The Wives(23)
The truth is, Lauren’s happy vacations and attentive husband stories make me jealous. She doesn’t have to share her husband with anyone else and I crave that, as much as I try to tell myself that I don’t. Things would be so much easier if the other two weren’t in the picture. Holidays whenever we wanted to take them, dinners out in public where everyone could see what a beautiful couple we were, a husband who opened the front door every night rather than two days a week. Even the fight we had last night would be avoided since it had, in essence, been instigated by the situation.
I’ve just collected my stethoscope and pocketed my trauma scissors when a text comes through from Seth. I cheer up as soon as I see his name. Slamming my locker, I brace myself for what has to be an apology text. I’d accept his apology, of course; I’d apologize myself for causing our argument. No use holding grudges. But when I open my phone, it’s not the message I was expecting to see. My mouth goes dry as I squint at the screen.
I picked some up. I’ll make an excuse and get out of it. Love you.
I stare at the words, trying to make sense of them and then it hits me: this text wasn’t meant for me. Seth made a mistake, typed his message to the wrong name. It’s a painful thing when you realize you’ve received a text your husband meant for another woman. It’s even more painful when you gave him permission to do so. Which one is it? I think bitterly. Regina or Hannah? I squeeze my eyes closed, pocketing the phone, and take a few deep breaths before pushing through the door. I can do this. I signed up for this. Everything’s fine.
In between patients, I alternate between reading Seth’s mistakenly sent text, wondering what exactly it was he was trying to get out of, and scrolling through Regina’s photos. I decide to text Hannah—see if she’ll let on about anything.
Hi! Hope you’re well. Checking how everything is. I send it and pocket my phone until five minutes later when I’m changing someone’s IV and there’s a buzzing on my leg.
“Shoot, I forgot to put that on silent.” I wink at my patient, a middle-aged man who came in with chest pains.
“Go ahead and check it, honey,” he says. “I know how you young people are about your phones.”
The text is from Hannah. Thanks for checking on me. Feeling great! When are you in town next?
Her text is almost too cheerful. Last time I saw her, she’d said that Seth hid her birth control pills to get her pregnant.
Everything okay with you and hubby? I text back. And then, as an afterthought, I add, Maybe later this month. Let’s get together!
All sorted out. And that would be great.
I stick my phone back in my pocket, a frown on my face. Hannah is a happy woman at the moment. “Look at you, Seth,” I say under my breath.
Four hours later, Seth has still not acknowledged that he sent the wrong text to the wrong person. I can’t imagine how exactly he will address it when it does come up. How does one deal with a situation like that? I’m sorry, honey, I meant that text for my other wife.
As for Regina, it’s impossible to stay away now that I know all of the information is out there—just floating around on the internet. It’s creepy actually, that a person can just scroll through your life without you knowing. I’ve studied the photos and visited her friends’ pages, searching for comments she might have left on their posts. I want to know more—everything—even the way she interacts with people.
“You’ve been bent over that phone all night...” Debbie, a middle-aged nurse, swings around the nurses’ station, carrying an armful of charts. Her French braid is the same bright yellow as the suns on her scrubs. I turn back to my phone without acknowledging her, hoping she takes the hint. The last thing I feel like dealing with is questions, especially since Lauren already gave me the third degree.
Debbie drops the folders onto the counter, then scoots next to me, standing on her tiptoes to catch a glimpse of my phone. Her broad expanse of hip and breast brushes against my arm, and I shoot her a look that I hope says, Back off! Some of the other nurses and I have a running joke about it—if anyone gets too nosy you call them Debbie and tell them to back off.
“What are you looking at?” she chirps as I lift my elbows to prevent her from seeing the screen.
Some people have no concept of personal space. I hold the phone to my chest, the screen hidden, and frown at her.
“An ex-girlfriend,” she says matter-of-factly, folding her arms across her ample bosom. “I check on Bill’s all the time.”
Debbie and Bill have been married for as long as I’ve been alive. What ex-girlfriends could still be around to pose a threat to their deep-rooted marriage? I want to ask, but asking Debbie anything means an hour-long conversation. But my curiosity is piqued, so I ask, anyway. “What do you mean?”
“Oh, honey. When you’ve been around as long as me...”
I soften at her tone. Clearly, I’m not the only woman who suffers from insecurities, who lets them get to me until I act irrationally. I structure a question in my mind, one that won’t give anything about my situation away.
“How do you deal with it—the doubts about whether he loves you?”
Debbie blinks at me, surprised. “It’s not his love I’m worried about,” she says. “It’s theirs.”
Someone walks past us carrying a Styrofoam cup of coffee. Debbie waits until she’s around the corner and out of earshot before continuing.