The Wife Between Us(12)
“Regaining trust is a long process, but if both parties are committed to it, it’s very possible,” says a woman identified as a couples therapist on the screen below her image.
The drab-looking wife is babbling on about how they’ve rebuilt trust completely, how their marriage is now their priority, how they lost each other but have found each other again. She sounds as if she’s been reading Hallmark cards.
Then the therapist looks at the husband. “Do you agree trust has been reestablished?”
He shrugs. Jerk, I think, wondering how he got caught. “I’m workin’ on it. But it’s hard. I keep picturing her with that—” A beep cuts off his last word.
So I got it wrong. I thought he was the cheater. The clues were present, but I misread them. Not for the first time.
I bang the mug against my front teeth when I go to sip more Merlot. I slide down lower in bed, wishing I’d left the television off.
What separates a fling from a marriage proposal? I thought Richard was just having some fun. I expected their affair to blaze hot and extinguish itself quickly. I pretended not to know, to look the other way. Besides, who could blame Richard? I wasn’t the woman he’d married nearly a decade ago. I’d gained weight, I rarely left the house, and I’d begun to search for hidden meanings in Richard’s actions, seizing upon clues that I thought indicated he was tiring of me.
She is everything Richard desires. Everything I used to be.
Right after the brief, almost clinical scene that officially ended our seven-year marriage, Richard put our house in Westchester on the market and moved into his city apartment. But he loved our quiet neighborhood, the privacy it afforded. He’ll probably buy another place in the suburbs for his new bride. I wonder if she plans to quit work and devote herself to Richard, to trying to become pregnant, just as I did.
I can’t believe I have any tears remaining, but more slide down my cheeks as I refill my mug again. The bottle is nearly empty and I spill a few drops on my white sheets. They stand out like blood.
A familiar haze settles around me, the embrace of an old friend. I experience the sensation of blurring into the mattress. Maybe this is how my mother felt when she had her lights-out days. I wish I’d understood better back then; I felt abandoned, but now I know some pain is too fierce to battle. You can only duck for cover and hope the sandstorm passes. It’s too late for me to tell her, though. Both of my parents are gone.
“Vanessa?” I hear a gentle knock against my bedroom door and Aunt Charlotte enters. Behind her thick glasses, her hazel eyes look magnified. “I thought I heard the television.”
“I got sick at work. You probably shouldn’t come any closer.” The two bottles are on my nightstand. I hope the lamp is blocking them.
“Can I get you anything?”
“Some water would be great,” I say, slurring the s slightly. I need to get her out of my room quickly.
She leaves the door ajar as she walks toward the kitchen and I pull myself out of bed, grabbing the bottles and wincing as they clink together. I hurry to my armoire and place them on the floor, righting one when it nearly topples over.
I’m back in the same position when Aunt Charlotte returns with a tray.
“I brought some saltines and herbal tea, too.” The kindness in her voice ties a knot in my chest. She places the tray by the foot of my bed, then turns to leave.
I hope she can’t smell the alcohol on my breath. “I left the wine in the kitchen for you.”
“Thank you, honey. Call if you need anything.”
I drop my head back to the pillow as the door closes, feeling dizziness engulf me. Six pills are left. . . . If I let one of the bitter white tablets dissolve on my tongue, I could probably sleep through until morning.
But suddenly I have a better idea. The thought shears through the fog in my mind: They’ve only just gotten engaged. It isn’t too late yet!
I fumble for my bag and grab my phone. Richard’s numbers are still programmed in. His cell rings twice, then I hear his voice. Its timbre belongs to a bigger, taller man than my ex-husband, a juxtaposition I always found intriguing. “I’ll get right back to you,” his recorded message promises. Richard always, always keeps his promises.
“Richard,” I blurt out. “It’s me. I heard about your engagement, and I just need to talk to you. . . .”
The clarity I felt a moment ago wiggles away like a fish through my fingertips. I struggle to grasp the right words.
“Please phone me back. . . . It’s really important.”
My voice breaks on the last word and I press End Call.
I hold the phone to my chest and close my eyes. Maybe I could have avoided the regret ravaging my body if only I’d tried harder to see the warning signs. To fix things. It can’t be too late. I can’t bear the thought of Richard marrying again.
I must have dozed off because an hour later, when my cell vibrates, it jolts me. I look down to see a text:
I’m sorry, but there’s nothing more to say. Take care. R.
At that moment a realization seizes me. If Richard had moved on with another woman, I might be able to eventually patch together a life for myself. I could stay with Aunt Charlotte until I’d saved enough to rent my own place. Or I could move to a different city, one with no reminders. I could adopt a pet. Maybe, in time, when I saw a dark-haired businessman in a well-cut suit turning a corner, the sun gleaming off his aviator shades, I wouldn’t feel my heart stutter before I realized it wasn’t him.