The Wives(54)

Giving Seth cooking lessons was one of those things we always spoke about but never truly intended to do. It’s like saying you’d take ballroom dancing lessons, or go couples skydiving. Imagine that! and Wouldn’t that be fun! Seth’s about as interested in cooking as I am in building a house.

“Sure,” I say, and to be more convincing, more pliable, I add, “That would be fun.”



When we walk into our condo thirty minutes later I am prickly with nerves. The air smells fresh and I notice that he’s left a window open in the living room. It’s chilly inside and I go to close it. Seth is at my elbow, hovering, like I’m going to snap at any moment. I bump into him on my way back from the window and we apologize like strangers. I’m unsure if he wants to catch me if I fall, or return me to Queen County. This is what I wanted—to be home, yet I am coming home under completely different circumstances: my husband is not the man I thought he was, and I am not the woman I have been pretending to be. Everything looks the same and feels horribly, irrevocably different.

The first thing I do is take a shower: a long, hot, soapy shower. I lather the shampoo in my hair using double what I normally use, and I think of Susan. We hadn’t exchanged information, but I’d like to find her one day, check on her. We could meet for coffee and pretend we didn’t meet in a mental facility. When I step out onto my bath rug, my fingers are shriveled. I press the wrinkled pads together, chewing on my bottom lip. I’m anxious, but for the first time in a long time, I feel clean. I wrap myself in my furry robe, take a deep breath and step out of the bathroom, steam trailing behind me.



“I’m going to stay here with you for a while,” Seth says.

A while? What does “a while” mean? If he’d said those words to me just a month ago, I’d be so thrilled I’d probably throw myself at him, but now I just stare. Two days? Three days? His presence already feels oppressive and it’s only been a few hours. My home feels less private than the hospital I just left. Has he gone through my things? My drawers look rumpled, like someone with unpracticed hands has been shifting things about. Seth and I have always respected each other’s privacy, but now that I know something about him, I’m sure he needs to know things about me.

“What about work?”

“You’re more important than work. You’re my priority, Thursday. Listen,” he says, taking my hands. His hands feel wrong—awkward. Has it been so long that I don’t recognize the feel of them anymore?

“I know I’ve failed you. I realize that I’ve put things before you. I want to make things right between us. Work on our relationship.”

I nod like this is exactly what I want to hear. Forcing a smile, I twist my wet hair on top of my head. I’m as casual and compliant as the old Thursday. Skinnier, though! Seth’s pretty little fuck doll.

“I’ll make us something to eat. You hungry?” I need the distraction, I need to think without Seth watching me, but then he stands up, blocking my way to the kitchen. My heart leaps as adrenaline rushes through my body. If he tries anything, I’m ready, I’ll fight him. I take a full breath, filling my lungs to capacity, and then I smile. It’s the most genuine smile I’ve given anyone in weeks.

“No, let me,” he says. “You rest.”

I exhale, unclenching my fists beneath the sleeves of my robe. I extend my fingers straight out, trying to relax. Seth strolls into the kitchen, glancing around sheepishly. Even in my current situation I want to laugh at his uncertainty. Just like my father. He has no idea what he’s doing. I stand frozen to the spot and then I call out, “I’m not sick, or tired, or broken.”

He peeks his head around the doorway. “Maybe I should ask your mother to come...”

He says it in such a normal, cheerful way, except I don’t want my mother here. And since when did my husband call my mother for backup? She’d fuss and cluck and look at me with disappointed eyes, judging my marriage. I walk into the kitchen, taking him in. He’s standing in front of the open fridge, a package of chicken breasts in his hand. He has no idea what to do with it. I take it from him.

“Scoot,” I say. I bob my head toward the kitchen doorway, indicating that he needs to leave.

He opens his mouth and I cut him off. “I don’t mind. I want to keep busy.”

That seems to appease him. He turns toward the living room, a weak shrug moving his shoulders. This is the essence of him; he makes a big show of effort. It’s always given me the illusion that he’s trying, working hard to please me; but in the end it’s just an act and I’m the one who does the heavy lifting. I pull a pan from the cabinet, cut up an onion and fresh garlic and set them in the hot olive oil. I hate him. When the chicken is sizzling in the pan, I lean back against the counter, folding my arms across my chest. I can hear the television playing from the living room, the news. And then I realize what’s happening: things are returning to normal. Seth is trying to make everything feel like it used to in hopes that I will slip into the role as seamlessly as I always do.

I sink onto the floor, not sure what to do with myself. I have to get out of here.





      TWENTY-FOUR


I’m not allowed to drink, not on my medication. It makes the next four days unbearable, as Seth and I sit on the couch and watch hour after hour of sitcoms, him on one side of the couch, me on the other. The space between us is widening every day. I fantasize about the sharp tang of vodka sliding down my throat, burning so good. The way it would first heat my belly and then roll slowly into my veins, settling somewhere in my head and making me feel light and flimsy. When did I start drinking so much? When Seth and I first met I didn’t touch alcohol. Maybe it was seeing my sister consistently drunk and high that turned me off the stuff, but at some point I picked up the bottle and never put it down.