The Wives

NINE

Regina Coele is tiny, maybe five feet on a good day. I walk away from my laptop where it rests on the kitchen counter, and pull open the freezer. It’s only ten o’clock, but I need something stronger than the Coke I poured to drink with breakfast. I pull a bottle of vodka from where it’s wedged between a bag of frozen peas and frostbitten hamburger patties. I study the photo of her on Markel & Abel’s website: a family law firm with two offices, one in downtown Portland and one in Eugene. In the website photo, she wears dark-rimmed glasses perched on a slightly upturned nose. If not for the smear of red lipstick and her sophisticated hairstyle, she’d easily be mistaken for a girl in her late teens. I top off my juice with the vodka and add a few cubes of ice to the tumbler. Most women would feel fortunate to have such a youthful appearance. But I imagine that in Regina’s line of work, she needs clients to respect her, not question if she’s old enough to drink. The orange juice does little to disguise the heavy pour of vodka. I suck my teeth, deciding what to do next. I told myself that I just needed to see her, just one quick look. I’d made the silent promise even as I typed her name into the search box, but now that I’m looking at her I just want to know more. I throw back the rest of the vodka and the juice and pour another before carrying my laptop to the living room.

I uncap my pen and lean my notebook on the armrest of the couch, ready to work. In neat letters, I write Regina Coele at the top of the page and then the name of the law firm where she practices. I follow that with her email and the firm’s phone number and address. Recapping my pen and setting it aside, I leave the law firm’s website and go to the most obvious place to look for a person. Facebook has never heard of Regina Coele—not the one I’m looking for at least. There are a dozen profiles of wrong Reginas, none of them matching the details my sleuth skills have already uncovered. But no, I think ruefully; she wouldn’t use her name on social media, not if there was a chance her clients could search for her.

I type in Gigi Coele, R. Coele and Gina Coele with no results. I lean back on the sofa, linking my hands and lifting my arms above my head in a stretch. Maybe she’s not on Facebook; there are plenty of people who steer away from the intrusive probing fingers of social media. But then I see the freckles in my mind, the round nose—and I remember a little girl who lived on my street when I was growing up. Georgiana Baker—or Barker—or something like that. She was a tomboy to my girlie girl and she liked to be called Georgie. Something about my childhood memory of Georgie reminds me of Regina. Perhaps it’s the freckled nose.

I type Reggie Coele into the search bar on Facebook and I strike gold. A different version of Regina Coele pops up, this one with wavy hair, heavy eyeliner and glossy lips. Her privacy settings restrict me from seeing anything past her profile picture, but the casual way she embraces a friend, wearing spaghetti straps, tells me that this is the real side of her—a stark opposition to her stiff-backed lawyerly look. Once I find her, it’s a rabbit hole of information. I can’t stop, my finger moving the cursor of my MacBook from website to website. I’m manic in my research, hating her one minute and liking her the next. My eyes are wide with the information I’ve been thirsty for the past two years, my stomach a tangle of anxiety and excitement. This is my husband’s other wife. One of them, anyway. I’ve looked up her Instagram (private), her Twitter account, which is not private, but the last time she tweeted was a year ago. On an off chance that she’s doing something she shouldn’t, I search her name on a website that would link Regina (or Reggie) to any of the popular dating sites. My search pings two results: Choose—a site that allows you to swipe left or right to pick and eliminate matches in your area, and GoSmart—a more elaborate dating website that matches you according to the results on the Myers-Briggs personality test.

Why would Regina be on dating websites? She’d been with Seth since college, when he barely had any hair on his chin, so there was no lapse in their relationship when she would have been single. I rearrange myself on the couch, tucking my socked feet underneath me and staring at the screen with grim determination. I have to find out, don’t I? Seth couldn’t possibly know about this, and it’s the sort of information that changes people’s lives. I think of the deep hurt it would cause him to know that his beloved Regina is being unfaithful, and almost shut my laptop.

Perhaps this is better left alone. I could finally put my white-hot jealousy to rest, knowing that Seth’s other wife is an unfaithful witch. I carry my tumbler to the kitchen, then circle around the living room with the fingers of one hand pressed to my forehead as I think. And then I realize: I can’t not know. I must uncover the secrets of my husband’s first wife or I’ll go mad.

To access Regina’s full profile, I have to sign up for an account. I decide to be Will Moffit, a website owner who recently moved to Portland from California. When I’m asked for photos to upload, I use pictures of my cousin Andrew, who is currently in prison for identity theft. Ironic. I feel guilty about it, but not enough to stop me. It doesn’t really matter, anyway. Once I have the information I need, I’m going to delete the account. No harm caused. I just need to take a quick peek. I fill out the information, my fingers gliding easily over the keys of my MacBook, filling line after line with perfect nonsense. Will’s favorite movie is Gladiator. He runs marathons and has a horde of nieces and nephews whom he loves very much, but he has no children of his own. I type faster and faster. I am lost in the information I am creating. And suddenly this man, Will Moffit, feels very real. That’s good. It’s perfect actually. Regina will think him real, too. I want the information that will condemn my husband’s first wife. Paint me in a favorable, faithful light. Look what I have found, my love! She doesn’t love you like I do!

And then the information is there in front of me. Compiled on a website with a hopeful green banner that reads Your soulmate is just a few clicks away! I click on Regina’s profile with one hand while the other bounces on my knee. I am lucky there is no one in the room to witness my exposure of nerves. Seth always says my body language is a dead giveaway to whatever I’m feeling.

She’s listed as a thirty-three-year-old divorcee from Utah. Her interests include hiking, sushi, reading autobiographies and watching documentaries. What a bore, I think, cracking my knuckles. I’ve never known Seth to watch a documentary in the years we’ve been together. I picture them on the couch together, holding hands underneath a blanket, her leg tossed casually over his. It doesn’t seem right. But maybe I know a different Seth than Regina. That is something I haven’t considered before now. Could a man be a different person with each of his wives? Could he like different things? Is he gentle when he has sex with them or does he like it rough? And perhaps that is why Regina is on a dating website in the first place. Because they have nothing in common and she is looking for someone to share her life with, someone with the same interests.

I click through her photos, recognizing some of the places in her pictures: the Arlene Schnitzer Concert Hall—Seth took me there to see the Pixies two years ago. Regina is standing in front of a poster of Tom Petty, hands perched on her hips, wearing a broad smile. In another photo she sits in a kayak, a Mariners cap shading most of her face as she holds an oar above her head in triumph. I reach the last photo and it’s then that I see her. I have to blink a few times to clear my vision. How long have I been looking at the computer screen? Is my brain playing tricks on me?

Standing up, I set my MacBook on the coffee table and walk over to the bar to make myself a real drink. No orange juice to cushion the taste of the liquor this time. I pour myself two fingers of bourbon and carry it back to the sofa. I’m not sure of what I saw and maybe I didn’t see anything, but the only way to know for sure is to walk back to my laptop and look at what spooked me in the first place. I bend over and hit the space bar. The screen lights up, and Regina’s photo is still there. I stare at it for a moment, my eyes narrowing before I turn away. I can’t be sure, there isn’t enough to be sure. The picture is of Regina standing in front of a restaurant, her arm casually thrown around a friend’s shoulders. She’s cropped the photo to show only herself, but there next to her is the slight profile of a much taller, much blonder woman. A woman who looks shockingly like Hannah Ovark. I click the icon that says Send Message and begin typing.