The Wives(38)

“Hannah, damn it! Call me back!” I make a noise of frustration as I pull the phone from my ear, and then realize I haven’t hung up the call yet. Great. I stuff my phone in my pocket and, snatching up my bag, I head for the lobby.

I drive past their house one more time, but neither of their cars are there. Not knowing what to do, I decide to head for home. I can turn around and come back if she needs me. But four hours later, I’m pulling into the garage under my building not having heard from her. Traffic was backed up for miles. Hungry and needing to use the restroom, I waited it out instead of losing my place in the never-ending line of brake lights. I drag my things up the elevator and into my condo, kicking the door shut behind me. I drop my purse near the door and race for the half bathroom.

I emerge hungry and thirsty, about to raid the fridge, when I see movement through the door to the bedroom. My heart seizes in a panic and I freeze. Where is my phone? In the foyer where I’d dropped my handbag?

I look around for signs of my mother, who usually leaves her things on the kitchen counter when she comes over, a pile of designer leather. But everything is just as I left it, right down to the scattering of bagel crumbs near the toaster. I hear movement, feet shuffling against carpet, and then suddenly Seth is standing in the kitchen doorway. I grab at my heart, which is pounding painfully in my chest, bending over slightly at the waist and laughing at myself.

“I thought someone broke in,” I say. “You scared me.”

It takes a minute for a few things to sink in: the first that today is not Thursday; the second, Seth is not smiling; and third—there is a bandage on the knuckles of his right hand. I lick my lips, my brain working frantically. He knows! I think. That’s why he must be here, to sort me out. I’m not the type to lie. Omissions, yes, but if he asks me point-blank about Hannah I’ll tell the truth.

My eyes travel to his face, and for a moment, neither of us say a thing. It’s a staring match, one I’d rather not be in.

“What are you doing here?” I finally say.

His eyes look tired and dull, not the normally mischievous sparkle that is my Seth. My Seth! I almost laugh. I don’t know who that is anymore. Suddenly, I feel frightened.

He answers my question with another question. “Where have you been?”

Ah, a standoff. Who wants to answer first? I think.

I turn to the fridge, remembering my thirst, and grab a bottle of water from the shelf. I offer Seth one before closing the door, holding it out to him. He nods, that stony look still on his face. I toss him the bottle and lean back against the counter while I screw off the lid and drink.

“I saw a friend. I told you.”

“I know what you’re doing,” he says.

I notice his clothes for the first time, a pair of jeans and crewneck sweater that I’d laundered last week. Things that belong here at the condo.

“Have you been here since last night?” That thought hadn’t crossed my mind until I saw the clothes. Had he come here after his fight with Hannah only to find me gone?

“Yes,” he says.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know or I would have come home. Why didn’t you call?”

Seth glares at me and my stomach turns. He has strong squared shoulders, like a Lego man. Women get swoony over his shoulders, but right now they just scare me. How much would it hurt if he hit me? How hard had he hit Hannah? I picture her lithe body and milk skin—one hit, and she’d be bloody and mottled. The baby! I think in a panic. His eyes are searching my face but not in an imploring way; there’s a hardness to them that makes me shiver. This is his way: he prods without actually asking. It’s beneath him to ask questions. We are here for his pleasure.

I raise my chin at how bitter this makes me feel. Something has changed in me. Did it take days...? Weeks...? I cannot pinpoint when or how, but if the shift is noticeable to me, it’s definitely noticeable to my husband, who’s staring at me like I have Egyptian hieroglyphics tattooed on my face. That is male folly; they expect you to always be the same, reliable cow, but women spend their lives changing. Our change can swing for you or against you depending on how fairly we’ve been treated. I swing against, though I can feel the gravity of my love for him trying to pull me back down. He’s a good guy. There has to be an explanation for all of this...

“What have you done?” he says. His eyes, I notice, aren’t a sharp white. They are dingy pink, the shade you get after a long night of drinking.

I try to hide the trembling in my voice. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say.

“Yes, you do.”

I’m breathing through my mouth now. I don’t want him to see how scared I am. I don’t want him to have the upper hand.

The sink drips—it’s the only noise in the room. I hear myself swallow as the seconds tick by, my eyes still on his face.

“What happened to your hand?” I ask.

We both look at his hand. Seth registers the bandage like he’s seeing it for the first time. He splays his fingers, twisting his wrist from side to side, as he blinks at it. A piece of hair falls onto his forehead and it’s the first time I notice that his hair is wet from a shower. What are you trying to wash off?

If his knuckles look like that, what does Hannah look like?

“I hit something.” That’s all he says, like it’s a good enough explanation.