The Wives(42)

Sarah’s face is blanched, her lips pursing and squishing for an answer. Silly girl, she’ll get the hang of it in a year or so. She’s required to tell me what drugs they’ve given me; she’s not required, however, to tell me why. I want to take advantage of her lack of experience before someone with more knowledge comes in, but then the doctor is there, his pinched face stern and unyielding. Sarah scurries from the room and he narrows in on me, tall and bent—the kind of figure that could be frightening, if you watch too many horror films.

“Haldol?” I ask again. “Why?”

“Hello to you, too, Thursday,” he says. “I’m hoping you’re comfortable.”

If comfortable means drugged up, then yes, I’m sure I am. I stare at him, refusing to play this game. I’m terrified, my stomach in knots, my brain fighting through the drugs to gain control. I want Seth to be here; I long for the reassurance of his unwavering confidence, and yet I’m disgusted with him, too. Why? Why can’t I remember?

“I’m Dr. Steinbridge. I was a consulting doctor on your case last time you were with us.”

“The last time Seth had me locked me up in the nuthouse?” My voice is hoarse. I lift a hand to touch my throat, then change my mind, dropping it to the sheet instead.

“Do you remember the circumstances that brought you here, Thursday?”

I hate the way he keeps saying my name. I grind my teeth, the humiliation sinking deep into my body. I don’t remember and admitting that will make me sound crazy.

“No,” I say simply. “I’m afraid the memories have disappeared along with my husband.”

Dr. Steinbridge makes no indication that he’s heard my snark. His long, gangly legs make their way over to the bed, and it looks as if the bones in them could snap at any moment and send him sprawling to the floor.

I don’t suppose if I ask directly where Seth is, he’d answer me, either. That’s the thing about these doctors—they answer questions selectively, often turning your own questions around on you. It’s funny that I’ve spoken to enough shrinks to know how they do things.

“I’m going to ask you some questions, just to rule out a concussion,” he says. “Can you tell me your name?”

“Thursday Ellington,” I answer easily. Second wife of Seth Arnold Ellington.

“And how old are you, Thursday?” he asks.

“Twenty-eight.”

“Who is the current president?”

I scrunch up my nose. “Trump.”

He chuckles a little at that one, and I relax.

“Okay, good, good. You’re doing great.”

He’s talking to me like I’m a child or slow of understanding. I’m irritated, but I try not to let on. I know how hospitals deal with uncooperative patients.

“Any nausea?” he continues.

I shake my head. “No, none.”

He seems pleased by my answer because he marks something off on his chart.

“Why can’t I remember coming here?” I ask. “Or what happened before?”

“It could be the hit your head took, or even stress,” he says. “When your brain is ready, it will impart those memories to you, but for now all you can do is rest up and wait.”

“But can you tell me what happened?” I plead. “Maybe it will trigger something...”

He twines his fingers, letting them drop to his waist as he stares up at the ceiling. He looks like a grandfather getting ready to recount a long-ago memory to a room full of grandkids instead of a doctor talking to a woman in a hospital bed.

“On Tuesday evening, you were in the kitchen. Do you remember?”

“Yes,” I say. “With Seth.”

He consults his chart. “Yes, that’s right. Seth.”

I keep my face even as I wait for him to say more. I won’t take the bait and prompt him, though I desperately want to know.

“You attacked him. Do you remember that?”

I do. It comes back to me, a wave crashing over my head. I remember the anger, flying across the kitchen toward him. The feeling of wanting to claw at his skin until he bled. The reason for my anger comes back, too, and I grip the sheets as I remember—first Hannah, and then his denial.

“Why did you attack him? Do you remember?”

“Yes. He hit his other wife. I confronted him about it and we fought.”

He cocks his head to the side. “His other wife?”

“My husband is a polygamist. He has three.” I expect him to react, to be shocked, but instead he writes something down on the notepad in front of him and then looks up at me expectantly.

“Did you see him hit his wife?”

“One of his wives,” I say, frustrated. “And no, but I saw the bruises on her arm and face.”

“Did she tell you that he hit her?”

I hesitate. “No—”

“And you all live together, you and these other wives?”

“No. We don’t even know each other’s names. Or we’re not supposed to.”

The doctor lowers his pen, looking at me over the rim of his glasses.

“So you’re a polygamist in that your husband—”

“Seth,” I say.

“Yes, Seth, has these relationships with two other women whose names you don’t know.”