The Wife Between Us(107)

He raises a hand to his forehead, then stares at the streak of red on his palm. He seems oddly distant, as if he’s in shock.

I hate the sight of blood. That was one of the first things he’d ever said to me. I suddenly realize that in all of the ways Richard hurt me, he never once made me bleed.

Maureen hurries into the apartment and returns with a wad of paper towels. She kneels next to him and presses the towels to his wound. “What’s going on?” Her words grow sharper. “Vanessa, why are you here? What did you do to him?”

“He hurt me.” My voice is hoarse and every syllable feels as if one of the shards of porcelain is rubbing against the inside of my throat.

I need to finally say these words.

I grimace as I make my voice louder. “He choked me. He nearly killed me. Just like he used to hurt me when we were married.”

Maureen gasps. “He wouldn’t—no, not—”

Then she falls silent. She is still shaking her head, but her shoulders sag and her face collapses. I am certain that even though she hasn’t yet seen the fingerprint-shaped marks that I know are blooming on my neck, she believes me.

Maureen straightens up. She pulls the paper towels away from Richard’s face and examines his injury. When she speaks again, her tone is brisk, yet caring.

“It isn’t so bad. I don’t think you need stitches.”

Richard doesn’t react to this, either.

“I’ll take care of everything, Richard.” Maureen gathers up the shattered pieces of porcelain. She cups them in one hand, then wraps her arms around her brother and tilts her head close to his. I can just barely make out her whispered words: “I always took care of you, Richard. I never let anything bad happen to you. You don’t have to worry. I’m here. I’m going to fix everything.”

Her utterances are bewildering. But what shocks me most is the strange emotion infusing them. Maureen doesn’t sound angry or sad or confused.

Her voice is filled with something I can’t identify at first, because it is so out of place.

I finally realize what it is: satisfaction.





CHAPTER





FORTY




The building before me could be a Southern mansion, with its grand columns and wraparound porch lined with a tidy row of rocking chairs. But to gain access to the grounds, I have to pass through a gate manned by a security guard and show photo identification. The guard also searches the cloth bag I’m carrying. He raises his eyebrows when he sees the items inside, but merely nods for me to continue on my way.

A few patients at the New Springs Hospital are gardening or playing cards on the porch. I don’t see him among them.

Richard is spending twenty-eight days at this acute mental-health facility, where he is undergoing intensive daily therapy sessions. It is part of the deal he made to avoid being prosecuted for assaulting me.

As I climb the wide wooden steps toward the entrance, a woman unfolds herself from a chaise lounge, her limbs sharp and athletic looking. The bright afternoon sun is in my eyes and I can’t immediately identify her.

Then she moves closer, and I see it is Maureen. “I didn’t know you’d be here today.” I shouldn’t be surprised; Maureen is all Richard has left now.

“I’m here every day. I’ve taken a leave of absence from work.”

I look around. “Where is he?”

One of his counselors passed along Richard’s request: He wanted to see me. At first I was unsure if I would comply. Then I realized I needed this visit, too.

“Richard is resting. I wanted to talk to you first.” Maureen gestures to a pair of rocking chairs. “Shall we?”

Maureen takes a moment to cross her legs and smooth a crease in her beige linen pantsuit. Clearly she has an agenda. I wait for her to reveal it.

“I feel terrible about what happened between you and Richard.” I see Maureen glance at the faded yellow discoloration on my neck. But there is a disconnect between her words and the energy she is conveying. Her posture is rigid and her face is devoid of sympathy.

She doesn’t care for me. She never has, even though early on I’d hoped we would become close.

“I know you blame him. But it isn’t that simple. Vanessa, my brother has been through a lot. More than you ever knew. More than you can ever imagine.”

At this, I can’t help blinking in surprise. She is casting Richard as the victim.

“He attacked me,” I almost shout. “He nearly killed me.”

Maureen seems unaffected by my outburst; she merely clears her throat and begins again. “When our parents died—”

“In the car accident.”

She frowns, as if my remark has irritated her. As if she has planned for this to be less a conversation than a monologue.

“Yes. Our father lost control of their station wagon. It hit a guard-rail and flipped. Our parents died instantly. Richard doesn’t remember much, but the police said skid marks showed my dad was speeding.”

I jerk back. “Richard doesn’t remember—you mean he was in the car?” I blurt.

“Yes, yes,” Maureen says impatiently. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you.”

I am stunned; he concealed more of himself than I ever realized.

“It was horrible for him.” Maureen words are almost rushed, as if she wants to hurry through these details before she gets to the important part of her story. “Richard was trapped in the backseat. He hit his forehead. The frame of the car was all twisted and he couldn’t get out. It took a while for another driver to pass by and call for paramedics. Richard had a concussion and needed stitches, but it could have been so much worse.”