The Starter Wife

by Nina Laurin

  I concluded that her near-compulsory normalcy was, in fact, Emily’s version of rebellion against this unconventional childhood. I can picture her, awkward teenager (in my mind’s eye, she always has poufy bangs, even though in pictures her hair is relatively sleek by eighties’ standards) embarrassed to invite her preppy, pretty friends to her house because she doesn’t want them to see how she lives.

  Fast-forward to present day: Emily is a psychologist with an office in Columbus, married to Andrew, who’s a notary, and mom to Mark, age nineteen, whom I met only once at my wedding. Shortly after, he left for college, at the other end of the country somewhere, prestigious, although not an Ivy—I get the feeling the main criterion was for it to be as far as humanly possible from Emily and home.

  Not that I dislike her, because disliking someone requires a certain amount of mental labor, passion, and intensity. And she’s never done anything to me to warrant all the effort. It’s impossible to tell what she’s thinking when you look at her—or whether she’s thinking anything at all.

  Apart from her husband, Andrew, only Byron knows what’s under the façade. He talks to Emily on the phone every other day, and not just a quick call to ascertain everything is still as placid in her life as it was two days earlier and two days before that. Real conversations: Byron tells her about work, laughing with her about the lengths to which lazy students will go to avoid doing the assignments and about the petty rivalries between other professors. Stuff he stopped telling me about months ago, and when I try to ask, he just shrugs.

  The evening progresses. The red wine Byron brought turns out to be quite good. Emily praises my pasta, and I accept the compliment graciously. Andrew chimes in politely; Byron takes a swig of wine and declares, I always said she was a phenomenal cook. She can make a feast out of thin air.

  I sip from my glass, doing my best to pace myself even though the pinot noir is like velvet on the tongue, none of the tannin-laced bitterness I usually hate about red wines. It doesn’t seem to be working: I feel myself getting tipsier with every tiny sip. I gulp greedily from my water glass, refill it, drain it again. The water carafe is empty so I get up and take it to the kitchen to refill it from the filter.

  The kitchen is spinning gently. I set the carafe down with a clang, lean on the counter, and let myself rest. After the din of cutlery and conversation, my ears ring with the silence, and I realize I’m even more drunk than I thought. When I close my eyes, everything sways, nothing gentle about it anymore. My eyes snap open just as Emily walks in, her gait uncertain. I jolt back into action, throwing open the fridge door in search of the filter, only to realize it’s empty.

  “Let me help,” Emily says. Without waiting for me to acquiesce, she takes the filter from my hands and fills it from the tap. Then she does the same with the carafe, winking at me.

  “I know, he’s such a perfectionist,” she says, slurring the words a little. Her eyes are shiny. I’ve never actually seen her drunk, I realize. “But he won’t notice. He had two-thirds of that last bottle all by himself.” She giggles, another never-before-seen. With her face flushed, she’s pretty. She looks too much like Byron for her own good; the same features that render him so handsome only weigh down her smaller, more delicate face. The tautly pulled-back hairstyles she favors reinforce the austere impression but now her bun has loosened, and wavy ash-colored hair frames her face, giving her a Renaissance-portrait look straight from one of Byron’s art books.

  She opens and closes the freezer and then starts rummaging through the cupboards. “You must have real liquor in here somewhere. I told B. I’d go fetch another bottle of wine from his reserves, but I need something stronger tonight. Oh! Here we go—the good stuff.”

  No one is more surprised than I when she emerges with a bottle of bourbon. Two tall glasses appear, and she splashes two fingers of Maker’s Mark into one and then gulps.

  “Oh damn. Sorry.” She hands me the second glass, with a much more generous splash of liquor sloshing around the bottom. The smell races up my nostrils. She clinks her glass against mine.

  “I like you, Claire. I do. I mean, sure, you’re young enough to be his daughter, but…” She gives a theatrical shrug. Shame makes blood rush to my face, setting my skin on fire. Without thinking, I upend the glass of bourbon into my mouth.

  “Oh no. Shit. Sorry—I didn’t mean it like that. I upset you. I can be so stupid sometimes.”

  I’m not mentally ready for a heart-to-heart with a drunk Emily. Had I made that rookie writer’s mistake, reduced someone to a stereotype and forgotten about their hidden depths, the ones everyone supposedly has? Although that’s only in books, isn’t it? In real life, people may have hidden depths, but 90 percent of the time, they’re as cliché as they come.

  “I like you better,” she says at last, with as much gravitas as she can muster with that much alcohol in her system.

  “Better?” I echo.

  “Better than Colleen. Sorry, I know, no speaking ill of the dead and all, but I never liked her.” She tops off her glass and then mine. I drink without thinking twice. “Good painter, maybe. Although, even then…” She points with her eyes at the doorway, through which I can see yet another one of Colleen’s framed creations hanging in the hall. It’s autumn trees reflected in a lake, image flipped upside down, all reds and yellows and aggressive oranges like the whole thing is on fire. This one I actually like, despite it being Colleen’s. “Let’s just say that’s debatable. So pretentious. I never liked modern art.”

  I’m yearning to change the subject to something, anything else. But the bourbon softens the edges, and all I do is blink and listen.

  “Good painter, bad wife. She didn’t care about him. He wasn’t top priority to her, you know? Hell, he wasn’t even in the top ten. Who wants that?”

  From what I know of Emily, she’s the kind of working mom who had her son raised by various nannies, then day cares, then boarding schools, and who, last time she was over at our house, humble-bragged to me about the “healthy but gourmet” meal delivery service she had just signed up for. Hearing this from her is odd, at the very least. Then again, enough alcohol will wring the truth out of anyone. Especially an uptight and probably overworked forty-nine-year-old empty nester with a predilection for skirt suits.

  “I always liked you so much more. You remind me of myself, in a good sort of way.”

  I’m taken aback.

  “I just wish I’d done what you’re doing. Focused on my family. You’re so…old-fashioned. Oh, I’m sorry, at twenty-five you probably think that’s an insult.” She hiccups.

  I shake my head vigorously, which is enough to reassure her that no, I don’t think it’s an insult. I don’t correct her that I’m actually twenty-seven. It’s probably all the same to her.

  “But I mean it as a compliment. Not dowdy. The opposite. You’re…classic—that’s what I meant.”

  “Thank you, Emily.” I realize I have trouble making my mouth form words.

  “That’s what he needs. A classic woman. That’s what he deserves. I know you’ll take good care of him. And of your kids, when you decide to have them. Right?”

  This is too much. She crossed a line. I make a clumsy motion to pass her, to go back to the other room, to Byron, but she blocks my way—on purpose or not, I can’t tell.

  “Oh, don’t go. Let’s have another drink. Where do you keep your wine, anyway?”

  Seeing a way out, I nod at the doorway, over her shoulder. “The…the corkscrew. I think it’s over there.”

  “Hey, B!” she bellows over her shoulder. “Come here. We need your help uncorking the bottle.”

  I start to turn around, but the room turns around me instead, faster and faster. And then it turns on its side and rushes, rushes toward my head.

  “Claire!” The image of Emily flashes before my eyes, the sound of my name reverberating inside my head. “Oh, Claire. Byron! Help!”

  It could be my imagination but I see her toss the contents of my glas
s into the kitchen sink, her movement small, precise, and razor sharp.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  It was weeks before I used the key for something, finally. Until then, I only watched, your personal guardian angel. I studied—you would have been proud of me, your most involved, hardworking student you never knew about. I learned about both your schedules; yours I already knew by heart but now I learned hers as well.

  She was trickier because she works from home. Works—ha. If you could call lounging around the house all day working. But I found out when exactly she leaves, how long she’s gone. I found out her favorite brand of soda and what orange juice she likes (the pulpy kind—what normal person likes juice with pulp?). She drinks wine from the fridge, saving the stuff that’s on the wine rack in the dining room for special occasions. Your special occasions. I picture you with her, sipping wine, smiling, laughing, kissing, and my heart hurts so much I could die.

  My patience is challenged. I could take that whole plastic container of pills, all ground up, and mix it into the juice container, where she wouldn’t taste it underneath all the sugar. Even if she took one glass—and she drinks several a day—it would still be enough. She would collapse and die, choking on her vomit. Just like that, gone.

  But taking it slow is my cross to bear. And besides, I am not ready yet, not ready to be Mrs. Westcott. I am but the caterpillar, who first needs to become a pupa and only then emerges as a butterfly, ready and iridescent. You wouldn’t want me as I am now; the chasm between us is too big, the age difference, the social standing.

  So, while she spirals slowly, inevitably downward, I will rise to your level.

  That day, I went into your house while she was out. I changed some things up, things neither of you will notice. I put a couple of ground-up pills into the wine in the fridge and shook it until it had mixed in flawlessly. In the bathroom, I emptied her natural supplement capsules and filled them with the insides of a different sort of capsule. That is all, for now. I took stock of her other medicines, what the pills look like. I’ll come back another time and take care of those.

  She’s duplicitous, your wife.

  She’s lying to you about so many things. And now I have proof. Oh, if only I could just tell you everything I know now…

  But I won’t. I don’t want to get you this way. My way may be harder, may take longer, but that’s okay.

  Everything worth having is worth waiting for—isn’t that how it goes?

  CHAPTER NINE

  I’m sick through the weekend. I hardly even realize it until I float back to consciousness.

  The air in the bedroom is stuffy but somehow I find myself shivering under the blanket and the comforter. The only light is coming from the bedside lamp on Byron’s side, set to the dimmest setting.

  My head spins but I prop myself up on one elbow and look around. I faintly remember doubling over, my insides twisting as I vomited my heart out. My chest and back are sweat-damp, and I’m wearing one of Byron’s pajama tops. It sticks to my skin. The bedside clock reads 8:02, and I genuinely have no idea whether it’s a.m. or p.m. I call out weakly for my husband but he’s nowhere in sight.

  As I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, fighting the nausea that creeps to the top of my throat, I realize I lost more than just time: I seem to float inside my husband’s already oversize pajama shirt, my hip bones jutting, my stomach concave. A half-empty glass sits on my nightstand. The liquid in it is cloudy and pinkish white, smelling strongly of artificial berry flavoring that makes me want to retch.

  “Electrolytes,” Byron says from the doorway. My head snaps up.

  “Drink, drink. It’s to replace the minerals you lost from all that vomiting.”

  Without taking my eyes off him, I sip. It’s not that bad, and I find myself finishing the last dregs in seconds. “What…what happened?”

  He shrugs. “Food poisoning? Must have been a bad shrimp.”

  “You’re not sick.” Was he? Truth is I wouldn’t have remembered if he had been.

  “Emily said she threw up too when she got home.”

  Emily drank enough cheap bourbon to float a ship, I almost say. Instead, I just glare at him accusingly, although I’m not sure what exactly I’m accusing him of.

  “How long have those shrimps sat in the freezer?”

  “You’re saying it’s my fault?”

  The effort of speaking is too much. My head spins. All I want is to lie down again but I fight the tug of gravity and sit up straighter.

  “I’m not saying that. I’m saying we got food poisoning from bad shrimp. There’s a difference.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Sunday night. You slept through most of the weekend.”

  Alarm shoots through me but is soon carried off on another tide of nausea.

  “Don’t worry about it. You’re going to be fine. Do you want some more?” He nods at the glass I’m still holding in my hand, my fingers sticky.

  “Electrolytes?” I agree with a barely perceptible nod, and he vanishes from sight before reappearing moments later. Did he have the glass all ready and waiting for me? He hands it to me, and when I peer over the rim, the little flecks of pink electrolyte powder still spin and spin in circles in the center, like he just stirred it.

  “Drink,” he’s saying, his voice growing closer and then distant again, like the sea crashing on the shore. “That’s right. Good girl.”

  * * *

  When I wake up next, it’s like the weekend never happened. It’s Monday morning, the same as most Monday mornings lately: I’m in bed alone, it’s bright outside, and the light falls through half-open curtains onto Byron’s side of the bed in a brilliant river. No sign of Byron, who, according to the clock, left for work more than two hours ago.

  Surprisingly, I feel fine. Except for my thinness, my skeletal wrists and protruding ribs, there’s nothing to remind me of the illness that consumed two days of my life. I don’t feel the slightest twinge of dizziness or nausea when I get up, still a little weak but stable.

  It takes me some time to get my bearings. I go downstairs, make a coffee, and pop a couple pieces of bread into the toaster because my stomach is rumbling, but in a good way. While the coffee machine hisses, I go upstairs and fetch my laptop. I spend five or ten minutes mindlessly browsing, wondering if I’m supposed to be doing something else, something important. But it seems all the stuff I had to do has evaporated from my head.

  Then my inbox dings. When I click over to the message, I feel nothing but disorientation, but then the name at the top sets off the chain reaction of memory, and panic races up my spine.

  Hi, this is Rea, I know it’s the second message but I’m sorry if I said anything to offend you! I’m still interested in the Colleen May painting. If you still want to sell it, I’d love to make a competitive new offer. Thank you, best,

  Rea

  Just as I am, in a bathrobe over pajama pants, I run outside. The dash from the front door to the car in the driveway takes the little energy I have left, and by the time I stop and plant the palms of my hands on the sun-heated hood of the car, I’m panting, my heart thumping a fast and dull tattoo. I lean on my arms, catch my breath, and only then retrieve the keys from the pocket of my robe and unlock the trunk.

  It opens with a soft click. For a moment, I stand still, staring at it, not understanding what I’m looking at. Yet.

  The trunk is empty.

  There can be no mistake. There’s no trace of the cardboard sleeve with Colleen’s painting in it. My coat, the one I threw in with the painting, is gone too.

  The sun beats down on the back of my neck. It’s the end of September; how can it possibly be this hot? The air comes off the asphalt rippling. Or maybe I’m just losing my mind. I slam the trunk shut and start ambling back toward the house, sweat running down my back.

  Like a mindless robot, I shut the door behind me and plunk the car keys into the bowl by the entrance. Then it occurs to me—did Byron bring my things inside?
<
br />   That thought should make me sweat more, if anything, but somehow, it seems less disastrous than having lost the painting altogether. And it’s impossible. I can’t have lost it. I remember clear as day—

  Rea. Could she have followed me?

  And opened my trunk how? With a crowbar? Hardly. I would have seen the dents, the scratched paint. The alarm would have gone off.

  Besides, had she done that, she probably wouldn’t be sending me sycophantic emails.

  Just to be sure, I check the coat closet and the hooks by the entrance: no sign of my cream-colored fall coat that I loved so much. And the painting…Byron would have put it back in the storage room, with all the rest of her things he can’t bear to part with. I race across the living room, my bare feet slapping the floor, and skid to a halt in front of the door to the basement. Drawing in a deep breath, I try to turn the door handle.

  It doesn’t budge. The door is locked.

  Any guilt I had been feeling drowns in a tide of anger. He did go through my trunk. He found the painting, put it back, and decided to lock the door too. To discourage me from pilfering any more of Colleen’s things.

  And somehow, the worst part is how normal he acted about the whole thing. Knowing him, I’d have expected a confrontation, a scene, lots of fury and rage and flying spittle—and with makeup sex hot on its heels, usually the same evening. That’s exactly what happened the few times I’d brought up the possibility of selling anything of hers. Or moving out of the house.