The Wives(8)

Sometimes I wish I could reach out to one of the wives, have a support group. But Seth is set on doing things differently than what he grew up around. We, the wives, have no contact with each other, and I’ve respected his wishes not to snoop. I don’t even know their names.

“When will you try for a baby?” my mother asks.

Again. She asks this every time we’re together and I’m quite sick of it. She doesn’t know the truth and I haven’t had the heart to tell her.

“If you had a baby, he’d be forced to be here more permanently,” she says conspiratorially.

I stare at her, my mouth open. My sister and I were the sum of my mother’s life. Our successes were her successes; our failures, her failures. I suppose it was fine and dandy to live for your children while you raised them, but what happened after? When they went off to live their own lives and you were left with nothing—no hobbies, no career, no identity.

“Mother, are you suggesting I trap Seth with a baby?” I ask, setting my fork down and staring at her in shock.

My mother is a bit of a live wire, known to make offhanded comments about other people’s lives. But telling me to get pregnant to force my husband home is too far, even for her.

“Well, it’s not like it’s never been done before...” She’s chuffing, her eyes darting around. She knows she’s gone too far. I feel a wash of guilt. I never told my mother about the emergency hysterectomy. At the time I hadn’t wanted to talk about it, and admitting it now would make me even more of a failure in her eyes.

“That’s not who I am. That’s not who we are as a couple. Besides, who would take over for Seth at the Portland office?” I snap. “You’re talking about our finances and our future.” Not just mine, either. Seth has a rather large family to support. I drop my face into my hands, and my mother stands up and comes around the table to comfort me.

“I’m sorry, little girl,” she says, using her pet name for me. “I overstepped. You know what’s right for your relationship.”

I nod appreciatively and pick up a stray piece of chicken salad with my finger, licking it off my thumb. None of this is normal, and if Seth and I are going to make it work, I need to have a talk with him about my feelings. I’ve spent so much time pretending to be cool with everything that he has no clue about my struggles. That isn’t fair to him or to me.

My mother leaves an hour later, promising to take me to lunch on Monday instead. “Rest up,” she says, giving me a hug.

I close the door behind her and breathe a sigh of relief.

I’m desperately tired, but instead of heading to bed, I wander into Seth’s little closet. Despite being gone for most of the week, he keeps a stash of clothes here. I run my hands over the suit jackets and dress pants, lifting a shirt to my nose to find his smell. I love him so much, and despite the awful uniqueness of our situation, I can’t imagine being married to anyone else. And that’s what love is about, isn’t it? Working with what your partner came with. And mine came with two other women.

I’m about to turn off the little overhead light and leave when something catches my eye. Poking out of a dress pants’ pocket is the corner of a piece of paper. I pull it out, at first worried the pants will be washed with the paper in the pocket and ruin the rest of the wash, but once I have it in my hands, I’m curious. It’s folded into a neat square. I only hold it in my palm for a moment before opening it to have a look. A doctor’s bill. I scan the words, wondering if something is wrong or if Seth went in for a checkup, but his name isn’t anywhere on the paper. In fact, the bill is made out to a Hannah Ovark, her address listed in the top corner as 324 Galatia Lane, Portland, Oregon. Seth’s doctor is in Seattle.

“Hannah,” I say out loud. The receipt in my hand says she was in for a checkup and labs. Could Hannah be...Monday?

I turn off the closet light and carry the paper with me to the living room, unsure of what to do. Should I ask Seth about it, or pretend I never saw it? My MacBook is sitting next to me on the sofa. I shift it into my lap and open Facebook. I have a vague sense that I’m breaking some sort of rule.

I type her name into the search bar and tap my finger on my knee while I wait for the results. Three profiles come up: one is an older woman, perhaps in her forties, who lives in Atlanta; the other is a pink-haired girl who looks to be in her early teens. I click on the third profile. Seth told me that Monday was blond, but had never given any other details about her appearance. My vision of a chill-looking surfer girl is shattered as I stare at Hannah Ovark. She isn’t a surfer, and she doesn’t have the blond innocence I was hoping for. I shut my laptop rather abruptly and stalk off to the bathroom to find my sleeping pills. I desperately need sleep. I’m feeling loopy and it’s starting to affect the way I see things.

A row of orange bottles stares out at me from the medicine cabinet. Little sentinels with purposes ranging from drowsy numbness to staying alert. I reach for the Ambien and lay a pill on my tongue. I drink water straight from the tap to wash it down and then I curl up on the bed and wait to sink into oblivion.





      FOUR


I wake up disoriented and groggy. The sun sits high outside of the window, but hadn’t it been early evening when I fell asleep? I reach for my alarm clock to check the time and see that I’ve been asleep for thirteen hours. I hop out of bed too quickly and the room spins around me.