The Wives. Tarryn Fisher
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Another shock. My Seth does not like to entertain. I try to picture him standing underneath the exposed beams of this ceiling, chopping onions at the marble island while Hannah pulls something from the double oven. It’s all too much and suddenly I feel dizzy. I lift a hand to my head and reach for a chair to steady myself.
“Are you all right?” There is concern in Hannah’s voice. She pulls a stool out from the island and I sit.
“Let me get you some water,” she says.
She returns with a tall glass of water and I drink it, wondering when was the last time I had anything to drink. There was tea at lunch, and a glass of rosé. I’m probably dehydrated.
“Listen, Hannah, you invited a stranger into your house. I could be a serial killer or something. And now you’re giving me water,” I say, shaking my head. “You can’t do things like that.”
Her face looks impish when she grins, her eyes brightly mischievous. She’s significantly younger than I am, but there’s also something regal and old about her. I doubt she ever drank too many Mike’s Hard Lemonades and retched into a toilet all night like I had in my teens. No, this woman is too put together, too responsible and too well-spoken. I could see what Seth saw, the elegance. The perfect mother to the perfect child.
“Well, now’s the right time to make a snack,” she says playfully. “I haven’t eaten.” She goes to the fridge and then the pantry, humming as she pulls things out. And when she comes back, there is an assortment of cheese, crackers and fruit on a wooden board, all arranged in a very artistic and grown-up way. I feel a kinship with her, her willingness to feed a stranger. I would have done the same. I eat a few pieces of cheese and immediately feel better.
As we eat, she tells me that she’s a freelance photographer. I ask if the framed prints in the hallway are hers. She lights up when she tells me yes. And again, I wonder why there aren’t any family photos around. You’d think a photographer would have a slew of pictures in their home.
“What do you do?” she asks me, and I tell her that I’m a nurse.
“Here at Regional?” she asks, interested.
“No, no. I’m here with my husband for the weekend. I live in Seattle.” I don’t expound on any of that. I’m scared to give myself away. We chat for a while longer about hospitals and the restoration of Hannah’s beautiful home before I stand.
“I’ve taken enough of your time,” I say, smiling at her warmly. “Look, this was so nice of you. Can I take you out to lunch next time I’m in town?”
“I’d love that,” she says eagerly. “I’m not from Oregon. I moved here to be with my husband, so I haven’t made many friends.”
“Oh, where are you from?” I tilt my head to the side, trying to recall if Seth had told me where she was from.
“Utah.”
My skin prickles. Seth is from Utah. Had he known Hannah when he lived there? No, that isn’t possible. Tuesday is his first wife; he’d been with her in Utah. There is an age difference between Seth and Hannah, so it isn’t likely they went to school together. Hannah pulls her phone from her back pocket and I tell her my number so she can program it in.
I head for the foyer and put on my shoes. I’m suddenly desperate to get out of here. What was I thinking, anyway? Seth could stop home during his lunch break and find me with Hannah. What would he say if he found two of his wives together? I make for the door and bend down to lift the lip of my shoe from where it’s folded against my heel. It’s then that I see the shards of glass on the floor near the window—two inches long and jagged. I pick it up and hold it in my palm. There is an empty hook on the wall where a picture once hung. I turn around to show the glass to Hannah.
“It was on the floor,” I say. “Don’t want you to slice your foot open...”
She takes it, thanking me, but I notice the blush that has crept up her neck. “Must have been the photo I had hanging there. There was an accident and it fell off the wall.”
I nod. These things happen. But then, as she pulls her hand away, the glass held gingerly between her fingers, I notice a sizable cluster of bruises on her forearm. They’re just turning purple. I avert my eyes quickly, so she won’t catch me staring, and open the door.
“Goodbye, then,” I say.
She waves before shutting the door.
I think about her bruises all the way back to my car. Had they looked like finger marks? No, I tell myself. You’re seeing things.
I have just enough time to get back to the hotel and take a shower before I’m supposed to meet Seth for dinner. I’m distracted this time, almost driving into the back of a delivery truck that is stalled at a red light. Hannah, Hannah, Hannah. Her face swims before my eyes. I wear the black dress he likes, tight in all the right places, and let my hair hang loose around my shoulders. Beneath the dress, I am wearing the lingerie I chose earlier in the afternoon. The lace is itchy and I’ve made comparisons in my mind about how Hannah would look wearing the same thing. It will be a good night, I tell myself. I am looking forward to being with him during our stolen time. It feels like cheating and that thrills me. Hannah might be everything I’m not, but he chose to spend tonight with me. I call him to check the time of the reservation, and when he answers, his voice warms me right where it counts.
“How much did you spend?” he asks.
He’s joking, of course. He likes to act frugal when I spend money, but he always asks to see the things I bought and comments on them. He’s an interested husband, and those are rare.
“A lot,” I tell him.
He laughs. “I can’t wait to see you. I’ve been distracted at work all day thinking about tonight.”
“Will you come here, or should I meet you?” I ask.
“I’ll meet you there. Did you bring that black dress I like?”
“Oh, yes,” I say, smiling a little. Most days I still get butterflies when I hear his voice on the phone. Sometimes it makes me feel easy, like all he has to do is use that deep rumble and I’m putty in his hands. But today there is an absence of emotion as I listen to him. I can feel the slight disconnect in the recesses of my mind. We are bantering like we normally do, but my heart’s not in it. Perhaps actually seeing Hannah, the other wife, changed things for me. Made it all real instead of a situation I emotionally detached myself from. Their baby. Their trip to Mexico. Their house. I wish I had time for a drink, I think miserably as I grab my coat off the seat.
Seth is waiting for me outside when I pull up to valet. The restaurant is quaint and romantic—a place where new couples come to connect and old couples come to reconnect. I thrill that this is what he chose for our night together, noting the crisp, white linen napkins and ankle-length aprons the servers wear. The hostess leads us to a table in the corner; I take the seat facing the window. Instead of sitting across from me, Seth slides in next to me.
I look around to see if anyone is watching us, if they care. When I discover that no one is pointing fingers and laughing, I relax.
“I never thought I’d be that girl,” I say, sipping my water.
“We used to make fun of them, remember?” Seth laughs. “The gross couples...”
I smile. “Yeah, but now I feel like I can’t get enough of you. Probably because I have to share.”
“I’m yours,” he says. “I love you so much.”
His voice sounds flat to me. Has it always sounded like