The Wives(56)
“What are you up to?” It would be such a normal question if not for everything that’s transpired the last few weeks. Now his tone frightens me.
“Looking for my cortisone cream.” I smile. “I think the medication is giving me a rash.” I scratch at my arm absently.
“Wouldn’t it be in the medicine cabinet?”
“I had it next to the bed a few months ago, but maybe...” I look toward the bathroom, still scratching.
“I’ll get it for you.” His tone is bright but I see the barely perceptible shift in his eyes. He’s walking differently: his steps stiffer, his shoulders held at a rigid angle. What are you up to? My shiver is delayed as I watch him step toward the bathroom, flicking on the light. He comes back with the cream a few seconds later. I paste a smile onto my face, like I’m grateful...relieved. It’s a smile I would have worn months ago and meant it. I make a show of uncapping the tube and rubbing the cream on my arm. Seth leans in to examine the spot. I notice for the first time how much his hair is graying. The stress of three wives and the stress of keeping up with his lies must be taking a toll on him. He’s put on weight, too. “I don’t see anything,” he says.
“It’s itchy.” My words sound flat even to my own ears.
He straightens up and meets my eyes. “I didn’t say it wasn’t.”
We stand there like that for what seems like minutes but I know is only a few seconds, staring each other down.
“My mother—” I start to tell him that she was here with my father. Seth’s eyes are on my arm again.
“She said she’d be back tomorrow. She will stay with you then,” he says without looking up.
“I don’t need a babysitter,” I say. “I’m fine.”
He turns away for the first time. “We care about you, Thursday. Until you’re well again, someone will be here to stay with you.”
I have to get out of here. I have to go.
We go to bed at the same time—couple’s bedtime—but Seth doesn’t sleep in the bed with me. He sleeps on the sofa, the television playing all night. It’s the only time I’m alone and I’m grateful to have the bed to myself. It’s all too much, this pretending. When I go to the bathroom he knocks on the door and asks if I’m all right. On my fifth day home, Seth gives me my phone back—gives my phone back like I’m a child who needs permission. There are texts from my boss wishing me a speedy recovery and telling me that my shifts have been covered, texts from Lauren before she found out where I was and texts from Anna from four days prior asking when we could chat next. I send a quick text to Anna apologizing for being busy and tell her I’ll call soon.
When I look for the texts from Hannah, I find that they’ve been deleted, along with her number.
“My voice mails are empty,” I say casually. “Did you delete them?”
He looks up from the book he’s reading, a thriller he chose from my collection. He’s not turned a page in five minutes. He shakes his head, his mouth dipping at the corners as he glances up at me. “No.”
That’s it? No? He goes back to “reading” his book, but his eyes aren’t moving. He’s watching me. I set the phone down, humming as I move things around on my little desk, pretending to swipe at the dust. I am a happy wife. I feel safe and secure with my husband here. When he looks at me again, I smile as I straighten a stack of bills, making sure their corners are neat. What are you up to, you fucking bastard?
My fingers itch for my laptop, to search Hannah’s name like I did that first time. It’s been sitting on my desk, charging since the last time I used it. My laptop is password protected, so there’s no way Seth could have guessed my password and wiped everything from there, too.
But the truth is I’m scared. I saw the look in his eyes the day I fell and knocked myself out in the kitchen. And Hannah—he hit Hannah. God, I don’t even know if she’s okay.
I bide my time. On the sixth night, I crush up one of my sleeping pills while I’m heating the soup on the stove. Seth is trying to find us something to watch on TV, since we’ve already worked our way through two seasons of some mindless reality show.
I ladle out the soup and stir the powder into his bowl of minestrone, then add hot sauce—just the way he likes it. We make it through one episode of Friends before he nods off on the couch, his mouth hanging open and his head thrown back as he snores. I say his name—“Seth...” and then, “Seth...?” a little louder. When he doesn’t respond after a hard poke on the arm, I stand up carefully, my heart pounding. The carpet cushions my steps but still they sound like an elephant stampede. What would he do if he caught me? I’ve never gone through his phone before. There were no set rules about privacy other than in regard to the wives. I just never looked through his things and he never looked though mine. That is, until he went through it to delete Hannah’s texts. It is a new age in our marriage.
His phone sits facedown on the coffee table. I try to remember if that is normal, if he’s done this before. But no—his phone is always faceup, open and willingly exposed. A friend in college once told me about her cheating boyfriend, who she caught always putting his phone facedown. I should have known, she’d said. That’s such a clear indicator. But Seth isn’t exactly cheating, is he? He doesn’t want me to see their names pop up on his screen. He’s busy trying to convince me that they don’t exist. I reach for his phone, never taking my eyes from his face. There is a commercial on TV about a woman with crocodile skin, when she uses their lotion she becomes magically smooth. She runs her fingers across her arm and smiles at me convincingly as I type in Seth’s password.