The Wives

TEN

When I drive to work the following afternoon, I’m so distracted by thoughts of the wives that I miss my turn into the hospital and it takes me twenty minutes to loop back around in traffic. Swearing, I jerk my car in a spot in the employee garage and take the steps two at a time instead of waiting for the elevator. I’d spent my afternoon composing a message to Regina from Will. I kept it short: Hey! I’m new to the area. You’re an attorney. Badass. You showed up in my matches so I thought I’d reach out. This is me reaching out...awkwardly. No one said I was good at this dating thing. I ended the message with a smiley face and hit Send. It was just enough self-deprecating charm to catch a woman’s attention. Will screamed: I’m honest and not threatened by your success—or at least I thought so. On the off chance that Regina messages him back I’ll have an “in” to getting to know her.

“You’re late.” Lauren, one of the nurses, frowns at me as I walk through the doors. Why do people always feel the need to tell you you’re late like you don’t already know it yourself? My jaw clenches. I hate Lauren. I hate her always-on-time perfectness, the easy way she handles difficult patients like it’s her absolute pleasure to do so. She loves to take command; a perfectly pretty, blond general.

I relax my face in an attempt to look apologetic and mutter something about traffic as I try to squeeze past her. She pushes her chair away from the computer, blocking my way and staring me down.

“You look like shit,” she says. “What’s up?”

The last thing I want to do is explain myself to know-it-all Lauren Haller. I stare right through her as I consider what to say.

“Didn’t sleep well. This schedule sometimes fucks with me, you know?” I look longingly toward the break room, wishing she’d let me pass.

Lauren studies me for a moment like she’s deciding whether or not she believes me, then finally nods. “You’ll get used to it. I was like that my first year, didn’t know my ass from my elbow, I was so tired.”

I restrain the eye roll and smile. It isn’t my first year. And technically she’s only been here a year longer than I have, but she brandishes the seniority around like a cheerleader in uniform. Rah rah, I’m better than you!

“Yeah? Thanks, Lo, I’m sure it’ll get better.” I head for the break room, head down, to stash my stuff in my locker.

“Have a glass of wine,” she calls after me. “Before you go to bed. That’s what I do.”

I lift a hand to signify I’ve heard her and duck out of sight. The last thing I want to do is absolutely anything Lauren does. I’d rather be sober for the rest of my life than imitate her bedtime behaviors.

The break room is mercifully empty when I slip inside. I breathe easy and eye the lockers like I do every day. Same ol’, same ol’. People have decorated the front sides of their lockers with photos of husbands, children and grandchildren in various shades of happiness. There are anniversary cards, vacation magnets and the occasional dried flower—all taped up with pride. I kick aside a green balloon, which dangles limply in front of my own locker, the remnants of someone’s birthday. Happy 40th! it declares in primary colors. There is a smudge of white frosting on the top of it, a slip of a sticky finger. The front side of my locker is empty, save for the remains of a Sub Pop sticker its last occupant crookedly slapped on the metal. When maintenance tried to remove it, it left behind gray fuzz that stubbornly lingers despite how many times I’ve tried to scratch it off. I really should put something up, a picture of Seth and me, maybe.

The thought depresses me. I suppose that’s why I haven’t done it. I don’t feel like he is all mine, and the knowledge that somewhere out there, that two other women may have a picture of Seth on their desks or taped to a locker, makes me sick to my stomach. I reach up absently to touch the sore spot on my ear and think of Hannah’s bruises. An accident, she’d said. Same as what happened last night. An accident.

My eyes stray to Lauren’s locker, which is four spots over from mine. Most days I try not to look, keeping my eyes trained on my blank space, reminding myself it doesn’t matter—but today I stare at each one of her photos, a strange feeling bubbling in my belly. Mostly there are glossy four-by-six selfies with an occasional card stuck between them, a sappy You are the love of my life in pink cursive across the front. The cards seem like a dare. Anyone can go over and flip it open to read what’s inside, and part of me thinks Lauren wants that. I take a step closer to study the photos: Lauren and John posing in front of the Eiffel Tower, Lauren and John kissing in front of the pyramids, Lauren and John hugging next to a trolley in San Francisco. How many times had I heard her tell people that they were an “adventure couple”?

I’ve suspected that the only reason Lauren and John travel so much is because they can’t have children, and my suspicion was confirmed when I was pregnant and she suddenly stopped talking to me. I asked one of the other nurses about it and she’d told me in a hushed voice that it was hard for Lauren to be around pregnant women what with all of her miscarriages. I’d brushed it off, giving her room and making sure never to mention my pregnancy around her. A few months later when I lost our baby, Lauren had taken an immediate interest in me again, acting like we were long-lost sisters. She’d even gone as far as sending a huge bouquet of flowers to the condo when I took the week off of work to grieve. The whole thing made me uncomfortable, having something so ugly and devastating in common with someone. Maybe if we had books in common, or an interest in makeup, or a television show—empty wombs weren’t a bonding topic. I’d ignored her invitations for Seth and me to come over for dinner until they finally stopped coming. Her texts eventually stopped, too, and now we barely make eye contact unless she’s busting my balls about something.

The truth is, Lauren’s happy vacations and attentive husband stories make me jealous. She doesn’t have to share her husband with anyone else and I crave that, as much as I try to tell myself that I don’t. Things would be so much easier if the other two weren’t in the picture. Holidays whenever we wanted to take them, dinners out in public where everyone could see what a beautiful couple we were, a husband who opened the front door every night rather than two days a week. Even the fight we had last night would be avoided since it had, in essence, been instigated by the situation.

I’ve just collected my stethoscope and pocketed my trauma scissors when a text comes through from Seth. I cheer up as soon as I see his name. Slamming my locker, I brace myself for what has to be an apology text. I’d accept his apology, of course; I’d apologize myself for causing our argument. No use holding grudges. But when I open my phone, it’s not the message I was expecting to see. My mouth goes dry as I squint at the screen.

I picked some up. I’ll make an excuse and get out of it. Love you.

I stare at the words, trying to make sense of them and then it hits me: this text wasn’t meant for me. Seth made a mistake, typed his message to the wrong name. It’s a painful thing when you realize you’ve received a text your husband meant for another woman. It’s even more painful when you gave him permission to do so. Which one is it? I think bitterly. Regina or Hannah? I squeeze my eyes closed, pocketing the phone, and take a few deep breaths before pushing through the door. I can do this. I signed up for this. Everything’s fine.

In between patients, I alternate between reading Seth’s mistakenly sent text, wondering what exactly it was he was trying to get out of, and scrolling through Regina’s photos. I decide to text Hannah—see if she’ll let on about anything.

Hi! Hope you’re well. Checking how everything is. I send it and pocket my phone until five minutes later when I’m changing someone’s IV and there’s a buzzing on my leg.

“Shoot, I forgot to put that on silent.” I wink at my patient, a middle-aged man who came in with chest pains.

“Go ahead and check it, honey,” he says. “I know how you young people are about your phones.”

The text is from Hannah. Thanks for checking on me. Feeling great! When are you in town next?

Her text is almost too cheerful. Last time I saw her, she’d said that Seth hid her birth control pills to get her pregnant.

Everything okay with you and hubby? I text back. And then, as an afterthought, I add, Maybe later this month. Let’s get together!

All sorted out. And that would be great.

I stick my phone back in my pocket, a frown on my face. Hannah is a happy woman at the moment. “Look at you, Seth,” I say under my breath.

Four hours later, Seth has still not acknowledged that he sent the wrong text to the wrong person. I can’t imagine how exactly he will address it when it does come up. How does one deal with a situation like that? I’m sorry, honey, I meant that text for my other wife.

As for Regina, it’s impossible to stay away now that I know all of the information is out there—just floating around on the internet. It’s creepy actually, that a person can just scroll through your life without you knowing. I’ve studied the photos and visited her friends’ pages, searching for comments she might have left on their posts. I want to know more—everything—even the way she interacts with people.

“You’ve been bent over that phone all night...” Debbie, a middle-aged nurse, swings around the nurses’ station, carrying an armful of charts. Her French braid is the same bright yellow as the suns on her scrubs. I turn back to my phone without acknowledging her, hoping she takes the hint. The last thing I feel like dealing with is questions, especially since Lauren already gave me the third degree.

Debbie drops the folders onto the counter, then scoots next to me, standing on her tiptoes to catch a glimpse of my phone. Her broad expanse of hip and breast brushes against my arm, and I shoot her a look that I hope says, Back off! Some of the other nurses and I have a running joke about it—if anyone gets too nosy you call them Debbie and tell them to back off.

“What are you looking at?” she chirps as I lift my elbows to prevent her from seeing the screen.

Some people have no concept of personal space. I hold the phone to my chest, the screen hidden, and frown at her.

“An ex-girlfriend,” she says matter-of-factly, folding her arms across her ample bosom. “I check on Bill’s all the time.”

Debbie and Bill have been married for as long as I’ve been alive. What ex-girlfriends could still be around to pose a threat to their deep-rooted marriage? I want to ask, but asking Debbie anything means an hour-long conversation. But my curiosity is piqued, so I ask, anyway. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, honey. When you’ve been around as long as me...”

I soften at her tone. Clearly, I’m not the only woman who suffers from insecurities, who lets them get to me until I act irrationally. I structure a question in my mind, one that won’t give anything about my situation away.

“How do you deal with it—the doubts about whether he loves you?”

Debbie blinks at me, surprised. “It’s not his love I’m worried about,” she says. “It’s theirs.”

Someone walks past us carrying a Styrofoam cup of coffee. Debbie waits until she’s around the corner and out of earshot before continuing.

“Women can be very conniving, if you know what I mean.” She gives me a look that says I should know what she means. But I’ve never had many friends, just Anna, really, and my mother and sister. But yeah, if you pay attention to TV and movies, they paint women in an untrustworthy light.

“I guess so,” I say.

“Well, I wouldn’t put anything past them. Or myself for that matter. I know what I’m capable of.”

Our heads bent together, I try to picture cheerful, plump Debbie as the conniving type she’s referencing and can’t.

Debbie looks around to make sure no one can overhear us, and then she leans so close to me I can smell the cherry blossom shower gel she uses.

“I stole him from my best friend.”

“Bill?” I ask, confused.

Bill has a potbelly that sits on top of two spindly legs and only a horseshoe pattern of hair left on his head. It’s hard to believe he ever needed stealing.

“And you still, um...look at her profile?”

“Of course.” Debbie pulls a stick of gum from her pocket and offers me half. I shake my head and she folds the stick onto her tongue in a perfect half.

“Why?”

“Because women don’t ever stop wanting what they want. They see another man who’s considerate and handsome, and it reminds them of what they’re missing in their own lives.”

There is a bitter taste in my mouth. I wish I’d taken the half stick of gum she’d offered. If Debbie is worried about Bill’s exes twenty years past, how much should I be worrying about the women my husband fucks on the regular?

Just then, her pager buzzes, and she shoots me a wry look as she unclips it from her hip and glances at the screen.

“Have to run, doll. Talk later.”

I watch her go, the wide gait of her steps as her white Reeboks squeak down the hall. Before she reaches the junction near the elevators, she turns around and faces me. Her arms pump at her sides while she walks backward.

“It’s even better when you spy on them in person, by the way.” She winks and then she’s gone.

Nosy, annoying, no-personal-space Debbie just might be my new best friend. I hear a ping on my phone. When I look down, a notification has appeared at the top of the screen. It’s from the dating app I downloaded. Regina has sent you a message.