The Starter Wife

by Nina Laurin

  She gets up in a rush, making her desk chair clatter, and runs out of the office. The door swings shut behind her, and I wait for another two beats before I get up too. Dr. Hassan hasn’t noticed she left yet, and I figure the car business will take a good five minutes to sort out. Without wasting another moment, I walk over to her desk and peer at the Mac screen.

  Sure enough, she’s been browsing Facebook. Her full name, it turns out, is Lucinda Burke, and her profile picture is of her on a beach—how trite. She’s grinning and holding one of those tacky drinks of every color of the rainbow, an alcoholized sugar bomb with an umbrella sticking out of it.

  On the desk itself, there’s one of those bobblehead figures of a character from a popular TV show, a pack of gum, a stick of lip balm, and—jackpot!—a wallet. I pick it up and rifle through her cards in search of her ID and then put the wallet back just as I hear her thundering steps in the hallway outside. By the time she bursts through the door, furious, tears streaking her face, I’m already sitting primly in my chair. Waiting to be seen.

  * * *

  “Why did you call me in? Is something wrong?”

  There can’t be any new developments—I’d done all the tests months ago, their conclusions not very reassuring. But I knew that already. Could something new have turned up?

  Dr. Hassan sits behind her desk, hands folded. “Not at all. I just feel like we need to get some things taken care of up front,” she tells me in her velvety, tactful voice that she probably reserves for giving people bad news.

  “This is about money,” I say, and my own voice falters. My contentment about my coup earlier evaporates at once, and I feel dumb and petty for even bothering with such childish games. “I have it. I just need to—”

  “It’s not just about the money,” she says firmly. “I rushed things with you last time, I’m afraid.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” I ask, wary.

  “You were emotional, and you clearly needed to feel like things were moving forward—”

  “Well, yes,” I say. And is it any wonder? She’s been stringing me along for months now.

  “But I’m afraid there are some necessary steps we need to get out of the way before we can proceed further,” she says gently. My heart clenches. “There are some forms for your husband to fill out before we can begin.”

  “Forms? We already filled out the forms, didn’t we?” Or, rather, I filled them out, artfully forging “Bertrand’s” loopy signature.

  “There are more. Pertaining specifically to your husband’s health. My secretary was supposed to give you those some time ago, but there must have been some kind of mix-up.”

  “But I already started with the hormones.” I’m already suffering the nausea, mood swings, and hot flashes like I’m about to go into menopause, and she’s yammering about forms?

  “Then the sooner you return these to me, the better. There’s a health questionnaire, and of course, he’s going to have to come in in person.”

  “Why? All he has to do is jerk off into a cup,” I snap. A look close to shock crosses Dr. Hassan’s face, and I’m instantly horrified with myself. How crass of me. That’s not like me at all. It’s something I should have left in the very, very distant past, the words of another person, someone I am no longer. That person is very much gone, and good riddance.

  It’s true though.

  “Sorry,” I murmur, unable to help the fact that I’m not sorry. What does she want from me? More importantly, under what pretext am I supposed to drag Byron in here, and how to explain why he’s now Bertrand Wilson, the lawyer? He’ll think I’ve completely lost the plot. “It’s just I want to get this underway as soon as possible.”

  “Connie, we talked about this. You will need patience. And your husband has to take a blood test, among other things. In order to be successful, we need to be thorough.”

  “You never said anything about a blood test.”

  “I did. When we first started discussing your options.”

  I have no memory of this. She sighs patiently. “It won’t take more than fifteen minutes of his time. And I’m sure you both want a healthy baby, don’t you?”

  “I— I’ll see what I can do,” I murmur. I’m utterly thrown by such a loss of control over the situation. I don’t know what to say or how to act. God, I just want to leave.

  “Have him give Lucy a call at reception and schedule an appointment,” she says, smiling, no doubt trying to be reassuring. “Then we can settle the financial matters and move forward. Finally. Which is what you both want, no doubt.”

  Numbly, I nod along. She has no idea, no fucking idea how far those two seemingly simple things are out of my reach. Struggling to contain my emotions, I thank her and shake her hand.

  I’ll think of something. I’ll find a way. I’m me, dammit, and I got this far.

  As I leave the office, Lucy B. is hammering something angrily into her keyboard, and she doesn’t even look up. Thank God—at least I’m spared the humiliation of having her see my dismay. Tears fill my eyes, blurring my surroundings. I barely make it to my car, and only then do I cover my face with my hands and let the tears flow.

  It takes me nearly a half hour to calm down. When I inspect myself in the mirror, my face is a fright, my eyes swollen, my nose red. And I can’t go back home without a solution. All kinds of crazy ideas race through my mind, each more improbable than the last, until I realize there’s not a thing I can tell Byron that won’t give away the whole game.

  Asking him flat out is simply not an option.

  I will think of something, I say to myself. Out loud, to make the words a reality. I will think of something. And then there’ll only be the money to worry about, and I can handle that.

  The painting. I make a mental note to get the key to the basement so I can search for it. I’ll turn the whole house upside down but I’ll find it.

  My phone buzzes in my purse, making me jump. With increasing dread, I dig for it, not daring to guess who it might be. Not my sister again. She’s the last person I want to talk to right now.

  Dread changes to shock and confusion when I see Byron’s number on the screen. And confusion, in turn, gives way to fear. He knows, flashes the panicked thought in the back of my mind. He knows I’m here! He found out.

  “Hi,” I say, answering the call. My voice is shaky.

  “Hi, honey.” He sounds distracted. “How are you?”

  I tell him I’m all right while I scramble to figure out why he might be calling. What day is it? Nothing special. I didn’t forget any special date or anyone’s birthday.

  “What are you doing right now?” It’s a question the old Byron would ask, the Byron who was still head over heels in love with his young wife. Those sexy conversations while he’s at work—so not something I would do with anyone but him, but with him, it was a turn-on. It was naughty and sexy and playful, not slutty. But judging by his tone, it’s not one of those conversations.

  “I’m in town,” I say, doing my best to sound nonchalant. “Doing a little shopping. Why?”

  “Our anniversary is coming up,” he says. “This weekend.” Not the wedding anniversary but the day we met.

  “I know.”

  “I was thinking that I can take Friday off, and we can have ourselves a little, impromptu long weekend. What do you say?”

  I’m too astonished to speak, not daring to believe it. “Friday? I…I guess Friday is—”

  “Friday is perfect,” he says. “I’m looking at this romantic little cabin right now. On the lake. The forecast says the weather will be great. You’ll love it.”

  “Byron—”

  “Just agree,” he says, voice pleading, like a child begging for candy. “Please? It’s been so long since it was just us.”

  It’s just us every single goddamn day, I want to say.

  “What I mean is we could really use the time off. Just to relax and unwind.”

  “Okay,” I say. A little tremor in my voice gives away
my excitement despite my best effort. Okay. It’s all going to be okay.

  Before I drive off in the direction of home, I find Lucinda Burke on Facebook and copy and save her profile picture into my phone. Staring at that grin of hers and the tacky drink, I almost feel forgiving, magnanimous in the light of this latest happy development.

  Then I remember her rolling her eyes at me. I email the picture to myself, put my phone back in my purse, and then drive home.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  You have no idea what a snake you have married. How horrible and deceitful and untrustworthy she is.

  She thinks no one saw her going into that clinic. She even used a fake name. But I was watching. I saw her go in, and I counted the minutes she was inside: forty-three minutes total, in and out, like she was going for a teeth cleaning. I can’t help but wonder what other lie she will concoct to cover up what she’s done. I’m filled with fury on your behalf just thinking about how she manipulates you. She knows you’ll be happier if she lets you go but she won’t. Instead, she schemes to have her way, to trap you in your loveless, miserable marriage forever.

  But I saw her. I know what she’s up to, and I know her true face, the liar that she is.

  In the time I’ve been watching you both, I’ve begun to understand her. And to understand you as well. You’re a romantic, Byron, as your name would have it. You seek things in people that aren’t there but you want to see them so badly that you imagine them. You think you married a beautifully complex soul, whose troubles stem from the same place as her creativity. That’s what attracts you to women: You mistake the fact that they’re troubled for depth. But she isn’t deep. Hell, she hardly ever creates to begin with: She lounges around at home, binge-watching cable shows and snacking all day. Only when you’re about to come home does she rouse herself, get dressed, throw together a dinner, and pretend she’s spent the day in artful contemplation. She fooled you but she doesn’t fool me.

  She goes behind your back, Byron. She schemes. This stunt with the clinic is merely the latest of many, and many more to come. You won’t be happy until you’re rid of her. You won’t be free until she’s gone.

  That’s when I think I finally made my decision. Enough observing. It was time to do something, finally. Something real. Something drastic.

  That day, when she left the clinic, I trailed her all the way home, and she never noticed. And then, through that bay window to your living room, I watched her collapse facedown onto the couch and weep her heart out.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  We leave for the cabin on Friday morning. It should be ready for us by noon, Byron says as he loads our bags into the car. I’m listless, doing my best to look forward to it but for some reason, I feel on edge.

  The description doesn’t mention Wi-Fi so I fear the worst. For the whole weekend, I’ll have my phone as my only connection to the world, and who knows whether I’ll have any signal out there in the wilderness. Byron actually seems happy at the prospect. “It’ll be great,” he says. “Sometimes it’s nice to look up from the screen for a few minutes and look around you.”

  “A few minutes,” I say pettishly. “Not three days!”

  “Oh, Claire.” He shakes his head but his expression is that of endearment and not annoyance. “I forget. You’re of the internet generation.”

  “And you’re of the rotary dial generation,” I parry, but I can’t help but grin. He’s managed to tease happiness out of me, in spite of everything. In moments like these, my love for him takes me by surprise, with a feeling like I’m being flipped upside down on a roller coaster: It takes my breath away, the memory lingering long after the moment itself has ended. But it’s that same love I felt the moment I saw him, even though I didn’t realize it yet. It’s that love that kept me going for the last little while since he became cold, just the promise of it enough to get me through day after interminable day.

  I fix my hair in the sun visor mirror. I let it be natural since I don’t want to be the bore who brings her curling iron to a rustic getaway. So today, I let my locks fall flat against my head. My face looks more open, my forehead higher, the delineation of my head more square and austere. Without makeup, I look pale, and the crescents under my eyes are more defined. Subtly, while Byron is busy loading up the rest of the bags, I take a small tube of concealer out of my purse and dab it under my eyes with my fingertip.

  As if he can read my mind, he climbs into the driver’s seat and looks at me. “You look beautiful like this,” he says. “I’ve always liked you natural.” He caresses my cheek briefly, the gesture a touch awkward. He plays with the ends of my hair. “You should let your real color grow in,” he says.

  I laugh. I know I will never do that, and he probably knows too. It’s just the thing men think they’re supposed to say, as if it wins them some sort of brownie points. And we’re supposed to find it endearing and cute, proof that they love us for the real us and not all the daily effort they can barely guess at. It’s a social contract: They pretend to love the real us and we never let that effort lapse, ever.

  The drive takes way longer than I thought. It’s been two hours, and all I can see on either side of the road are endless forests, with farms here and there, like squares from a chessboard scattered randomly through the woods. Byron stops at a gas station, then buys a basketful of apples from a local orchard and, to my surprise, a bouquet of flowers, a tacky thing of multicolored daisies and echinacea.

  I make sure to accept the bouquet with delight nonetheless but I can’t help but feel a twinge of discomfort in the back of my mind. Maybe I’m reading into it a little too much but it seems like a sudden change. I tell myself he’s making an effort, rekindling what we had, even though the very thought is insulting—what we had doesn’t need to be rekindled. We’re not that boring, predictable couple whose match was based on simple sexual attraction and who struggle to admit that the spark has gone out. What we have is magic.

  Maybe that’s why it seems so impossible to let it go.

  The apples are mealy and sour so I throw mine out of the window when I think he’s not looking. He’s cheerful, humming along to an oldies station he finds on the radio—oldies to me, at least. He’s being the old Byron. Or at least working hard to look like the old Byron.

  The cabin is not what I expected either. He turns off the main road, and after a maze of country roads that go up and down hillsides until I’m borderline nauseous, he pulls up to a private road, the sign next to it reading THE MANITOU. To my apprehension, he turns down the road. Our bags slide around the back seat as the car lumbers down the dirt track.

  The stickler in me wants to point out how wrong the name is, that it’s an ancient spiritual concept and that using the word to name a rent-a-cabin is more than a little disrespectful. But in the old days, when we were happy, I never would have been such a killjoy so I let it slide.

  The cabin is spacious—a first floor with a vast kitchen, living room, and bedroom, plus a second bedroom up on the mezzanine. But there’s a run-down air about it. All the materials are cheap, the doorframes all have gaps that let drafts skewer the entire house, there are cobwebs on the wooden beams under the ceiling, and the kitchen appliances are older than I am. When I peer through a dusty window at the terrain in the back, there’s a whirlpool under a tarp. The top of it is sunken under the weight of accumulated rainwater, and there are pine needles soaking in it. It looks anything but inviting.

  Byron, on the other hand, seems oblivious to it all. As soon as all the bags are inside, he drops them by the door and makes a beeline for the giant fireplace in the living room. After fifteen minutes of fussing and prodding the damp logs with the poker, a weak fire finally starts.

  “This is nice,” I say, trying to convince myself more than him.

  He gives me an apologetic look over his shoulder. “Sorry—it was so last-minute. And since the weather’s this nice, it was hard to find anything better.”

  “We’ll make the best of it,” I say. Som
ething I would have said in the happy early days.

  “There’s a lake out back, right behind the trees,” he says. “And there should be a shed with a canoe and all the equipment. We could take the canoe out.”

  As I recall, the moment I set foot outside the car, mosquitoes the size of hornets had swarmed me, their tinny buzzing filling my ears as they attacked every inch of exposed skin. Taking the canoe out to their natural habitat is not high on my list of things to do. I did pack bug spray, didn’t I? If only I could remember where it is.

  “We can start a fire in the fire pit,” Byron suggests, picking up on my lack of enthusiasm. “It’ll keep the bloodsuckers at bay. And we can roast marshmallows.”

  We end up doing neither of these things. We unpack our bags and the cooler, and Byron starts to curse when it turns out, predictably, that we forgot a number of crucial things—such as salt and a corkscrew to open the three wine bottles he thoughtfully brought along. So we go to the cramped little grocery store in the nearest village and load up on overpriced essentials. The village is so tiny I could walk from one end to the other in a half hour, with no charm, no attractions, and not so much as a dingy coffee shop. Still, I find myself dreading going back to the cabin.

  When we get back, the quiet is eerie, even with the crackling of the fire that fills the space with stifling, dry heat. When I go to the kitchen to make lunch, I discover that the water pressure is dismal and the hot water is lukewarm at best, no matter how long I let the tap run. That, and it smells mildly of sulfur.

  We eat in silence until Byron gives up and goes to fiddle with the dated stereo system. After the meal, coated head to toe in mosquito repellent, I go down to the lake to check out the facilities.

  The damp, mossy ground is soft, absorbing each step of my oversize rubber boots as I make my way down the narrow path and past the copse of trees, until I see the glimmer of water. Then the trees part, and finally I’m sort of glad I came here. It’s a beautiful little lake, a robin’s-egg-blue jewel reflecting the sky and the yellowing treetops. I can see the whole thing from where I’m standing but the small, rickety dock in front of me is the only one on the entire lake. Nor are there any other houses on the banks. Surely it can’t be just us.