The Wives

FIFTEEN

I’m lying on the couch listening to sad music: The 1975, The Neighborhood, Jule Vera. My eyes are closed; my hangover has seized my head and my stomach. I shift onto my side, keeping my eyes closed. Amazing how once you open a door for something, there’s no going back. All you can do is brace yourself as you get sucked in, deeper and deeper. Regina and Hannah, Regina and Hannah—they’re all I can think about. I stack myself against what I know about them, I measure our flaws, sieve through them. I texted Hannah this morning, just to check on her, but she hasn’t answered. She is my ally without knowing it. My fate feels tied to hers. I wonder if she ever wishes she could get rid of Regina.

Regina is more successful than I will ever be, more confident. Hannah is younger, prettier. I am somewhere in the middle of both of them, a medium to balance out the extremes. Seth has texted me more than usual this week—he’s trying.

I heave myself from the couch around noon and head for the bathroom. When I get out of the shower, I look at myself naked in the bathroom mirror and try to imagine what Seth sees when he looks at me. I’m short, without the petiteness of Regina, my hips wide and my thighs full and muscular. My breasts spill over whatever shirt I’m wearing; out of a bra they hang loose and full. All three of us are completely different body types, and yet the same man desires us. It doesn’t add up. Men have a type, don’t they? Especially one as particular as Seth. Seth, who likes Mary-Kate Olsen but not Ashley—definitely not Ashley, he says.

His type would have to be Regina, since she’s who Seth married first. But weren’t we still finding ourselves in our twenties? Perhaps he discovered his type is me. That’s wishful thinking, when you’re one of three. He once told me that he was drawn to everything about Regina at that party, enough so that he approached her on the off chance that she’d shoot him down. He’d been attracted to me, too—the way he’d flirted with me, his eyes always filled with what I considered lust. I don’t know how he met Hannah, and I need to know. The photo of Regina flashes in my mind, the taller, younger blond standing next to her—is it Hannah? Did they know each other? I can wait until I go to Portland for my appointment with Regina, or I can find out now.

Yes, that’s a good idea—a little sleuth work to distract me. I text Hannah again, and before she replies, I’m already throwing things in a small overnight bag. If she’s busy, I could always go snoop around on my own. To my relief, she texts back, delighted that I’m coming. She suggests dinner and a movie. I must be mad, truly, going to dinner and a movie with my husband’s other wife. Some might call me a stalker, some might say I was off my rocker—but what did it matter? Love certainly makes people crazy, I think, zipping up my bag. I imagine she’ll opt for a romantic comedy—something light and sexy. Women her age still have such a rosy outlook on life. But instead, she asks me if I like horror films. I’m a little taken aback. I don’t, of course, but I say I do. I want to see what she has in mind, the type of things that amuse her. Her charming historical house and perfectly put-together meat and cheese board didn’t exactly scream slasher film fanatic. She tells me there’s a psychological thriller she wants to see; it has Jennifer Lawrence in it. I ask if her favorite movie is The Sixth Sense, and she texts back that she hasn’t seen it. I’ve just pulled out of the parking garage. I’m not really paying attention and someone honks at me. It’s The Sixth Sense; who hasn’t seen The Sixth Sense, especially a horror movie fan? She’s that young.

I leave Seattle just a little after noon with a fresh coffee in the cup-holder, cheerful music playing through the speakers. Oh, how things change from hour to hour. I’m upbeat, the radio station is playing eighties music and I sing along. If I drive fast, I’ll have just enough time to check into the hotel and freshen up before meeting Hannah for dinner. I feel a fizz of excitement in my belly, not just at the prospect of garnering information about our husband, but at doing something other than sitting at home waiting for Seth. Waiting, waiting—my life is all about waiting.

Traffic to the neighboring city is thankfully light and I make good time. Seth would have called me a speed-demon; he would pump an imaginary brake in the passenger seat when I made him nervous. When I get to the hotel, I toss my things on the bed and take a quick shower. I only brought two outfits: one for the drive back tomorrow and one for tonight. Now, as I stare down at the brown cardigan, cream silk top and jeans, I wish I’d chosen something with more color, something eye-catching. I’ll look plain and drab next to Hannah’s gazelle-like figure, my large breasts making me look plumper than I really am. I rub the fabric between my fingers and stress. Eventually, I’ve stressed too long and I don’t have time to dry my hair. The air curdles it into messy waves. I do my best to tame them a little, but in the end I have to go.

Portland’s weather is in a better mood than Seattle’s. There is no mist in the air, just the smell of exhaust fumes and pot. Hannah opens the door on my first knock, a bright smile on her face. Too bright. I give her a quick hug and that’s when I see it—a dark, brooding bruise skims the underside of her cheekbone, a sickly green color, like pea soup. She’s made an attempt to cover it with makeup, but on her fair skin, the color blooms with alarming vibrancy.

“I just need to grab my coat,” she tells me. “Come in for a second.”

I step into the foyer, not sure if I should mention the bruise or pretend she’s done an excellent job with her makeup like she’s probably hoping. I look around the foyer, checking for the missing photo that was once hanging next to the door—or so she said. In its place is a framed print of a pressed poppy. It depresses me. Pressed flowers are an attempt to hold on to something that was once alive. They’re desperate and lonely.

“Do you like it?” she asks, coming down the stairs. “I found it at a flea market. I’ve always wanted to be able to do it myself but never had the time.”

“I do,” I lie. “Didn’t you say you had a family photo there before?”

Hannah seems to flush under my gaze. “Yes,” she says, and then quickly turns away.

I think of my empty locker at work and realize she’s playing the same game I play. Hide the husband; avoid the questions. But bruises? I’ve never had to hide bruises. I think of my ear and absently lift a finger to trace the spot. Beneath my relaxed exterior, my heart beats hard against my ribs. Before the night he pushed me, I never would have been able to imagine Seth doing something to hurt a woman. And even after the night he shoved me I made excuses, blamed myself. But there’s no denying Hannah’s bruise. I press my questions down my throat until it feels like I’m choking on them.

“Hey, let’s drive separately so you don’t have to come all the way back here after the movie,” she suggests. I nod, wondering if there’s another reason. Tonight is her night with Seth; he’d arrive late after leaving Regina’s. Perhaps she didn’t want him knowing she’d made a friend. A friend would ask about her bruises, a friend would direct her eyes at the husband.

I follow behind her SUV, gripping the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles turn white. We pass through downtown, the square of food trucks, the shops, the people bundled up, all whizzing past. I barely see it. I’m too busy thinking.

We’ve just pulled up to the restaurant when I get a text from Seth.

Hi. Where are you?

I stare at his text, puzzled.

It’s six o’clock. Which means Seth should still be with Regina. It’s an unspoken rule that when you’re with one wife, you don’t text the others.

Dinner with a friend, I text back.

Nice. Which friend? The hair on my arms prickles. Seth’s not in the habit of quizzing me. In fact, he’s never asked about my friends, except to caution me not to tell them about us.

Where are you? If he’s being nosy, I have the right to be, too.

Home.

That’s an interesting answer, I think. Especially when he has three homes.

Hannah is walking toward my car, having already parked. I shove my phone deep into my purse and step out of the car to meet her.

Seth will have to wait. It’ll be a nice change, since I’m always on the waiting end. It’s funny how I care about him less when I’m with Hannah.

“Ready?” Hannah grins. The restaurant she chose reminds me a little of the Italian place Seth took me to the first time he told me about his wife. As soon as we walk in the doors, she’s approached by who I suppose is the manager. He rushes over to say hi, fussing over her as he leads us to a table. Hannah thanks him and he runs to the kitchen to get us a specialty appetizer.

“How do they know you?” I ask after a server waves at her.

“Oh, we come here a lot.” By we I assume she means her and Seth.

I notice that she keeps the bruised side of her face turned away so that when she looks up at them, they only see her good eye. It’s only once we’ve ordered our meals that I finally ask her what’s been bothering me all night.

“Hannah, how did you get that bruise?”

She lifts her hand as if to touch it and then drops it into her lap.

“If you tell me that you walked into a door or hit your face on a cabinet, I’m not going to believe you, okay? So why don’t you just tell me what really happened.”

“So you want me to make something up?” she asks, raising an eyebrow.

I bite my lip thinking about what to say. “No. I want you to trust me, though,” I say carefully. “God knows I’ve made some really stupid decisions, so I’m not ever going to judge you.”

She wipes her mouth with her napkin and takes a long sip of her water. “Really, it’s like you want me to confess to something scandalous,” she says.

“Last time I saw you, you told me that your husband hid your birth control pills so you’d get pregnant. That sounds pretty controlling and manipulative to me. I’m just checking.”

She looks down at her hands, which are now folded neatly on the tabletop. She looks completely relaxed and in control, minus the U-shaped bruise beneath her eye. I stare at her, mentally willing her to tell me everything. If Seth is hitting her, I need to know. My God—it would be hard to believe, but...

“My husband...” She chews on the inside of her cheek. I want to nudge her forward, encourage her to talk to me, but I’m afraid that if I say anything at all the spell will be broken and she’ll shut down, so I wait.

“He does have a temper. Sometimes...” Her voice falters like she’s not exactly sure how to word things. “I think his past affected him more than he’s willing to admit. But I can assure you, he doesn’t hit me.” I’m hung up on part of her explanation, the part about his past. Does she know something that I don’t?

“His past?” I interrupt. “What do you mean?”

I manage to keep my face neutral, but I can feel my eyebrows pushing toward each other, my forehead wanting to crease with worry.

Hannah clears her throat, and it’s a very ladylike sound. I can barely take it; I want her to spit it out. There are already feelings of intense jealousy curdling in my stomach that she would know something that I do not.

“Well,” she says finally. “He comes from a large family...”

No shit, I want to say.

“Someone in his family...well, someone hurt him.”

I shake my head. “Hurt him how?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Hannah says, and I can tell she’s already regretting saying anything. “Roughed him up for fun, bullied him. I’m making it sound lighter than it actually is...”

I stare at her, confused. So Seth was teased by his siblings? What’s new? My sister once tossed my favorite doll into the fireplace and looked on contentedly while I sobbed.

She waits until the server filling her water glass has walked away and then she leans close to me. “He had an older brother who was a psychopath,” she whispers. “Would do terrible things to him, like hold him down in his bathwater until he thought he was going to die, and would sneak into his room at night and...well...touch him.”

I balk. “He was molested?” I search my memory for anything—anything Seth has said about his brother. But the truth was that he hardly spoke about him; I didn’t even know his name. I feel a rush of anguish; I was less important. He didn’t share his hurt with me. I take a long drink of water, hoping she doesn’t notice my expression.

Hannah draws back at my outburst and then quickly looks around to see if anyone’s heard us. There’s no one in the direct vicinity, and her face relaxes.

I’m impatient with her. Screw caring what people think at a time like this. My heart is racing a mile a minute and I feel positively sick to my stomach. If that were true, how could he not have told me? As I stare at Hannah, at her perfectly sharp cheekbones, and full lips—pursed disapprovingly at me—I feel both betrayed and hurt. She can see it on my face because she reaches across the table to grab my wrist. Squeezing it softly, she watches me with her big blue eyes.

“Are you okay?” she asks. “Did I say something to upset you?”

“No, not at all. It’s just a terrible thing...” I try to pull myself away from her as gently as possible, keeping a tight smile on my lips. I hate her in this moment. She seems to buy my lie, because she lets me go, retiring her hands to her lap.

“How many years did it continue?” I ask.

“On and off through most of his childhood. Until his brother left for college.”

“So you’re saying he sometimes...does things...out of anger, because of what his brother did?”

“No. Yes. I don’t know. We argue like all married couples and sometimes things get very heated. I’ve slapped him,” she admits. “I felt terrible after, of course. And he grabbed my arm after, to stop me from doing it again—those were the bruises you saw last time.” She looks away, ashamed.

In that moment, I have the urge to tell her everything. Who I am, what I know about her and Regina. The way he shoved me and never apologized, which made me think he didn’t realize he’d done it. Wouldn’t everything be so clear if we could lay it all out between us? I’d certainly understand more about Seth. Or I could just ask Seth about it, but then he’d know I’d been talking to Hannah.

“What about the bruise beneath your eye?” I swallow the emotion lodged like a hunk of bread in my throat and look her squarely in the eyes.

“No, it’s not like that. I was doing a house project and walked into an open cabinet. Really. He just gets moody, withdrawn... He needs his alone time, you know? Sometimes I think it’s because he was always surrounded by people.” She presses her lips together. I try a new tactic. I came here to get information, after all, although perhaps not of this dark nature.

“Okay, tell me the good things about him, the things you love.” I smile encouragingly as Hannah chews on her lip. “You are having his baby, after all. There are some things you must like...”

“Of course, yeah, of course.” She seems relieved that I’ve changed the subject to something more palatable.

I notice the immediate change in her. When Hannah talks about Seth this way, her eyes take on a glow and her lips soften to the smile of a young girl entirely smitten. I recognize the symptoms, as I’ve so often seen them in myself.

“He’s charming, and he’s kind. He spoils me, always asking if I need anything and if I’m okay. He bought me a baby name book and he likes to hear my ideas...the small things...” I remember Seth telling me about the baby name book saying that Hannah—or Monday, as he called her—wanted a boy.

“He’s fun,” she continues. “Likes to joke around and laugh. I really love that about him.”

Have I ever considered that Seth’s sense of humor is his strong suit? I tend to be the witty one in the relationship, always quipping something or the other while he laughs.

“Right,” I say when she pauses. “Those are all wonderful things.” She nods, encouraged, and I think her eyes fill with tears, but then our server arrives to refill our water.

“Can we change the subject?” she says after he leaves.

“Sure.” I smile. “Where is he tonight?” I don’t know why I ask, except that when people ask me where my husband is, I always falter before making up some lame excuse.

“He’s... He should be home,” she says. “I told him I’d be out for the night.”

“Does he mind that you have friends?”

“He doesn’t know,” she says. “He’s protective of me, of who I spend time with.”

I don’t miss the way her eyes dart left, searching for the right answer...the easiest answer.

I nod, but I can’t help wondering if she’s working things out with him or herself, resigning herself to be the type of woman he wants. She’s so much younger than me, close to my age when I met Seth in that coffee shop. If anyone had tried to warn me back then I would have laughed, brushed off their concern. Seth was a good man, family-focused; if he was occasionally moody, that was fine.

Our food arrives before I can think any more on it. For the rest of our dinner we discuss banal things, and when it’s time for dessert, I stand up to use the restroom. I can feel her eyes on me as I leave the table. I wish I could know what she’s thinking.