The Wives

TWENTY-EIGHT

Hannah’s car is parked in its usual spot along the curb. I walk toward it and briefly lay my hand on the hood as I pass, checking for heat. Cold. She hasn’t driven it in a few hours. At least I know she’s home. I move quickly up the path, past the planters to the front door.

I feel skittish, like someone is watching me, but in neighborhoods like this, there is always someone watching. It’s specifically why Seth and I chose the anonymity of a condo instead of a neighborhood and a house: neighbors bearing casseroles in dishes they want you to return, walking their dogs past your house in the evening so they can peer into your windows. I look over my shoulder, scanning nearby windows suspiciously. “You really are crazy, Thursday,” I say under my breath. New level of madness: talking to yourself in public.

The pressure on my chest is almost too much to bear as I near the front door. I feel like I can’t get a good breath. My foot catches a pebble and I slide a little. Take it easy, take it easy. I stare down at my feet, the well-loved flats that are beginning to smell. If Hannah invites me in I don’t want to take them off. Had she made me take my shoes off before? I can’t remember. I ring the bell and step back to wait. What if it isn’t Hannah who comes to the door? What if there is indeed a husband who is living with her? What will I say? My heart is racing as I wait, fingernails pressing into my palms. I’ve begun to sweat. I can feel myself grow clammy.

But then one minute turns into two, and two turns into three. I ring again and peer into the window. No lights are on, though that’s not really telling since it’s the middle of the day. But still, a dark day. The sun has been making short appearances every thirty minutes or so as it searches for holes in the clouds. I walk around the side of the house, past the large windows of the dining room and then through the gate, which is relatively easy to unlatch. If someone sees me they’ll surely call the cops—a strange woman who looks nothing like Hannah circling a home in this upper-class neighborhood.

I’ve never been in the backyard, never even glanced at it when I was inside the house. It’s pretty, Hannah’s little secret garden. I can imagine in summer how the flowers must bloom, but for now the branches are bare, and the rose trellis is empty. There are two empress trees; one grows close to the back of the house, near a window.

I peer inside, scanning the house for any sign of life, and notice that the window is open, the screen the only thing that separates me from the inside. “Hannah...?” I call. “Are you okay? I’m coming in...” I wait, listening. Nothing—not even a shuffle. I consider the screen—it would be easy to pop out. I’d done it before in my childhood home when my mother accidentally locked us out while watering the garden. The fact that the window is open means she hasn’t gone far. Perhaps she took a quick run to the grocery store or post office. Since her car is parked out front, was it Seth who picked her up? I have to move quickly if I really want to do this.

Before I can change my mind, I use my keys to pry the screen off and lower it gently to the grass. My hands are shaking as I pull myself over the ledge and lower myself into the living room. I wait for an alarm to sound, my whole body tense, but after a few seconds when nothing happens, I take a few cautious steps forward. I don’t recall ever seeing Hannah mess with an alarm.

The house smells like someone’s been cooking. I don’t need to peek into the kitchen to know that Hannah was in the middle of something before she left. I take off running, around the corner and up the stairs, my feet pounding loudly on the wood floors. The first door at the top of the stairs is the master bedroom. I push it open, my eyes scanning the room for...what? I run to the nightstand closest to the door and yank open the drawer. A box of tissues, a few paperbacks, Tylenol—the normal junk. There has to be a photograph of Hannah and her husband somewhere.

I look in the dresser drawers, but they are sterile in their organization: underwear—squarely folded in tidy rows. Tank tops in various shades of neutral, socks, lingerie—nothing for men. Where are his drawers? I move to the closet, a tiny walk-in, and eye the gem-toned sweaters and row of jeans. No suits, no dress shirts, no brown loafers next to the line of pumps and flats. If a man shares this bedroom, one couldn’t tell.

There is a small bathroom next to the closet, a single sink, a single toothbrush, peony-scented shower gel resting on the lip of the tub. The medicine cabinet: a diaphragm in its plastic case, various bottles of headache medicine, TUMS. No prenatal vitamins, no shaving cream. I scan the floor for Seth’s dark hairs, so different than Hannah’s blond. If he’d used this bathroom there would be hair—I was always sweeping it up in mine. Nothing, nothing, nothing. What is happening?

I move to the next room, an office. A desk sits against the far wall, so unlike Hannah. It’s modern and square with hard lines—something cheap from IKEA. A cup of pens, a stapler... I search for a bill—something with her name on it or even his. It doesn’t matter, I just need answers. One way or another, I have to know if I’m crazy or if Seth is crazy.

No bills, no mail. Everything is sterile, staged. Oh, God, why is everything so staged? The single closet in the room is empty except for a vacuum. No photos on the walls. Hadn’t I noticed photos when she gave me the tour? A buffalo, perhaps—no, an alpaca! She’d had a large framed photograph of an alpaca. I’d thought it strange.

I run my hands over the space of wall where it had hung, searching for a hole in the paint where the nail had been. It’s there, I find it, smoothed over and repainted to blend.

One more bedroom on this floor, and a bathroom. A floral comforter folded down on the bed, an antique lamp on the nightstand. Nothing personal, nothing as I remember.

What had I smelled downstairs when I climbed in the window? She’d been cooking something and left abruptly. I jog down the stairs and stop in the doorway to the kitchen. A plate of freshly baked cookies, plump, their chips still soft from the oven. I walk closer to the island; there’s something else...a stack of papers...applications. I pick one up, my hand shaking as I lift it from the counter.

“Excuse me...” A voice behind me. Not Hannah. Clearly not Hannah.

“How did you get in here? Appointments don’t start for another hour.”

A woman stands in the doorway, her brows drawn in suspicion. She has the look of a Realtor or property manager: hair in a low ponytail, black slacks and a pink button-down. Positive but not overbearing. She’s shoeless, her feet in panty hose. In her hands she holds the box of socks visitors are to place over their shoes when viewing the house.

“I’m sorry,” I say quickly. “My mistake. I can come back, of course...let me get out of your way.” My heart is hammering in my chest as I move toward the front door. But when I go to pass her, she doesn’t step aside.

She frowns. “How did you get in here?” she repeats, folding her arms across her chest. She’s one of those tough Sally types. Her kid gets shoved on the playground and she’s taking it to the school board. The neighbor’s dog keeps barking and she strong-arms the homeowner’s association into fining them. I could tell her the truth, but chances are she’d call the cops. I eye the phone clipped to her belt. Such a professional.

“Look,” I say. “I didn’t mean to be a bother. I’ll just let myself out.”

“Oh, no, you don’t.” She takes up residence in the doorframe, reaching for her phone. I can see the open window behind me, the tree branches outside trembling in the wind. If she turns her head to the left, she’ll know. I get my shit together. Compose my face, square my shoulders.

“Move. Now.”

She does, the military stance she took a minute ago melts away. Her face looks suddenly cautious as she watches me unlock the front door and step outside. I think about walking around back and replacing the screen, but that will only give her time to call the police.

Large strides get me to my car. I don’t look back as I climb inside and turn on the ignition. I drive without purpose for several miles before I pull into the parking lot of a drugstore. I pull out the application tucked into the back of my pants and stare at the words. Hannah had never mentioned anything about moving. Where was she? Last night she’d been there, watching TV with someone, and today, the house is up for rent.

Without my phone, there’s no one to call, nothing to search online. I could look for a library, use their computer. But no, there is still one person to follow, one story that isn’t adding up. I don’t know nearly enough about Seth’s first wife. There is something about her that is nagging at me, something I can’t place. I need to know more about Regina Coele. For now, Hannah and Seth can wait.