The Wife Between Us(78)

Richard nodded slowly. “Is there a special reason you want to be in the city more frequently?”

I stared at him; of all the things he could say, I didn’t expect this. “What do you mean?”

“One of the neighbors mentioned seeing you at the train station the other day. All dressed up, he said. Funny, but when I called you that morning, you said you’d been swimming laps at the club and that’s why you hadn’t answered the phone.”

I couldn’t deny it; Richard, with his laser-quick mind, would trip me up if I tried to lie. Which neighbor? I wondered. The station had been nearly empty at that time of day.

“I did swim that morning. But then I went to see Aunt Charlotte. Just for a short visit.”

Richard nodded. “Of course. Another cracker? No?” He slid the cardboard tab back into the slot of the box. “There’s no reason why you shouldn’t visit your aunt. How was she?”

“Good,” I blurted as the pounding of my heart softened. He was going to let this go. He believed me. “We had tea at her apartment.”

Richard opened the cabinet to return the crackers, the wood door swinging between us and momentarily hiding his face.

When he closed it, he was looking at me. He was very near. His narrowed eyes seemed to sear through mine. “What I can’t figure out is why you waited until I left for work, got all dressed up, took the train into the city, came home in time to cook dinner, and sat there eating lasagna with me but never once thought to mention that you’d visited your aunt.” He paused for a moment. “Where did you really go? Who were you with?”

I heard a sound like a bird’s cry and realized I’d made it. Richard was gripping my wrist. Twisting it as he spoke.

He looked down and instantly let go, but white ovals from his fingertips remained, like a burn.

“I’m sorry.” He took a step back. Ran a hand through his hair. Exhaled slowly. “But why the fuck did you lie to me?”

How could I tell him the truth? That I wasn’t happy—that everything he’d given me wasn’t enough? I’d wanted to meet someone to discuss my concerns about my marriage. The woman I’d sought out had listened intently to me and asked a few thought-provoking questions, but I knew one session with her wouldn’t be enough. I was planning to sneak back into the city to see her again next month.

But it was too late to conjure a plausible excuse for my deception. Richard had caught me.

I didn’t even see his open palm coming until it connected with my cheek with a loud crack.


For the next two nights, I hardly slept. My head throbbed and my throat felt raw from crying. I covered the scattering of bruises on my wrist with long sleeves and dotted extra concealer over the dark half-moons under my eyes. All I could think of was whether I should stay with Richard or try to leave him.

Then, while I was attempting to read in bed but not absorbing any of the words on the page, Richard gently tapped on the open guestroom door. I looked up to tell him to come in, but at the expression on his face, my words dissolved.

He was cradling the cordless house phone. “It’s your mother.” His face creased. “It’s Aunt Charlotte, I mean. She’s calling because . . .”

It was eleven o’clock at night, past the hour my aunt usually retired. The last time I’d talked to my mother, she’d said she’d been doing well—but she hadn’t returned my most recent calls.

“I’m so sorry, baby.” Richard held out the phone.

Reaching for it was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do.





CHAPTER





TWENTY-NINE




Richard was everything I needed him to be after my mother died.

We flew to Florida with Aunt Charlotte for the burial, and he rented a hotel suite with adjoining rooms so we could all stay together. I remembered how my mom had looked when she was happiest—in the kitchen, clattering pans and tossing spices into a dish, or on her good mornings, singing me a goofy song to wake me up, or laughing as she wiped away the water Duke had splashed on her face after we’d bathed him. I tried to picture her on the night of my wedding, walking barefoot in the sand, her face turned toward the setting sun, as I said that final good-bye. But another image kept intruding: my mother as she’d died—alone, on the couch, with an empty bottle of pills by her side and the television blaring.

There was no note, so we were left with questions that could never be answered.

When Aunt Charlotte broke down at the gravesite, blaming herself for not knowing that my mother had taken a bad turn, Richard comforted her: “None of this is your fault; it isn’t anyone’s fault. She was doing so well. You were always there for your sister, and she felt your love.”

Richard also sorted through the paperwork and arranged for the sale of the little brick rambler where I’d grown up, while Aunt Charlotte and I went through my mother’s personal belongings.

The rest of the house was relatively neat, but my mother’s room was a mess, with books and clothes piled on every surface. Crumbs on her bed told me she’d recently been taking most of her meals there. Old coffee mugs and water glasses crowded her nightstand. I saw Richard’s eyebrows lift in surprise when he noticed the disorder, but the only thing he said was “I’ll have a cleaning service come.”