The Wife Between Us(33)

I’d allowed myself to imagine that after I served Richard his favorite meal, we would cuddle in bed and talk. I wouldn’t tell him everything, but I could admit a few of the details. Maybe my revelation would even bring us closer. I’d let him know how terribly sorry I was, how I wished I could erase what had happened and start again.

So there I was, in my exquisite kitchen, stocked with Wüsthof knives and Calphalon pots and pans, cooking dinner for my new husband. I was happy, I think, but I wonder now if my memory is playing tricks on me. If it is giving me the gift of an illusion. We all layer them over our remembrances; the filters through which we want to see our lives.

I’d tried to follow the recipe exactly, but I’d neglected to buy the fenugreek because I had no idea what it was. And when it came time to add the fennel, I couldn’t find it, even though I swore I’d put it in the cart. The fragile emotional peace I’d tried to build began to crumble. I, who had been given everything, couldn’t even manage to make a proper meal.

When I opened the refrigerator door to put back the coconut milk and saw a half-full bottle of Chablis, I hesitated, staring at it.

Richard and I had agreed that I’d stopped drinking, but surely a few sips wouldn’t hurt. I poured myself a half glass. I’d forgotten how good the crisp minerality tasted on my tongue.

I retrieved our pressed blue linen place mats and matching napkins from the big oak armoire in the dining room. I laid out the nice china Hillary and George had given us as a wedding gift. When we first got married, I’d had to consult an online etiquette site to learn how to set a formal table. Despite my mother’s extravagant meals, she was uninterested in the dining ambience; sometimes when all the dishes were dirty, we’d eat off paper plates.

I set candlesticks in the middle of the table and switched the music to classical, selecting Wagner, one of Richard’s favorite composers. Then I retreated to the couch, wineglass by my side. By now our house had more furniture—sofas in the living room, splashes of artwork on the walls, including the portrait Aunt Charlotte had done of me as a child, and an Oriental rug in vivid blues and reds in front of the fireplace—but the rooms still felt a bit characterless to me. If only we’d had a high chair in the dining room, a few soft toys scattered on the rug . . . I stilled my hand when I realized I was tapping my fingernails against my glass and making little chiming sounds.

Richard usually arrived home around eight-thirty, but it wasn’t until after nine that I finally heard his key turn in the lock and the thunk of his briefcase on the floor.

“Honey,” I called. No answer. “Sweetie?”

“Give me a second.”

I listened to his footsteps climbing the stairs. I didn’t know if I should follow him, so I stayed on the couch. When I heard him begin to descend, I caught sight of my wineglass. I ran to the sink, rinsing it out quickly and putting it back in the cabinet still wet, before he could see.

It was impossible to decipher his mood. He could have been upset with me, or he could have just had a tough day at work. Richard had seemed tense all week; I knew he was dealing with a difficult client. During dinner I tried to make conversation, my lighthearted tone masking the worry underneath.

“This is good.”

“I remembered you told me once lamb vindaloo was your favorite dish.”

“I said that?” Richard bent his head to take a forkful of rice.

I’d felt puzzled. Hadn’t he?

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about my . . .” My voice trailed off. I couldn’t say the word.

Richard nodded. “It’s forgotten,” he said quietly.

I’d steeled myself for questions. His words came almost as a letdown. Maybe I’d wanted to share that part of my life with him, after all.

“Okay” was all I said.

As I cleared the table, I noticed half his plate was still full. By the time I’d finished cleaning, Richard was already asleep. I curled up next to him, listening to his steady breaths, until I drifted off, too.

The next morning, Richard left early for the office. Midway through the day, as I was at the hair salon getting highlights, my phone pinged with an incoming email from the local French culinary institute.

The note read, Ma cherie. Je t’aime. Richard. When I opened the attachment, I saw a gift certificate for ten cooking lessons.

“Honey?” Aunt Charlotte’s voice is concerned.

I wipe my eyes and gesture to the cutting board. “Just the onion.” I can’t tell if she believes me.

After dinner, Aunt Charlotte goes to bed early and I clean the kitchen. Then I retreat to my room and listen to the sounds of the old apartment settling in for the night—the sudden hum of the refrigerator, a door slamming in the unit below. Sleep is elusive now, as if I’ve stockpiled enough of it over my lost months to suppress my natural circadian rhythm.

My mind wanders to the topic of a recent podcast: obsession.

“Our genes are not our destiny,” insisted the speaker. But he acknowledged that addiction is hereditary.

I think of the way my mother left a trail of destruction.

I think of the way my mother dug her nails into her palms when she was agitated.

And I think, as always, of her.

A plan begins to form in my mind. Or maybe it has been there all along, waiting for me to catch up to it. To become strong enough to carry it out.