The Wife Between Us(31)

Does she know how Richard feels about dogs?

I’m holding my cell phone to my ear, my body half turned away from her, my umbrella tilted to cover my face. She continues walking toward me and I soak her in. She wears yoga capris and a loose white top, with a Windbreaker tied around her waist. Salad and exercise; she must want to look her best in her wedding gown. She pauses in front of her building, reaching into her purse, and a moment later, she vanishes inside.

I let my umbrella drop and massage my forehead, trying to focus. I tell myself I’m acting crazy. Even if she were pregnant—which I don’t believe is a possibility—she probably wouldn’t be showing yet.

So why did I come here?

I stare at her closed door. What would I even say if I knocked and she answered? I could beg her to call off the wedding. I could warn her that she’ll regret it, that he cheated on me and he’ll do the same to her—but she’d probably just slam the door and phone Richard.

I don’t want him to ever know I’ve followed her.

She thinks she’s safe now. I imagine her rinsing her plastic salad bowl and putting it into the recycling bin, applying a mud mask, maybe calling her parents to talk about last-minute wedding details.

There is still a little time. I cannot be impulsive.

I have a long walk home. I round the corner, retracing her steps. A block later I pass Chop’t and I turn around to go in. I study the menu, trying to guess what she might have craved, so I can order the same thing.

When the server hands me my salad—in a plastic bowl and tucked in a white paper bag alongside a fork and napkin—I smile and thank her. Her fingers brush mine and I wonder if she also waited on my replacement.

Before I am even out the door, I’m suddenly overwhelmed by acute hunger pangs. All the dinners I’ve slept through, the breakfasts I’ve skipped, the lunches I’ve tossed in the trash—they converge upon me now, fueling a nearly savage desire to fill the emptiness inside me.

I step to one side, where there is a counter and stools, but I can’t wait long enough to put down my things and settle into a seat.

My fingers tremble as I open the container and begin to fork in mouthful after mouthful, holding the container close to my chin so I don’t spill any, devouring the tangy greens, chasing bits of egg and tomato around the slippery container with my fork.

I’m queasy as I swallow the final bite, and my stomach feels distended. But I am as hollow as ever.

I throw away the empty bowl and begin to walk home.


When I enter the apartment, I see Aunt Charlotte splayed on the couch, her head angled against a cushion, a washcloth draped over her eyes. Usually on Sunday nights she teaches an art-therapy class at Bellevue; I haven’t known her to ever miss one.

I’ve also never seen her nap before.

Worry pierces me.

She lifts her head at the thump of the door closing and the washcloth slips off, into her hand. Without her glasses, her features seem softer.

“Are you okay?” I recognize the irony: It’s an echo of the words she has repeated to me ever since a cab deposited me on the curb outside her building with three suitcases stacked behind me.

“Just a killer headache.” She grips the edge of the sofa and stands. “I overdid it today. Check out the living room. I think I cleared away twenty years of clutter after my subject left.”

She is still wearing her painting uniform—jeans topped by one of her late husband’s blue oxford shirts. By now the shirt is soft and worn, decorated with layers of drips and splatters. It’s a work of art in itself; a visual history of her creative life.

“You’re sick.” The words seem to propel themselves out of me. My voice is high and panicky.

Aunt Charlotte walks over and puts her hands on my shoulders. We are nearly the same height and she looks directly into my eyes. Her hazel eyes are faded by age, but they are as alert as ever.

“I am not ill.”

Aunt Charlotte has never shied away from difficult conversations. When I was younger, she explained my mother’s mental-health issues to me in simple, honest terms, ones I could understand.

Even though I believe my aunt, I ask, “Promise?” My throat thickens with tears. I cannot lose Aunt Charlotte. Not her, too.

“I promise. I’m not going anywhere, Vanessa.”

She hugs me and I inhale the scents that grounded me as a girl: linseed oil from her paints, the lavender she dabs on her pulse points.

“Have you eaten? I was going to throw something together. . . .”

“I haven’t,” I lie. “But let me make dinner. I’m in the mood to cook.”

Maybe it’s my fault she is exhausted; maybe I’ve taken too much from her.

She rubs her eyes. “That would be great.”

She follows me to the kitchen and sits on a stool. I find chicken and butter and mushrooms in the refrigerator and begin to pan-sear the meat.

“How did the portrait go?” I pour us each a glass of sparkling water.

“She fell asleep during our session.”

“Really? Naked?”

“You’d be surprised. Overprogrammed New Yorkers often find the process relaxing.”

As I whisk together a simple lemon sauce, Aunt Charlotte leans over and inhales. “It smells delicious. You’re a much neater cook than your mother.”