The Wife Between Us(97)

I eased the door closed behind me, then headed to the guest room. I’d blamed Sam for our rift, but now that I was reevaluating everything, I’d begun to wonder where the fault truly lay. After our dinner at Pica, we’d drifted further apart. Sam had invited me to a going-away party for Marnie, who was moving back home to San Francisco, but Richard and I already had dinner plans at Hillary and George’s house for the same evening. When I showed up at the party late, bringing Richard with me, I recognized disappointment on my best friend’s face. We stayed for less than an hour. For much of it, Richard stood in the corner on his phone. I saw him yawn. I knew he had an early meeting the next morning, so I made our excuses. A few weeks later, I called Sam to see if she wanted to meet for a drink.

“Richard isn’t going to come, is he?”

I lashed back, “Don’t worry, Sam, he doesn’t want to spend time with you any more than you do with him.”

Our argument escalated, and that was the last time we spoke.

As I entered the guest room and reached under the mattress to retrieve my notebook, I wondered if I’d been so hurt and angry because Sam seemed to know something I wouldn’t allow myself to accept—that Richard wasn’t the perfect husband. That our marriage only looked good on the surface. The Prince. Too good to be true. You’re dressed like you’re going to a PTA meeting. She’d even called me Nellie once in a tone that felt more mocking than joking.

I lifted the mattress with my right hand and stretched out my left arm, sweeping it back and forth on top of the box spring. But I couldn’t feel the familiar edges of my journal.

I eased down the mattress and turned on the nightstand lamp. I dropped to my knees and hoisted the mattress even higher. It wasn’t there. I checked under the bed, then began to peel back the comforter, then the top sheet.

My hands stopped moving when I felt static rise over my skin. I detected Richard’s stare before he spoke a word.

“Is this what you’re looking for, Nellie?”

I slowly rose to my feet and turned around.

My husband stood in the doorway, wearing boxers and a T-shirt, holding my notebook. “You haven’t been writing this week. Although I guess you’ve been busy. You went to the grocery store on Tuesday right after I left for work, and yesterday you drove to the wineshop in Katonah. Sneaky, aren’t you?”

He knew everything I was doing.

He lifted up the journal. “You believe I’m the one who can’t get us pregnant? You think there’s something wrong with me?”

He knew everything I was thinking.

He moved closer to me and I cowered. But he merely took an object off the nightstand behind me. A pen.

“You forgot something, Nellie. You left this here. I saw it the other day.” His voice was different, more high-pitched than I’d ever before heard it, and the cadence was almost playful. “Where there’s a pen, there must be paper.”

He riffled through the pages. “This is fucking insane.” His sentences tumbled out faster and faster. “Duke! Lamb vindaloo! Turning your picture around! I set off the house alarm!” With every accusation, he tore out a new page. “My parents’ wedding photo! You snuck into the storage unit! You’re wondering about my parents’ cake topper? You’ve been going into the city to talk about our marriage to some stranger? You’re psychotic. You’re even worse than your mother!”

I didn’t realize I was backing up until I felt the nightstand hit the back of my legs.

“You were a pathetic waitress who couldn’t even walk down the street without thinking someone was going to come after you.” He dragged his hands through his hair, and part of it stood up. His T-shirt was rumpled and stubble coated his jawline. “You ungrateful bitch. How many women would kill to have a man like me? To live in this house, to vacation in Europe and drive a Mercedes.”

All the blood seemed to rush out of my head; I felt dizzy with fear. “You’re right, you’re so good to me,” I began to plead. “Didn’t you see the other pages? I wrote how generous you were in paying for the animal shelter renovation. How much you helped me when my mom died. And how much I love you.”

I wasn’t reaching him; he seemed to be looking through me. “Clean up this mess,” he ordered.

I dropped to my knees and gathered the pages.

“Tear them up.”

I was crying now, but I obeyed, gathering a handful and trying to rip them in half. But my hands were shaking and the stack of pages was too thick for me to shred.

“You’re so fucking incompetent.”

I sensed a metallic change in the air; it felt swollen with pressure.

“Please, Richard,” I sobbed. “I’m so sorry. . . . Please . . .”

His first kick landed near my ribs. The pain was explosive. I curled into a ball and pulled my knees into my chest.

“You want to leave me?” he shouted as he kicked me again.

He climbed on top of me, forcing me onto my back and pinning my arms with his knees. His kneecaps ground into my elbows.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” I tried to twist away from him, but he was sitting on my abdomen, trapping me in place.

His hands closed around my neck. “You were supposed to love me forever.”

I gagged as I thrashed and kicked beneath him, but he was too strong. My vision became spotty. I wrenched one hand free and clawed at his face as I grew light-headed.