor. As the elevator climbs upward, I reach behind me, lightly touching the cold metal of the 9mm. I’d moved it from my purse to the waistband of my pants before I got out of the car.

  I have no idea what Seth’s state of mind is, how he’ll react to me being here. He’s sick, a sort of serial baby abortionist, ending his own children’s lives by endangering the lives of his multiple wives. God, what is wrong with me, getting caught up in all of this? What I do remember is the look on his face that afternoon I attacked him, the cruel coldness I saw right before I blacked out. And blacked out is too general of a description. I am sure he wrestled me to the ground, slammed my head against the kitchen floor, but my memory is shifty.

  My heart is racing as I step off the elevator and onto Hannah’s floor. Will Seth be with her or will she be alone? Her door is the farthest from the elevator. Will anyone hear me if something goes wrong? I pause halfway down the hallway, placing my hand on the wall, as I take a few deep breaths. Then I surge forward, walking faster than I normally would.

  “Let’s get this over with,” I say quietly to myself. Then I’m in front of her door, palms sweating. I lift my hand and knock. My fist makes a loud whamp-whamp noise that echoes down the long hallway. The smell of fresh paint and newly laid carpet fills my nose as I glance behind me to see if any of the other doors will open. I hear a latch click and then the door swings wide. I’ve caught her by surprise. Hannah stands in the doorway with her mouth slightly ajar, a dish towel hanging limply from her hand.

  “I need to talk to you,” I say before she can say anything. “It’s very important...” When she doesn’t look convinced, I add, “It’s about Seth.”

  Her lips press together and her forehead creases as she considers me. Her pretty face is twisted in worry as she glances into the apartment behind her and for the first time it hits me how young Hannah is. She’s just a baby, I think. The same age as I was when I started nursing school. I’d fallen for Seth then, too, trusted him wholeheartedly. What would I have done if Regina had shown up at my home saying the same thing? It takes her a minute to decide what to do. I force myself not to look at her belly, to keep my eyes locked on her face. I don’t want to know, do I? What if I’m too late? I wouldn’t be able to live with myself.

  She turns into the apartment, leaving the door open. I take that as my cue that I’m being permitted entry. Hannah walks over to the living room where the couch I’d seen in her former house sits. She crosses her arms over her chest as she stares at me. She looks uncomfortable. I close the door gently behind me and take a few steps toward her. There are boxes stacked against walls, unpacked and unmarked. She moved in a hurry. Through the bedroom door I can see an unmade bed, sheets heaped into a pile. I look for Seth, as is my habit: a pair of shoes, or the water glass he always sets on the bedside table. But I don’t know his habits here, with Hannah, and for all I know, they could be very different from the ones I am familiar with. I move closer to her and she looks up, startled.

  “How are you feeling?” I ask gently.

  Her hand automatically moves to cup her belly. I remember that gesture so well, always conscious of the life your body was nurturing. Something loosens in my chest: relief. She’s still pregnant.

  “You told me he hit you, Hannah,” I say. “Was that true?”

  “No, you told me he hit me, Thursday,” she says. “I tried to tell you it wasn’t true and you wouldn’t hear me.”

  “That’s not true,” I say. “I saw the bruises...”

  Hannah looks stricken. She glances around the room like she’s looking for an escape.

  “He was angry that I found you and that I came to see you,” I say. “When I got home after the last time you and I saw each other, I confronted him about you.”

  Her eyes go wide but her lips stay stubbornly closed, like she’s afraid to say a word about it.

  “We fought, it turned physical and the next thing I knew I was in the hospital.”

  Hannah shakes her head like she can’t believe it.

  “You know something is wrong with him. How he was raised...the way h
e’s asked us to live...”

  “Asked us to live?” she asks. “What are you talking about?”

  There is the sound of a key in a lock and the front door swings open. My throat closes up and suddenly I feel like I can barely breathe in this tiny apartment. I claw at my neck. I don’t know what I’m hoping to find there, a necklace, perhaps, something to hold on to and distract myself.

  Seth walks through the door, plastic bags hooked on all his fingers. At first he doesn’t see me. He walks toward Hannah, a relaxed smile on his face, and leans down to kiss her.

  “I got the canned type of pears you like,” he says, and then he stops abruptly when he sees the expression on her face. “What is it, Han?”

  Her head swivels in my direction and Seth follows her gaze to where I’m standing. The look on his face is incredulous, like he can’t believe I found them here. He sets the bags down and a can of pears rolls out and across the floor.

  Hannah’s pixie face is ashen, her lips a floury white as she stares between us.

  “I’m here for Hannah,” I say. “To warn her about you.”

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Seth marches over to where I’m standing and grabs me by the arm before I can move away. The surprise he wore on his face just a moment ago is gone, replaced by something else. I’m afraid to look too carefully, so I keep my eyes on Hannah as he steers me toward the couch. He shoves me down and my knees buckle as I fall into the love seat. It’s soft, the cushions wide and plush, and I sink into them. And then I’m struggling to straighten up, feeling clumsy and stupid. I grapple awkwardly with my body until I’m perched on the edge, pressing my knees together, ready to spring to my feet again. Hannah won’t look at me. Her eyes are downcast as she stands near Seth. I wonder what he’s told her, who she thinks I am.

  “How did you find us?” he asks.