The Wife Between Us(96)

“Jesus,” Richard says. But his lips are tightening.

“He tried to convince me it was my fault we couldn’t have kids!” I blurt.

I see Richard’s hands curl into fists and I reflexively flinch, but I press on.

“And he hurt me, Emma. He hit me and he knocked me down and he almost strangled me. Ask him about the jewelry he gave me to cover my injuries. He will hurt you, too! He will ruin your life!”

Richard exhales and squeezes his eyes shut.

Can she sense how close he is to the edge? I wonder. Has she ever seen Richard disappear into anger before? But perhaps I’ve said too much. She might’ve believed some of what I’ve told her, but how can she reconcile my outlandish accusations with the solid, successful man standing beside her?

“Vanessa, there is something deeply wrong with you.” Richard pulls Emma close to him. “You are never to come near her again.”

The restraining order means Richard will have an official record of my being a menace to them. If there is ever a violent confrontation between us, the evidence will support his side. He always controls the perception of our narrative.

“You need to leave.” Richard walks over and reaches for my elbow. I flinch, but his touch is gentle. He has vanquished his anger for now. “Should I take you downstairs?”

I feel my eyes widen at his words. I shake my head rapidly and try to swallow, but my mouth is too dry.

He wouldn’t do anything to me in front of Emma, I assure myself. But I know what he is insinuating.

As I walk past Emma, she folds her arms across her chest and turns away.





CHAPTER





THIRTY-FIVE




I wish I could have given my Moleskine notebook to Emma along with the Raveneau receipt. Maybe if she had the chance to leaf through the pages, she would detect the undercurrent churning together these seemingly disparate events.

But that notebook no longer exists.

By the time I wrote my last entry, my journal contained pages and pages of my recollections and, increasingly, of my fears. After the night when Richard told me he’d gone for the sperm analysis and I vowed to get to the bottom of what had really happened, I could no longer suppress my intuition. My notebook served as a courtroom, with my words arguing both sides of every issue. Perhaps Richard went to a different clinic to have his semen tested, I’d written. But why would he do that when he’d scheduled an appointment at the original one? I’d hunch over in bed in the guest room, the dim bulb in the nightstand light illuminating my scribblings as I tried to puzzle out other confusing encounters, going back to the very beginning of our marriage: Why did he tell me the lamb vindaloo I made was delicious, then leave more than half of it on his plate and send me a gift certificate for cooking lessons the following morning? Was it a thoughtful gesture? Was he trying to convey a subtle message about the inadequacy of the meal? Or was it a punishment for my revelation that day at Dr. Hoffman’s office that I’d gotten pregnant in college? And, a few pages before that: Why would he suddenly appear the night of my bachelorette party when he hadn’t been invited to join us? Did love or control propel him?

As my questions mounted, it became impossible for me to continue to deny it: Something was either deeply wrong with Richard, or deeply wrong with me. Both possibilities were terrifying.

I had been certain Richard sensed the change between us. I couldn’t help withdrawing from him—from everyone. I dropped out of all my volunteer work. I rarely went into the city. My friends from Gibson’s and the Learning Ladder had moved on with their lives. Even Aunt Charlotte was away; she and a Parisian artist friend had arranged a six-month apartment exchange, something they’d done several times in the past. I had felt steeped in loneliness.

I explained to Richard that I was depressed because we couldn’t have a baby. But not being pregnant was a blessing now.

I escaped into alcohol but never around my husband. I needed to be sharp in his presence. When Richard noted the amount of wine I was consuming during the day and asked me to stop drinking, I agreed. Then I began driving a few towns over to buy my Chardonnay. I hid the empty bottles in the garage and sneaked out on early-morning walks to bury the evidence in a neighbor’s recycling bin.

The alcohol made me sleepy, and I napped most afternoons, sobering up in time for Richard’s return from work. I craved the comfort of soft carbohydrates and soon dressed only in my forgiving yoga pants and loose tops. I didn’t need a psychiatrist to tell me that I was trying to add a protective layer to my body. To make me less attractive to my trim, fitness-conscious husband.

Richard didn’t directly say a word about my weight gain. I’d shed and put on the same fifteen pounds several times throughout our marriage. Whenever my weight ticked upward, he made a point of requesting that I cook broiled fish for dinner, and when we went to restaurants, he eschewed bread and asked for his salad dressing on the side. I followed his lead, ashamed that I lacked his discipline. On the night of my birthday dinner with Aunt Charlotte at the club, I’d grown agitated, but not because I thought the waiter had made a mistake with my salad. By that birthday my old clothes no longer fit. My husband had refrained from commenting on this.

But the week before the celebratory dinner, he’d bought a new, high-tech scale and had set it up in our bathroom.


One night I woke up in our Westchester house desperately missing Sam. I’d realized the previous afternoon that it was her birthday. I wondered how she was celebrating. I didn’t even know if she still worked at the Learning Ladder and lived in our old apartment, or if she’d gotten married. I turned to see the clock announce it was almost three A.M. This wasn’t unusual; I rarely slept through the night anymore. Beside me in bed, Richard was like a statue. Other women complained about their husbands snoring or hogging the blankets, but Richard’s stillness always camouflaged whether he was deeply slumbering or on the verge of waking up. I lay there for a few moments, listening to his steady exhalations, then I slipped out from beneath the covers. I padded quietly to the door, then glanced back. Had my movements awoken him? In the darkness it was impossible to tell if his eyes were open.