The Wives

THIRTEEN

Pathetic. I can’t even get having a fight with my husband right.

I replay our conversation over in my head, the one we had after I left my parents’ house. I’d called Seth as soon as I pulled out of their driveway. I wanted to tell him how great our time had been together, how much I enjoyed being with him the other night, but he sent me to voice mail. He called back twenty minutes later when I was walking into the elevator of our building.

“Hey,” he’d said. “I was on the phone...” His voice had cut out and as I held the phone closer to my ear I heard the word “...parents...”

Seth’s parents: I’d never met them. Their lifestyle meant keeping to themselves most of the time, and they rarely traveled outside of Utah. As the elevator door opened and I spilled out, I had an idea. I’d suggested it to Seth.

“We should take our vacation to Utah! How long has it been since you’ve spent time with your family?” I’d expected him to love the idea, jump on the opportunity to use our time together to go home, but Seth’s reaction shocked me, his voice immediately going cold.

“No,” he’d said, followed by a deep sigh, like I was a child. Seth has been putting off a face-to-face meeting with his parents for the two years we’ve been together. “My family is fucked up,” he’d always said. “Busy people.” He says “busy” like I’m not busy, like I couldn’t possibly understand the demands of their life.

“You have half siblings!” I’d argued. “Surely they can spare some time. I’d like to meet them...”

Seth had shot down the idea somewhat aggressively, and we’d argued about it until I gave in. That’s what I do to avoid losing Seth’s favor—I give in. I will not be the nagging shrew. I will not be the difficult wife. I will be the favorite, the one who makes his life easier. Who volunteers to suck his cock to ease his bad day and moans like it’s her receiving the pleasure.

The truth is, I’m not even sure I want to meet his parents. They’re polygamists, for God’s sake. Not the kind we are, either. They all live together and wear odd clothes and raise children collectively like they’re some sort of rabbit-fucking hive. Imagine looking the other woman in the eye every day, washing her dishes and changing her children’s diapers, and knowing she was clawing your husband’s back in pleasure last night. It seems so twisted, but who am I to talk? The reason I haven’t told any of my friends or family the truth is because of how twisted it would sound to them.

Either way, they are his parents, and on principle, it feels right that I should meet them. I’ve earned that. A thought occurs to me that I’m not entirely comfortable with: What if they’ve already met Hannah? Would Seth even tell me if they had? After his reaction that left me bleeding, I’m too afraid to ask.

I pour myself a glass of wine, my second for the hour, and wander into the living room to watch some TV. The only thing I can find to watch are episodes of trash reality shows that I’ve already seen. Somehow, the messy lives of reality stars make me feel better about my own. There is something dull and vapid about the plastic-looking women on those shows, despite their fame and fortune—no matter if they deserve it or not. There is something hopeful about that for the rest of us. We’re all fucked up, every single one of us, I think.

But twenty minutes later, I can’t seem to focus. I turn off the TV and stare at a wall, my anger still festering. I go to the hall closet to retrieve the cards his parents have sent over the years, eight in total, and study the signatures at the bottom. The cards are generic, flowers or teddy bears on the front of them—all the same, never with anything personal aside from their hastily scratched names: Perry and Phyllis. That seems strange, doesn’t it? They might not know me, but they could at least express their desire to. Can’t wait to meet you! Hugs! Or maybe even, Seth says such wonderful things about you. I think about all the cards I’ve sent them, my eagerness spelled out in the notes I’ve written, telling them about our condo in Seattle and—before the miscarriage—the names we’d chosen for the baby. I feel silly about it now, sharing all of those details with them and them not caring enough to respond. I wish I could ask Hannah or Regina about them—what they thought, if they ever had any meaningful interaction.

I’ve not so much as emailed with his mother, though I’ve asked on several occasions for her email address. I figure that if we can make some sort of connection online, we’ve made progress. Seth always tells me he’ll send it over and never quite gets around to it.

The day before our wedding, his dad, Perry, had been rushed in for emergency gallbladder surgery and his mom hadn’t wanted to leave her husband’s side. I hadn’t seen the problem, since there were four other wives to tend to him, weren’t there?

“She’s his legal wife. She has to be there to oversee things in case something comes up,” Seth told me.

After they missed the wedding, they promised to come up for Christmas, but then his mother came down with pneumonia. For Easter it was strep throat, and the following Christmas it was something else. When I lost the baby, they sent flowers, which I’d thrown straight in the trash. I didn’t want any reminders of what had happened. They always send a card on my birthday, fifty dollars tucked inside.

I finish my glass of wine and pull up Regina’s Facebook profile. Maybe she has pictures with them somewhere. It’s a long shot but worth a try. Seth doesn’t have any pictures of them. He says they hate cameras and cell phones, and for legal reasons never take any photos together. Just as I thought, Regina’s profile yields no information. Neither does Hannah’s. I don’t know if I should feel relieved or more upset.

I turn away from my MacBook, frustrated. If I want answers there is only one thing I can do, and that includes me continuing to go behind Seth’s back. A message in my email says Regina has messaged Will back. I sign in to the site, feeling anxious. I’ve been wondering when she will request a meet-up, and trying to decide what I’ll say, but so far she seems okay to take things slow. The message is a long one. I upgrade from wine, pouring myself a vodka instead and settling on the couch, sucking on my bottom lip while I read.

Hi, Will,

Just got home after a day full of meetings. I’m blown. Will probably just order takeout and watch Netflix. It’s nice that you’re visiting family this weekend, have fun!

My marriage...hmm, that’s a tough one. We worked hard at it for a few years, probably even after we both knew it was over. In the end, we were just very different people who wanted different things. He’s married to someone else now...happy, I hear.

Sometimes it bothers me that he was able to move on so quickly while I needed time to heal, but I suppose we all deal with things differently. Why did your last relationship end? Were you together long?

Regina

I stare at the screen for a long time contemplating her words. Different people who wanted different things. Why is she lying? What does she have to gain by developing this relationship with a man over the internet? I know the answer even before I complete the thought: she’s lonely. Seth’s attention wanes thin and at times seems nonexistent, so the attention of a stranger would sate a deep need to be seen...and heard. Regardless of why, the fact is she actually is cheating. And Seth has no clue. I close the lid to my MacBook and stare out the window. I contemplate taking a walk; things can get claustrophobic in a high-rise. You can spend days going to the in-building gym, visiting the vending machine for drinks instead of walking the block to the market and staring out at the world beneath you instead of venturing out into it. I’ve found that more and more I am opting to stay home when I’m not at work, feeling less inclined to brave the drizzle when it isn’t for a good reason. Before, in my old life, you couldn’t keep me inside. If I’ve changed so much in the last few years, maybe Regina has, too. Perhaps she realizes she doesn’t want to be with Seth anymore, and this is her way of feeling out the dating scene. In which case her messages to Will are a good thing. For me at least. If I tell Seth what I know about her, I’ll have a lot of explaining to do. I decide not to say anything to Seth. I’ll wait to see what else she writes to Will before I decide. I’m flicking through channels on the TV ten minutes later when I stop on one of those shows about internet relationships. The show brings people together who’ve interacted solely through the internet, often to find that one or the other has been lied to in depth. I flinch, thinking of “Will,” the photos of my cousin I’ve uploaded to the site. What people present on the internet is seldom true to real life. If I want to know who Regina Coele really is, I need to see her in real life like I saw Hannah.

I call the law firm of Markel & Abel and tell the receptionist that I would like to schedule an appointment with Regina Coele. I’m put on hold, and as I wait, there’s a twist in the pit of my stomach. I ask myself what I’m doing. This isn’t like me; for years I’ve accepted everything quietly...submissively. But it’s too late now; I opened one too many doors, and the lust for knowledge overpowers rationality. She transfers me to Regina’s secretary, who tells me that her earliest available appointment is three weeks from today. I feel a surge of disappointment. Three weeks seems like an eternity.

“Are you sure there’s nothing sooner than that?” I ask.

“I’m afraid not. Ms. Coele is booked through. I can put you on a wait-list, but to be honest, we hardly ever have cancellations.” Her voice is nasally and matter-of-fact—a real Hermione Granger if I’ve ever heard one.

“All right, then,” I sigh. “I suppose I have no choice.”

“I’ll just get you set up in the system with some basic information, then,” she tells me. I hear the clacking of computer keys and then she begins to ask me questions.

I tell her that my name is Lauren Brian from Oregon. When she asks about the nature of my visit, I tell her that it’s concerning divorce, and suddenly she’s different, her voice much kinder. So much so that I wonder if she’s experienced a divorce herself. The thought of divorcing Seth makes me sick to my stomach. I don’t want to divorce him—I want him for myself. But first I need to know the nature of his relationship with Regina. She asks me a series of questions—are children involved, did we sign a prenup, how long have we been married? “Don’t worry,” she says before she hangs up. “Ms. Coele is one of the most competent attorneys in Oregon.”

Competent Regina. I wonder if someone would describe me as the most competent nurse in Seattle? Lo most certainly wouldn’t.

When I hang up the phone, I walk directly to the bar and make myself a vodka and soda. I’m lonely, I realize as the ice cubes crack beneath the vodka. Lonely and sad. I shouldn’t be; I am young and vibrant, and these are my best years. This is necessary, I tell myself, pushing aside the guilt of sneaking around. You have to figure this out.