The Wife Between Us(17)
I fall back into bed and reach for the phone. I dial Saks and ask to be put through to Lucille.
“It’s Vanessa.” I’m grateful that my voice still sounds gravelly. “I’m sorry, but I’m still pretty sick. . . .”
“When do you think you might be back in?”
“Tomorrow?” I venture. “Definitely the day after.”
“Right.” Lucille pauses. “We’re starting presales today. It’s going to be very busy.”
She lets the implication hang. Lucille has probably never missed a day of work in her life. I’ve seen the way she appraises my shoes, my clothes, my watch. The way her mouth tightens when I come into work late. She thinks she knows me, that this job is a lark; she is certain she waits on my type every single day.
“I don’t have a fever, though,” I say quickly. “Maybe I can give it a try?”
“Good.”
I hang up and reread Richard’s text, even though every word is branded into my memory, then force myself to get into the shower, turning the knob as far left as possible to make it steaming hot. I stand there while my skin flushes red, then I towel off. I dry my hair and pull it into a twist to hide the roots, promising myself I’ll cover them tonight. I slip on a simple gray cashmere sweater set, black trousers, and a pair of black ballerina flats. I pat on extra concealer and blush to camouflage my sallow complexion.
When I go into the kitchen, Aunt Charlotte isn’t there, but she has set a place for me at the counter. I sip the coffee and nibble the banana bread she left me. I can tell it’s homemade. My stomach protests after a few bites, so I wrap the remains of my slice in a paper towel and dump it in the trash, hoping she will think I ate it.
The front door closes behind me with a metallic clank. It seems that in the past two days the weather has undergone a seismic change. I realize immediately that I am overdressed. It’s too late for me to put on another outfit, though; Lucille is waiting. Besides, the subway stop is only four blocks away.
The air slams into me as I head down the sidewalk: hot, muggy, rank with smells from the waffle vendor on the corner, the garbage that hasn’t been picked up, the wisp of cigarette smoke drifting toward my face. Eventually, I reach the entrance to the subway and descend the stairs.
The sun is blotted out instantly and the humidity feels even thicker down here. I swipe my MetroCard and push through the turnstile, feeling the hard bar resisting against my waist.
A subway car thunders into the station, but it’s not my line. The crowd presses forward, near the edge, but I remain by the wall, away from the lethal electric rail. Some people fall to their deaths here; some are shoved. Occasionally, police can’t determine which has occurred.
A young woman comes to stand beside me by the wall. She is blond and petite, and very pregnant. Tenderly, she rubs her stomach, her hand moving in slow circles. I watch, mesmerized, and it is as if a centrifugal force commands my thoughts, spinning my mind back to the day I sat on the cold tile of my bathroom floor, wondering if one blue line or two would emerge on the pregnancy test.
Richard and I wanted children. A baker’s dozen, he liked to joke, though privately we’d agreed on three. I’d stopped working. We had a maid come every week. This was my only job.
At first I’d worried about the kind of mother I’d be, the unconscious lessons I’d absorbed from my own role model. Some days I’d come home from school to see my mother using a toothpick to excavate crumbs from the cracks in our dining room chairs. Other times, the mail would still be scattered on the floor beneath the slot in the door and dishes would be piled in the sink. I learned early on to not knock on my mother’s bedroom door on her lights-out days. When my mother forgot to pick me up from after-school art classes or play-dates, I became adept at making excuses and suggesting that my father be called instead.
I started packing my own lunches when I was in the third grade. I’d see other kids dip spoons into thermoses of homemade soup or Tupperware containers of pasta shaped like stars—some parents even included notes with jokes or loving messages—while I tried to gobble my daily sandwich fast, before anyone noticed the bread was torn because I’d spread the peanut butter on while it was still cold.
But as the months passed, my yearning for a child surpassed my trepidation. I’d mothered myself; certainly I could care for a child. As I lay beside Richard at night, I would fantasize about reading Dr. Seuss books to a little boy with those long-lashed eyes, or clinking miniature teacups with a daughter who had his endearing lopsided smile.
I’d watched, feeling numb, as a single blue line emerged on the pregnancy test, as vivid and straight as the slash of a knife. Richard had been in the bedroom that morning, easing one of his charcoal wool suits out of the dry-cleaning bag. Waiting for me to emerge. I knew he’d read the answer in my eyes and I’d see the echo of disappointment in his own. He’d stretch out his arms and whisper, “It’s okay, baby. I love you.”
But with this negative test—my sixth in a row—my time was officially up. We had agreed if it didn’t happen after six months, Richard would go for a test. My ob-gyn had explained it was less invasive to count sperm. All Richard would have to do was stare at a Playboy and reach into his pants. He’d joked that his teenage years had prepared him well. I knew he was trying to make me feel better. If Richard didn’t have any issues—and I was certain he didn’t, the problem lay within me—then it would be my turn.