The Wives(60)
“Things have just been so... I’m getting divorced,” I say. “I must have mixed things up...”
I see her soften.
“Give me a minute.” She stands and disappears down a corridor, presumably where the lawyers keep their offices. I look around the waiting area, still relatively empty this early in the day. An older woman sits in the far corner, a Starbucks cup in one hand and a copy of Good Housekeeping in the other. I perch on the edge of a chair closest to the reception desk, my fingers crossed and my leg bouncing in sync with my nerves.
She returns a few minutes later and slides into her seat. I can’t read her expression.
“Mrs. Brian, Ms. Coele has offered to skip her lunch if you’re willing to come back at twelve o’clock.”
A good person, a nice person! I feel a leap in my chest as I stand and approach the desk. “I am,” I say quickly. “Thank you for doing that for me.” I mean it with all my heart, the gratitude thick in my voice.
She nods like it’s nothing. The phone is ringing again; I’m getting in her way. I back away from the desk, glancing at the time on the wall. Four hours to kill.
I find a small clothing boutique in a shopping plaza nearby. Pretty Missy. I flinch at the name as I consider the window display. The ruffled knee socks and positive-vibe T-shirts are enough to turn me away, but I have time to kill and my options are limited. I catch sight of my reflection as I walk in the shop. My orange sweater reminds me of a prison jumpsuit. I riffle through the racks for thirty minutes before I find a brown suede jacket and white top to wear underneath it. Better, I think. I hand my cash over to the salesgirl and change in my car, dumping the sweater in the backseat before redressing. The new clothes are itchy and I scratch at my skin until it feels raw.
On my drive back to the white office building I see a bar, the Open sign flashing sporadically in the window. I check the time: three more hours. It’s too early to drink, but I pull into the parking lot, anyway. There are only two other cars here. One of them probably belongs to the bartender, the other to the town drunk. I eye the older-model Mercedes as I head for the door, my shoes crunching on the gravel. I can already taste the liquor on the back of my throat. How long has it been since I had a drink?
When I push open the door, the smell of a dive bar greets me: a medley of stale air, spilled beer and body odor. I breathe in the smell as I slide onto a bar stool and order a vodka soda from a guy with tired eyes and a Van Halen T-shirt. I’m thankful he doesn’t speak to me, just slides the drink across the counter without making eye contact and moves on to something else. This would be the time I’d pull out my phone, scroll through the updates my friends were posting on Facebook, maybe check the sales on my favorite shopping websites. I stare at my drink instead, the true body language of someone who’s sitting in a bar before lunchtime, and plan what I’m going to say to Regina.
TWENTY-SEVEN
I’m buzzed. Three vodka sodas and I’ve had nothing to eat all morning. My vision teeter-totters and my limbs feel loose and undisciplined. I chide myself as I comb my fingers through my hair in the tiny bar bathroom, grimacing at my reflection. I look like a drunk: swollen face, red eyes and splotchy skin. At least I’d lost the orange sweater. I splash water on my face in the little sink before I head out.
I have exactly thirty minutes to pull myself together before I see my husband’s first wife. What she thinks of me matters, which is why drinking was a bad idea. I am—was—technically her replacement. Despite the fluorescent green jealousy I feel toward her, I also feel a kinship. I want her to like me. She could help me. I’m like an eager puppy, abused and still wagging its tail for love. I stop at a gas station and buy eyedrops, gum and body spray. At the last minute I ask the guy behind the counter for one of the burner phones. The body spray is probably a bad idea—it’s vanilla scented—but the bar was warm and I feel the dampness under my arms and on my lower back. I smell like a sweet, sweaty cupcake. I’m five minutes late when I run into the office. The secretary gives me an annoyed look when she sees me. The least you can do, lady...
“This way,” she says, standing. I follow her down a hall of doors. It’s all wrong, the way they’ve set it up. I’m reminded of high school, the long walk to the principal’s office. I can smell vanilla and sweat coming off me in a mist.
Regina is seated behind her desk when the secretary knocks lightly and opens the door. She steps back without meeting my eyes and allows me to walk past her. Regina stands as soon as she sees me. She’s tiny, as Seth said, but much prettier than in her photos. I’m staring; I realize this when it’s only the two of us in the room, the secretary having taken her leave. This is surreal. She motions for me to sit in one of the two leather chairs that face her desk. Instead of reseating herself, she walks around the desk and sits in the empty chair next to me, crossing her legs. I smell her perfume right away, the sleepy scent of lavender. I wither in my chair, as if by doing so I could pull back the vanilla/sweat smell.
“Can I offer you water or coffee?” she asks. “Perhaps tea?”
“I’m fine, thank you.” I push my hair behind my ears and straighten up in my chair. The principal mustn’t know I’m afraid.
“I understand you’re considering divorce.” The cadence of her voice is mesmerizing—deep, yet feminine, like one of those old movie stars in black-and-white films. Puuurrrr.