The Wives(18)
“There’s ramen in the pantry,” I say cheerfully. “Chicken and beef.” I wait for a startled reaction, but he doesn’t have one. This is the first Thursday in our marriage that I have not cooked an elaborate meal.
He nods, hands clasped between his knees now. I marvel at the change. All of a sudden, it’s like he doesn’t belong here and I do. He’s lost his power and I sort of like it. I lift the bowl of broth to my lips and drink it down, smacking my lips when I’m done. Delicious. I forgot how good a brick of noodles could be. Oh my God, I’m so lonely.
“So,” I say. I’m hoping to prompt Seth into saying whatever he’s holding behind his teeth. By the strained look on his face, he appears to be choking on all of his unsaid bits. I can’t believe I even entertained the thought that this man could rough up a woman. I study his face, his weak chin and too-pretty nose. It’s strange how perception is altered by bitterness. I’ve never thought his chin weak before, never considered his nose too pretty. The man whose face I’ve always loved and cradled between my palms suddenly looks weak and pathetic, transformed by my flip-flopping opinion of him.
I flip through the channels, not really seeing what’s on the screen. I don’t want to look at him for fear he will be able to see in my eyes the ugly things I’m feeling.
“I thought I’d be good at this,” he says. I spare him a glance before I keep flicking.
“Good at what?”
“Loving more than one woman.”
The laugh that bursts from between my lips is sharp and ugly.
Seth looks at me, chagrined, and I feel a stab of guilt.
“Who can be good at something like that?” I ask, shaking my head. “God, Seth. Marriage to one person is hard enough. You’re right about one thing,” I say, setting the remote down and turning my full attention on him. “I’m disappointed. I feel betrayed. I’m...jealous. Someone else is having your baby and it’s not me.”
The most I’ve said about our situation. I immediately want to reel the words back in, swallow them down. I sound so jaded. It’s not a side of myself I’ve ever let Seth see. Men prefer the purrings of a confident, secure woman—that’s what the books say. That’s what Seth said about me in the first months of our dating: “I like that you’re not threatened by anything. You’re you no matter who else is in the room...” It isn’t that way now, is it? Two other women are in the room, and I notice them every minute of every day. I look around my small living room, my eyes touching the knickknacks and art that Seth and I chose together: a painting of an English seaside, a driftwood bowl that we found in Port Townsend in our first year of marriage, a pile of coffee table books that I swore I needed but have never paged through. All the things that comprise our lives, and yet none are filled with memories, or represent a joining of lives, like a baby would. He shares that bond with someone else. I suddenly feel depressed. Our existence together is a shallow one. If not for children, what is there? Sex? Companionship? Is anything more important than bringing life into the world? I reach up absently to lay a hand on my womb. Forever empty.
EIGHT
It has been a miraculous three sunny days in Washington and the night sky is rejoicing with a spray of stars. I opened the blinds right before bed so we could feel like we were lying underneath them, but now they almost seem too bright as I lie awake next to my snoring husband. I glance at the clock and see it’s just past midnight when suddenly the screen on Seth’s phone lights up. His phone is on his nightstand and I lift myself slightly so I can see who is texting my husband. Regina. I blink at the name. Was that...Tuesday? A client wouldn’t text this late at night, and I know the names of everyone in his office. It had to be. I lie back down and stare at the ceiling saying the name over and over in my head: Regina... Regina... Regina...
Seth’s first wife is Tuesday. I don’t know if it was me or if it was Seth who gave her that nickname, but before Hannah, it was just Seth and the two of us. Three days went to Tuesday, three days to me, and one day was reserved for his travel. Things felt safer back then; I had more control over my own heart and his. I was the new wife, shiny and well-loved—my pussy a novelty rather than a familiar friend. Of course, there was the promise of babies and family, and I would be the one to provide them—not her. That boosted my position, gave me a power.
Tuesday and Seth met sophomore year in college at a Christmas mixer thrown by one of his prelaw professors. Before Seth was business, he was law. When Seth walked in, Tuesday, a second-year law student, was standing by the window sipping her Diet Coke alone and illuminated by Christmas lights. He spotted her right away, though he didn’t get to speak to her until the very end of the night. According to Seth’s account, she was wearing a red skirt and four-inch black heels. A departure from the dowdy attire of the rest of the law students. He doesn’t remember anything about her top, though I doubt it was anything scandalous. Tuesday’s parents were faculty members of the college, observing Mormons. She dressed modestly except for her shoes. Seth said she wore fuck-me shoes right from the get-go, and that over the years, her taste in footwear has intensified. I try to picture her: mousy brown hair, a blouse buttoned to her collarbone and hooker shoes. I asked once what brand she prefers, but Seth didn’t know. She has a whole closet filled with them. “But check if their soles are red,” I wanted to say.