The Wife Between Us(25)

“You had an abortion?” I couldn’t read the expression in Richard’s voice.

I looked up at my husband again.

And I knew I couldn’t tell the full truth, either.

“I, ah, I had a miscarriage.” I cleared my throat again and avoided his stare. “I was only a few weeks along.” That part, at least, was true. Six weeks.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Richard leaned back, away from me. Shock flitted across his face, then something else. Anger? Betrayal?

“I wanted to. . . . I just—I guess I couldn’t figure out how.” It was such an inadequate response. I’d been so stupid to hope he’d never find out.

“Were you ever going to tell me?”

“Listen,” Dr. Hoffman interrupted. “These conversations can get emotional. Do you two need a moment?”

Her tone was calm, the thick silver pen she’d been jotting notes with poised in midair, as if this were a normal interlude. But I couldn’t imagine that many other wives had kept the same kind of secrets from their husbands as I had. I knew I’d have to privately tell Dr. Hoffman the full truth at some point.

“No. No. We’re fine. Let’s keep going?” Richard said. He smiled at me, but a few seconds later he crossed his legs and released my hand.

When the questions were finally over, Dr. Hoffman conducted my physical and blood work while Richard sat in the waiting area, thumbing through emails on his BlackBerry. Before she left the room, Dr. Hoffman put a hand on my shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. It felt like a motherly gesture, and my throat convulsed as I tried to hold back tears. I’d hoped Richard and I would still go to lunch, but he said he had postponed the client meeting to one o’clock and he needed to get back to the office. We rode the elevator downstairs in silence along with a few strangers, all of us staring straight ahead.

When we stepped outside, I looked up at Richard. “I’m sorry. I should have . . .”

He’d silenced his phone during our appointment, but now it began to buzz with an incoming call. He checked the number, then kissed me on the cheek. “I need to take this. I’ll see you at home, sweetheart.”

As he walked down the street, I stared at the back of his head and willed him to turn around and give me a smile or a wave. But he just rounded a corner and disappeared.

That wasn’t the first time I’d betrayed Richard, and it wouldn’t be the last. Nor would it be the worst—not even close.

I’d never been the woman he thought he’d married.


During a lull in customers at Saks I duck into the break room for coffee. My stomach has settled but a dull ache lingers between my temples. Lisa, a salesperson from the shoe department, is sitting on the couch, nibbling a sandwich. She is in her twenties, blond and pretty in a wholesome way.

I pull my gaze away.

One of my psychology podcasts featured the Baader-Meinhof phenomenon. It’s when you become aware of something—the name of an obscure band, say, or a new type of pasta—and it seems to suddenly appear everywhere. Frequency illusion, it’s also called.

Young blond women are surrounding me now.

When I came into work this morning, one was trying on lipstick at the Laura Mercier counter. Another was touching fabrics in the Ralph Lauren section. Lisa raises her sandwich for a bite and I see the ring gleaming on her left hand.

Richard and his fiancée are getting married so quickly. She can’t possibly be pregnant, can she? I wonder again. I feel the familiar hitch in my breath and the cold seep into my body, but I force myself to ward off the panic.

I need to see her today. I need to know for certain.

She lives not too far away from where I stand right now.

Sometimes you can learn a lot about people online—everything from whether they had sour cream on their lunchtime burrito to their upcoming wedding date. Other people are harder to track. But with almost everyone, you can determine a few baseline facts: Their address. Their phone number. Where they work.

You can learn other details by watching.

One night, back when we were still married, I followed Richard to her place and stood outside her apartment. He was carrying a bouquet of white roses and a bottle of wine.

I could have pounded on the door, pushed my way in behind him, screeched at Richard, and demanded he come home.

But I didn’t. I returned to our house, and a few hours later, when Richard arrived, I greeted him with a smile. “I left dinner for you. Should I heat it up?”

They say the wife is always the last to know. But I wasn’t. I just chose to look the other way. I never dreamed it would last.

My regret is an open wound.

Lisa, the pretty young saleswoman, is gathering up her things quickly, even though some of her sandwich is still left. She tosses the remains in the trash, sneaking glances at me. Her forehead is creased.

I have no idea how long I’ve been staring.

I exit the break room, and for the rest of my shift, I greet customers pleasantly. I fetch clothing. I nod and give an opinion when asked about the suitability of dresses and suits.

All the while, I bide my time, knowing I’ll soon be able to satisfy my growing need.

When at last I can leave, I find myself being pulled back to her apartment.

To her.





CHAPTER





NINE