The Wives

TWENTY-FOUR

I’m not allowed to drink, not on my medication. It makes the next four days unbearable, as Seth and I sit on the couch and watch hour after hour of sitcoms, him on one side of the couch, me on the other. The space between us is widening every day. I fantasize about the sharp tang of vodka sliding down my throat, burning so good. The way it would first heat my belly and then roll slowly into my veins, settling somewhere in my head and making me feel light and flimsy. When did I start drinking so much? When Seth and I first met I didn’t touch alcohol. Maybe it was seeing my sister consistently drunk and high that turned me off the stuff, but at some point I picked up the bottle and never put it down.

Seth doesn’t drink—mercy sobriety. He gave up drinking when I was pregnant, too. It makes me wonder if he ever liked drinking or if he just reserved it for our time together. Sexy, dangerous Seth. He was playing a role with me, living out a fantasy.

The orange bottles that dictate my life sit next to my electric kettle in the kitchen, a line of sentries. It was Seth’s idea to place them there.

“Why not in the bathroom?” I complained when I’d first seen them.

“So you won’t forget,” he’d replied.

But really, he put them there to remind me and anyone else who comes over that I’m sick. Every time I walk into the kitchen to get water or a snack, they catch my eye, their little white labels glaring.

My mother stops by with her minestrone soup. Soup—like I have a head cold. I could laugh, but I smile and take my “sick” soup. When she catches sight of the bottles, her face visibly pales and she turns away and pretends she hasn’t seen them. People treat being sick in the body as fine, normal, empathy-worthy; they’ll bring you soup and medicine, and press the back of their hand to your forehead. But if they think you’re sick in the mind, it’s different. It’s mostly your fault—I say “mostly” because people have been told again and again that mental illness isn’t a choice—it’s chemical.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you got out of the hospital,” she says. “Did Daddy tell you that I was visiting Aunt Kel in Florida?”

“Daddy? He doesn’t talk to me. He’s ashamed.”

She stares at me oddly. “He’s trying. Honestly, Thursday, sometimes you can be so selfish.” I’m the selfish one? Where was my father? If he cared, where was he?

The medication makes me feel thick-limbed and sloppy. Seth disappears for a few days, presumably to go back to Portland to see the others. My mother stays with me, doling out pills each morning and each night. I get a sleeping pill at night—the only pill I’m grateful for. Sleep is the only time I rest from the reel of worrisome thoughts that run in a continuous stream through my mind. Planning, planning, planning...

The next time my mother comes, my father comes with her. I’m surprised to see him. In the years I’ve lived in the condo, my father has only been to visit a handful of times. He’s not the type to do the visiting, my mother once said. He’s the type to be visited. I chalked that up to my father’s sense of self-importance; a king in his own mind, his subjects came to him. I stand aside as they shuffle in, wondering if Seth orchestrated their visit. He left not ten minutes ago, saying he needed to spend a few hours in the Seattle office. I’d barely gotten dressed when the doorbell rang.

“What are you doing here?” The words are out of my mouth before I can arrange them in a nicer way. My father frowns like he’s not sure himself.

“Really, Thursday. What a way to show appreciation,” my mother says. She marches toward the living room, her purse swinging on her arm like a little designer monkey. My father and I exchange an awkward smile before picking up the pace and following her. I’m acutely aware of his presence as we move through the hallway, made uncomfortable by it. He shouldn’t be here and I shouldn’t have been in the nuthouse, we both know this about each other. I have a sour taste in my mouth as I sit in the chair opposite them. Parents are emotional prison guards, always ready with their stern looks and Tasers.

“Your father has been worried sick.”

She reaches into her purse and pulls out a tissue, which she dabs delicately to her nose while I look at my father, who is staring at me uncomfortably.

“I can see that,” I say.

I’m eager to be rid of them. I have things I need to do. I decide to get down to business.

“Did Seth ask you to come?”

My mother looks affronted. “Of course not,” she says. “Why would you think that?”

I open and close my mouth. I can’t very well accuse him of keeping me prisoner—that would make me sound crazy. I arrange some bullshit about him being worried about me on the tip of my tongue but then my father beats me to it, speaking first.

“Thursday...” The expression he’s wearing is the same one he used on my sister and me as children. I don’t know whether to buckle down for the talking-to of a lifetime or to be offended that he still thinks I’m twelve. “Enough with this Seth business.” He slices the air with his hand, palm down like he’s chopping the “Seth business” in half. “All of that needs to be put behind you. You need to move forward.”

“Definitely,” I say.

“You should join a gym,” my mother suggests.

“I will.” I nod.

“Well, then...” My father sits up. His job is done. He is free to go home and watch the news, and eat the meals my mother serves him.

“I’m really tired,” I offer.

My father looks relieved. “You go on to bed, then,” he says. “We love you.”

It’s a lie. I hate him.

I see them to the door, already formulating what I’m going to do as soon as the lock latches behind them. Call Hannah...pack a bag...leave. Call Hannah...pack a bag...leave. But I don’t even make it to the bedroom to look for my phone when Seth is walking through the door. He has that Honey, I’m home! look about him. Swooping in to rescue me from myself. I straighten up where I’m bent over the nightstand, silently cursing myself for not getting rid of my parents sooner.

“What are you up to?” It would be such a normal question if not for everything that’s transpired the last few weeks. Now his tone frightens me.

“Looking for my cortisone cream.” I smile. “I think the medication is giving me a rash.” I scratch at my arm absently.

“Wouldn’t it be in the medicine cabinet?”

“I had it next to the bed a few months ago, but maybe...” I look toward the bathroom, still scratching.

“I’ll get it for you.” His tone is bright but I see the barely perceptible shift in his eyes. He’s walking differently: his steps stiffer, his shoulders held at a rigid angle. What are you up to? My shiver is delayed as I watch him step toward the bathroom, flicking on the light. He comes back with the cream a few seconds later. I paste a smile onto my face, like I’m grateful...relieved. It’s a smile I would have worn months ago and meant it. I make a show of uncapping the tube and rubbing the cream on my arm. Seth leans in to examine the spot. I notice for the first time how much his hair is graying. The stress of three wives and the stress of keeping up with his lies must be taking a toll on him. He’s put on weight, too. “I don’t see anything,” he says.

“It’s itchy.” My words sound flat even to my own ears.

He straightens up and meets my eyes. “I didn’t say it wasn’t.”

We stand there like that for what seems like minutes but I know is only a few seconds, staring each other down.

“My mother—” I start to tell him that she was here with my father. Seth’s eyes are on my arm again.

“She said she’d be back tomorrow. She will stay with you then,” he says without looking up.

“I don’t need a babysitter,” I say. “I’m fine.”

He turns away for the first time. “We care about you, Thursday. Until you’re well again, someone will be here to stay with you.”

I have to get out of here. I have to go.

We go to bed at the same time—couple’s bedtime—but Seth doesn’t sleep in the bed with me. He sleeps on the sofa, the television playing all night. It’s the only time I’m alone and I’m grateful to have the bed to myself. It’s all too much, this pretending. When I go to the bathroom he knocks on the door and asks if I’m all right. On my fifth day home, Seth gives me my phone back—gives my phone back like I’m a child who needs permission. There are texts from my boss wishing me a speedy recovery and telling me that my shifts have been covered, texts from Lauren before she found out where I was and texts from Anna from four days prior asking when we could chat next. I send a quick text to Anna apologizing for being busy and tell her I’ll call soon.

When I look for the texts from Hannah, I find that they’ve been deleted, along with her number.

“My voice mails are empty,” I say casually. “Did you delete them?”

He looks up from the book he’s reading, a thriller he chose from my collection. He’s not turned a page in five minutes. He shakes his head, his mouth dipping at the corners as he glances up at me. “No.”

That’s it? No? He goes back to “reading” his book, but his eyes aren’t moving. He’s watching me. I set the phone down, humming as I move things around on my little desk, pretending to swipe at the dust. I am a happy wife. I feel safe and secure with my husband here. When he looks at me again, I smile as I straighten a stack of bills, making sure their corners are neat. What are you up to, you fucking bastard?

My fingers itch for my laptop, to search Hannah’s name like I did that first time. It’s been sitting on my desk, charging since the last time I used it. My laptop is password protected, so there’s no way Seth could have guessed my password and wiped everything from there, too.

But the truth is I’m scared. I saw the look in his eyes the day I fell and knocked myself out in the kitchen. And Hannah—he hit Hannah. God, I don’t even know if she’s okay.

I bide my time. On the sixth night, I crush up one of my sleeping pills while I’m heating the soup on the stove. Seth is trying to find us something to watch on TV, since we’ve already worked our way through two seasons of some mindless reality show.

I ladle out the soup and stir the powder into his bowl of minestrone, then add hot sauce—just the way he likes it. We make it through one episode of Friends before he nods off on the couch, his mouth hanging open and his head thrown back as he snores. I say his name—“Seth...” and then, “Seth...?” a little louder. When he doesn’t respond after a hard poke on the arm, I stand up carefully, my heart pounding. The carpet cushions my steps but still they sound like an elephant stampede. What would he do if he caught me? I’ve never gone through his phone before. There were no set rules about privacy other than in regard to the wives. I just never looked through his things and he never looked though mine. That is, until he went through it to delete Hannah’s texts. It is a new age in our marriage.

His phone sits facedown on the coffee table. I try to remember if that is normal, if he’s done this before. But no—his phone is always faceup, open and willingly exposed. A friend in college once told me about her cheating boyfriend, who she caught always putting his phone facedown. I should have known, she’d said. That’s such a clear indicator. But Seth isn’t exactly cheating, is he? He doesn’t want me to see their names pop up on his screen. He’s busy trying to convince me that they don’t exist. I reach for his phone, never taking my eyes from his face. There is a commercial on TV about a woman with crocodile skin, when she uses their lotion she becomes magically smooth. She runs her fingers across her arm and smiles at me convincingly as I type in Seth’s password.

His password has always been the same thing since we met, something horribly predictable I’d seen him type into his phone a hundred times. I’m surprised when his screen lights up and I’m given access to his home screen. Of course he hasn’t changed it—he’s in control of the situation, he’s in control of me. His phone never leaves his side and I am, for the most part, supervised every minute of the day. Or he wants me to see. I go first to his contacts and search Hannah’s and Regina’s names. Nothing comes up, nothing. My husband does not know a single Hannah or Regina. But just a few weeks ago we’d been drinking cider at the market when Regina’s name had popped up on his phone: a call about their dog. I hadn’t imagined that. His text messages are void of anything interesting: my mother, my sister checking on how I am, work, clients, contractors...me. His voice mails are the same and so is his email.

I’ve not moved from the spot where I’m standing, but I’m breathing hard. He’s cleared everything. He wanted me to find this and see...nothing. I set his phone back on the coffee table, careful to position it just the way he had it, then I creep over to my laptop. But it won’t turn on. The power button stays stubbornly dark even when I hold it down. He’s done something to it. I wipe my sweaty palms on my pants; my hands are shaking as I punch at the button one last time. I don’t know if I’m angry or afraid. Why would he do this? Or maybe it wasn’t him. Computers stop working all the time. Two...three...four...it doesn’t turn on. No, I bought this computer just a year ago. It was fine before...before I told my husband that I’d found his other wife, that is.

I find my phone in a rush to text Lo and tell her what’s happened. My thoughts come out in bursts as I glance over my shoulder to see if Seth has stirred in his sleep. I send one text after another until there are dozens of little blue bubbles on my screen. It looks manic and I immediately regret sending them. I delete each one in case Seth looks at my phone, and then wait for her to text me back, for the bubble to appear to acknowledge that she’s seen what I’ve sent, but it doesn’t come.

Seth has hidden my car keys and wallet. It’s just past seven when I grab a change of clothes and dig out the spare car key fob I keep hidden in the junk drawer. I’ll need cash. I bite hard on my lip as I slide the crisp hundred dollar bill from his wallet. He keeps another five hundred in the bread box for emergencies. My walk to the kitchen is a long one, and I agonize over what I’ll do if the money is gone, but when I lift the lid, the first thing I see is the wad of cash, cello-wrapped in the corner and sitting next to one lonely raisin. I stuff an armful of necessitites into a bag and, with Seth still slumbering on the sofa, I head for the door. I freeze when the door chimes, the noise so loud in my own ears I’m convinced it has woken everyone in the building. My body tenses; Seth’s hands would be on me at any moment, pulling me back. I whip my head around to see how close he is, ready to sprint away before he gets a grip, but when my eyes search the room, I see him still slumped across the sofa in sleep.

I don’t really know how long I’ll be gone. If I run out of cash I could call Anna, ask her for some money, but she’d insist on coming out here and then I’d have to explain everything. No...think...there has to be another way. And then it comes to me. I head to the elevator, my stomach in my throat. What if he woke up? What would he do to stop me? If he tried to restrain me, would I be able to get away? I could scream, and perhaps a neighbor would come to help. I jab at the elevator button, imagining every terrible thing that could go wrong. Hurry, hurry... It will take him a bit to figure out where I’m going. He’ll check with my mother and Anna first, perhaps the hospital to see if anyone’s heard from me. That will buy me a few hours. As a last resort, he’ll assume I went to see Hannah, but by that time I’ll already be there. As the elevator jars to life, it occurs to me that Seth may have placed a tracking device on my phone. I wouldn’t put it past him, would I? There are apps for that. Phone locators. I hold the phone in my palm and stare down at it. Seth is a planner, Seth leaves no corner unswept. When the doors open, I hesitate only for a moment before I drop it on the floor of the elevator and step out.