The Other Mrs (ARC)

by Mary Kubica

  or Imogen had picked up a habit of cutting, save for the amount

  of blood on the washcloth. Not merely a dab or a trace, but the

  washcloth has been wet through with it and allowed to dry.

  I turn it over in my hand. The blood has seeped to both sides.

  I let the washcloth fall from my hand.

  My heart is in my throat. I feel like I can’t breathe. I’ve had

  the wind knocked out of me.

  As I rise quickly to stand upright, gravity forces all the blood

  in me down to my trunk. There it pools, unable to make its

  way back up to my brain. I become dizzy. Everything before

  me begins to blur. Black specks dance before my eyes. I set my

  hand on the wall to balance myself before lowering slowly to

  the ground. There I sit beside the bloodstained washcloth, see-

  ing only it, not touching it now because of all the DNA evi-

  dence that must be on that rag.

  Morgan’s blood, her murderer’s fingerprints. And now mine.

  I don’t know how this bloody washcloth came to be inside

  our home. But someone put it here. The options are few.

  I lose track of time. I sit on the laundry room floor long

  enough that I hear the sound of footsteps galloping around the

  house. Light, quick footsteps that belong to Tate, followed by

  heavier ones: Will.

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  I should be in the shower by now. I should be getting ready

  for work. Will calls out quietly for me, having noticed that I

  wasn’t in bed. “Sadie?”

  “Coming,” I call breathlessly back, wanting to show Will the

  washcloth, but unable to when Tate is there in the kitchen with

  him. I hear Tate’s voice asking for French toast. The washcloth

  will have to wait. I hide it for now in the laundry room, laying

  it flat beneath the washing machine where no one will find it.

  It’s stiff with blood and easily slides under.

  I rise from the floor reluctantly and creep back into the

  kitchen, overcome with the urge to vomit. There is a killer liv-

  ing in my home with me.

  “Where’ve you been?” Will asks at seeing me, and all I can

  tell him is, “Laundry.” It comes out in one forced breath and

  then again, the black specks appear, dancing before my eyes.

  “Why?” he asks, and I tell him there was so much.

  “You didn’t need to do that. I would have done it,” he says,

  reaching into the refrigerator for the milk and eggs. I know he

  would have done the laundry eventually. He always does.

  “I was trying to help,” I say.

  “You don’t look good,” he tells me as my hand holds tightly

  to the crown molding of the door so that I don’t fall. I want so

  much to tell him about the blood-soaked washcloth that some-

  one left in the laundry basket. But I don’t because of Tate.

  I hear Tate, beside him, ask, “What’s wrong with Mommy?”

  “I don’t feel good. Stomach flu,” I force out. Will comes to

  me, presses a hand to my forehead. I’m not running a fever. But

  I feel hot and clammy nonetheless. “I need to go lie down,” I

  say, clutching my stomach as I leave. On the way upstairs, the

  bile inside me begins to rise and I find myself rushing to the

  bathroom.

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  Mouse

  Mouse froze. She waited for the sound of the bedroom door to

  open on the first floor, for Fake Mom to come for her. Mouse

  was scared, though it wasn’t Mouse’s fault she’d made noise. It’s

  not like a person can stop themselves from sneezing.

  Her legs shook in fear, her teeth began to chatter, though

  Mouse wasn’t cold.

  How long she waited there on the stairs, Mouse didn’t know.

  She counted to nearly three hundred in her head, except she lost

  count twice and had to start all over again.

  When Fake Mom didn’t come, Mouse thought maybe she

  hadn’t heard her. Maybe Fake Mom had slept right though that

  sneeze. She didn’t know how that was possible—the sneeze had

  been loud—but Mouse thanked her lucky stars if she had.

  She continued on to her bedroom and climbed into bed.

  There, in her bed, she talked to her real mom, same as she al-

  ways did. She told her what Fake Mom had done, how she had

  hurt Mouse and Mr. Bear. She told her real mom how she was

  scared and how she wanted her father to come home. She said it

  in her head. Mouse’s father always told her that she could talk to

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  her real mom whenever she wanted to. He told her that wher-

  ever she was, her mom was listening. And so Mouse did. She

  talked to her all the time.

  Though sometimes Mouse took it a step farther than that and

  imagined what her real mom said back. Sometimes she imag-

  ined her real mom was in the very same room as her and they

  were having a conversation, like the kind of conversations Mouse

  had with her father, the kind where he talked back. But that

  was only pretend. Because there was no way to know what her

  mother said back, but it made Mouse feel less alone.

  For awhile Mouse felt satisfied knowing her stomach had food,

  though three butter cookies was hardly the same thing as din-

  ner. Mouse knew those cookies wouldn’t hold her off for long.

  But for now, at least, she was content.

  For now, she could sleep.

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  Sadie

  “How are you feeling?” Will leans over me and asks.

  “Not good,” I tell him, still tasting vomit in my mouth.

  He tells me to sleep in, that he’ll call me in sick to work, and

  drive the boys to school. He sits on the edge of the bed, stroking

  my hair, and I want to tell him about the washcloth. But I can’t

  say anything to Will when the kids are just down the hall get-

  ting ready for school. Through our open door, I see them move

  in and out of the bedrooms, the bathroom.

  But then a moment comes when they’re all in their bedrooms,

  out of earshot, and I think that I’ll come right out and say it.

  “Will,” I say, the words on my lips, but then, just like that, Tate comes scampering into the bedroom, asking Will to help him

  find his favorite socks. Will grabs him by the hand, catches him

  before he has a chance to jump on the bed.

  “What?” Will asks, turning toward me.

  I shake my head, tell him, “Never mind.”

  “You sure?” he asks.

  “Yes,” I say.

  Together Will and Tate go to leave, to head to Tate’s bedroom

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  in search of the missing socks. Will glances over his shoulder

  as he leaves, tells me to sleep as long as I can. He pulls the door closed behind himself.

  I’ll tell Will later.

  I hear Will, Otto, Tate and Imogen movi
ng about in the

  house. From upstairs I hear ordinary, everyday conversations

  ensue about ham-and-cheese sandwiches and history tests. Their

  words come to me through the floor vents. Tate tosses out a rid-

  dle and by God, it’s Imogen who answers it, Imogen who knows

  that in the one-story blue house where everything is blue—blue

  walls, blue floor, blue desk and chairs—the stairs are not blue

  because there are no stairs.

  “How did you know?” Tate asks her.

  “I just knew.”

  “That’s a good one, Tater Tot,” Will declares, his nickname

  for Tate, as he tells him to find his backpack before they’re late

  for school.

  The wind outside is ferocious. It flogs the clapboard siding,

  threatening to tear it right off the house. It’s cold in the house

  now, the kind of cold that gets under the skin. I can’t warm up.

  “Let’s get going, guys,” Will calls, and, I rise from the bed

  and stand at the door, listening as Tate noses around the coat

  closet for his hat and boots. I hear Imogen’s voice in the foyer

  with them. She is riding along to the ferry with them, and I

  don’t know why. Maybe it’s only the weather’s doing, but I can’t

  help but notice the irony of it. She’ll let Will drive her to the

  ferry, but not me.

  Suddenly all I hear is feet, like the rush of animals, before

  the front door opens and then closes again, and the house is

  nearly still. The only sounds are the whistling of the furnace,

  the rush of water through pipes, the wind scourging the out-

  side of our home.

  It’s only after they’re gone that I rise from bed and leave the

  room. I’ve only just stepped into the hallway when something

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  THE OTHER MRS.

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  catches my eye. Two things actually, though it’s the doll’s mar-

  ble-like eyes that get my attention first. It’s the same doll of

  Tate’s that I found in the foyer the other day, the one he carried

  roughly to his room at Will’s request.

  She’s perched at the edge of the hallway where the wooden

  floor meets the wall. She sits nicely on her bum, wearing floral

  leggings and a knit print. Her frizzy hair lies over her shoulders

  in two neat braids, hands set in her lap. Someone has found her

  missing shoe.

  Beside the doll’s feet is a pencil and paper. I go to it, reach-

  ing for the scrap of paper.

  I brace myself, knowing what it is before I look. I turn the

  paper over in my hand, seeing exactly what I expected to see

  on the other side. The same crying, dismembered body as on

  the drawings I found in the attic. Beside the dismembered body,

  an angry woman clutches a knife. Charcoal blobs fill in the ex-

  cess white space, tears or blood, though I don’t know which.

  Maybe both.

  I wonder if these were here early this morning when I carried

  the laundry down. But it was dark then, I wouldn’t have seen

  if they were. And on the way back up, I was nauseous, running

  to the toilet, barely getting there in time. I wouldn’t have no-

  ticed them then either.

  I wonder if Will saw these things before he left. But the doll

  he’ll have assumed was Tate’s and the drawings were upside

  down. He wouldn’t have seen the content.

  These things terrify me, because I think that if they do be-

  long to Otto, he is regressing. It’s a defense mechanism, a way

  to cope. Taking on childish behavior to avoid facing a problem

  head on. My own therapist used to say this about me, telling me

  I acted like a child at times when I didn’t want to tackle adult

  issues in my life. Perhaps Otto is doing the very same thing. But

  why? On the surface he seems happy enough. But he’s the quiet

  type; I never know what’s going on inside his mind.

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  I think back on that therapist of mine. I was never very fond

  of her. I didn’t like the way she made me feel silly and small, the way she denigrated me when I expressed my feelings. It wasn’t

  just that. She also confused me with other patients.

  Once I sank down into her leather swivel armchair and crossed

  my legs, took a sip of the water she always left on the table for

  me. She asked what had been happening lately, in that way she

  always did. Tell me what’s been happening. Before I could reply, she began to counsel me on how to sever ties with some married man I was seeing though I wasn’t seeing a married man. I

  was married already. To Will.

  I blanched in embarrassment for her other client, the one

  whose secrets she’d just shared.

  There is no married man, I explained.

  She asked, No? You broke it off already?

  There was never a married man.

  I stopped seeing her soon after.

  Otto had a therapist back in Chicago. We swore we’d pick

  up the therapy when we moved to Maine. We never did. But I

  think it’s time we do.

  I step past the doll. I go downstairs. I take the drawing with

  me.

  A plate of French toast sits on the kitchen counter. That and

  a pot of coffee, keeping hot on the coffee maker’s warming

  plate. I help myself to the coffee but I can’t bring myself to eat

  a thing. As I lift the mug to my lips, my hands tremble, casting

  waves across the coffee.

  Beside the plate of French toast is a note. Feel better, it reads, with Will’s signature closing, the ever-present Xo. He’s set my pills out for me. I leave them where they are, not wanting to

  take them until I’ve gotten some food inside of me.

  Out the kitchen window, I see the dogs. Will must have let

  them outside before he left, which is fine. They’re snow dogs—

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  huskies—in their element in weather like this. It’d be nearly

  impossible to get them back in before they’re ready to come.

  In the backyard, the wind beats through the naked trees,

  making their limbs bend. It’s snowing, a heavy snow. I hadn’t

  expected so much. I’m surprised that school wasn’t canceled

  today. But I’m also grateful for it because I need this time alone.

  The snow doesn’t fall vertically, because of the wind. It falls

  sideways instead, with abandon, forging snow drifts across the

  yard. The sill of the kitchen window begins to collect with snow,

  burying me alive inside. I feel the weight of it on my chest. It’s

  harder to breathe.

  I take a careful sip of the coffee, noticing that the pendant

  necklace I left on the counter early this morning is gone. I search the floor, behind the canisters, the junk drawer where we keep

  random things. The necklace is nowhere. Someone has taken

  it. I picture it lying there how I left it, the dainty chain coiled into a mound with the M on top.

  The fact that it’s now missing only adds to my suspicion. This

  morning while I lay in bed, the four o
f them—Will, Otto, Tate

  and Imogen—were in the kitchen together. It would have been

  so easy for Imogen to slip that necklace from the countertop

  when no one was looking. I consider the threatening notes Mor-

  gan received. Would Imogen have sent those? Why, I wonder

  at first, and then just as quickly: Why not? I think of the way

  Imogen treats me. The way she scares me. If she could do this

  to me, she could just as easily do it to Morgan.

  I leave the drawing where it is and carry my coffee to the

  laundry room. There I see that this morning, after I went back

  to bed, Will finished the laundry for me. The piles of clothes

  I left are gone. They’ve been replaced instead with an empty

  laundry basket and a clean tile floor.

  I drop to my hands and knees beside the washing machine,

  looking beneath, grateful to find the bloodstained washcloth still

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  time. All the emotions come rushing back to me, and I know

  that I have to tell Will about this.

  I leave the washcloth where it is. I go back to the kitchen to

  wait. I sit at the table. Otto’s drawing sits six feet away, the eyes of the decapitated head staring at me. I can’t stand to look at it.

  I wait until nearly nine o’clock to call Will, knowing that by

  then he’ll have taken Tate to school. He’ll have dropped him off.

  He will be alone by now and we’ll be able to speak in private.

  When Will answers, he’s on the ferry, heading to campus.

  He asks how I’m feeling as he answers the call. I tell him,

  “Not good.” I hear the sound of the wind whipping around

  him, gusting into the handset. He’s outside, standing on the

  outer deck of the ferry getting peppered with snow. Will could

  be inside in the nicely heated cabin, but he isn’t. Instead he’s

  relinquished his seat indoors for someone else, and I think that

  this is so classic Will, to be selfless.

  “We need to talk, Will,” I say, and though he tells me that

  it’s loud on the ferry, that this isn’t the best time, I say it again.

  “We need to talk.”

  “Can I call when I get to campus?” he asks. Will talks loudly

  through the phone, trying to counter the noise of the wind.

  I say no. I tell him this is important. That this can’t wait.