The Wives Page 14

  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.”

  “I know their names now,” I say. “I...found them.”

  “And you confronted him about these other relationships?”

  “Yes!” I drop my head. My God, this is getting so twisted.

  “I knew about them. I confronted him about the bruises...on Monday’s arm.” The inside of me feels hollow as alarm bounces through my chest and settles like a weight in my stomach. I try to keep my composure; breaking down now would only result in me looking crazier than I already do.

  Dr. Steinbridge picks up his pen and writes something on my chart. His pen scratches against the paper in quick little successions. The sound triggers an echo of memories, memories that make my entire body clench in emotional agony. I imagine it says something like delusional. Maybe underlined two or three times. Isn’t that something? I’m the one being called delusional when it was Seth who thought he could pull off three marriages at once.

  I decide to stick to my guns. Pulling myself up, I stare Dr. Stein-whatever right in his beady little eyes and say, “I can prove it. If you bring me a phone and allow me to make a call, I can prove the whole thing to you.”

  Nurse Sarah reappears in the room, a food tray in her hands. She glances at the expression on the doctor’s face and then at me, her cat eyes bright with interest.

  “Dr. Steinbridge,” she says, her voice light and friendly. “Thursday has a visitor.”

  NINETEEN

  Seth strolls in, looking every bit like he’s going for a casual Sunday brunch instead of visiting his wife in the psych ward. He’s wearing a button-down with a cardigan and distressed gray jeans. I don’t recognize the outfit; it must be something he keeps at one of their houses.

  I see that he’s had a haircut recently and strain to remember if he had it a day ago when he surprised me at our condo. Wouldn’t that be something? His wife in the psych ward and he goes to get a haircut. Who am I kidding? He has two others—when one of the spares falls off the wagon, life keeps moving.

  He smiles, looking refreshed and well-slept, and walks over to kiss me on the forehead. I almost turn away but think better of it; if I want to get out of here, I’m going to have to play nice. Seth is my shot at freedom.

  The spot where his lips touch my skin stings. It’s his fault that I’m here, his fault that no one believes me. Isn’t he supposed to be on my side, trying to keep me out of places like this? And then I remember his lie, his denial, as I stared him down in the kitchen. He’d tried to make me believe that I’d made Hannah up. I look up at his face in alarm, wondering if I should wait to confront him when we’re alone, or if I should just do it now. I glance at Dr. Steinbridge, who is watching us. Everyone’s always watching in this place, hawk eyes waiting for you to mess up and betray your mental state.

  “Maybe you can clear something up for us,” the doctor suggests, looking to Seth. Yes! I think, settling deeper into the bed. Finally. Put him on the spot and make him answer. My husband nods, his brow furrowed like he’s dying to help.

  “Thursday has mentioned that you have—” Dr. Steinbridge glances at me like he’s embarrassed to say it “—additional wives...” His sentence drops off, and Sarah freezes where she’s writing something on my white board. She glances over her shoulder at me, and then, embarrassed to be caught, turns back to her work.

  “I’m afraid that’s not true,” Seth says.

  “No?” Dr. Steinbridge glances at me. His tone is light. It’s like they’re discussing the weather.

  “I divorced my first wife three years ago,” Seth says, looking embarrassed.

  “But they’re still together,” I say.

  “We’re divorced,” Seth says firmly. The doctor nods. “I left her for Thursday—”

  I shake my head in disbelief. I can’t believe it. “That’s bullshit, Seth. You can’t spin this story any way you like. Tell the truth—you’re a polygamist!”

  “I am only married to one woman, Thursday,” Seth says. His face is earnest, so convincing. I falter, because his performance is so excellent I am temporarily tongue-tied.

  “Okay, then,” I say. “But how many women do you have a sexual relationship with?”

  “Thursday claims you have two other wives that you refer to as Monday and Tuesday,” the doctor says.

  His face colors underneath the doctor’s gaze. I watch it eagerly. There’s no way he’ll be able to talk himself out of this. “It’s a game we play.”

  “A game?” Dr. Steinbridge repeats. My mouth drops open. I’m shaking.

  “Yes.” He looks at me for support, but I turn my face away. I don’t understand why he’s lying like this. He isn’t legally married to the other two, so it’s not like he can get arrested for bigamy. Everything between us has been consensual. Making it seem like I’ve made all this up is ensuring that they won’t let me out of this place—not without a lot of counseling and medication, anyway.

  “This thing Thursday and I would do to joke about all of my time spent away. I’d always come home on Thursday and since her name is Thursday, we said there was a Monday and a Tuesday, as well.” He glances at me nervously. “I didn’t know she took it this far, but considering...”

  “What? Consi
dering what?” I snap. Anger surges through me. I can’t believe he went there. I’m suddenly hot all over, even though I know they keep the rooms cool. I have the urge to shove off the sheets and lean out the window so the cold air can touch me.

  “Thursday, you have a history of delusion,” the doctor interrupts. “Sometimes, when a trauma...” His voice continues, but I block it out. I don’t want to hear it. I know what happened, but that isn’t what’s happening now.

  Seth’s eyes are pleading with me; he wants me to go along with whatever he’s doing. My headache has suddenly gotten worse, and I need to be alone, think all of this through.

  “Get out,” I say to both of them, and when it’s not enough and nobody moves, I scream it. “Everyone get out!”

  A new nurse comes charging around the corner and looks at Dr. Steinbridge for instruction.

  I look pointedly at him, ignoring Seth. “I don’t need to be sedated. I’m not a danger to myself or anyone else. I need to be alone.”

  The doctor considers me for a moment, making up his mind about my mental state. Then he nods. “All right, then. I’ll be back later to check on you and we can talk further.” He looks at Seth, who appears ready to pass out. “You can come back for afternoon visitation and see if she’s ready to talk then,” he says. “I’d like to talk to you in my office.”

  I can see the tension building in his shoulders; he’s lost control of the situation. Seth doesn’t like to lose control; he’s not used to anyone else getting their way. Why haven’t I realized this before? Why am I just seeing it now?

  Seth glances at me once more before nodding.

  “All right. I’ll be back later.” He announces this to the room, not to me. He doesn’t look at me before he strides out the door.

  When they’re all gone, I take a deep, shuddering breath before turning on my side and staring out the small slat of window. The sky outside is a murky gray, its tears a fine mist of rain. I can just see the tips of some trees from my angle and I focus on those. I think of the window in our—my—condo. The one that overlooks the park, how hard I’d fought for that unit when Seth wanted the one with the view of the Sound. I’d needed that view into the lives of strangers; it was an escape from my own life.

  I doze off and wake up to Sarah carrying in my lunch—or is it dinner? I don’t even know what time it is. As soon as I smell the food, my body remembers it’s hungry. It doesn’t even matter that the meat loaf is gray, or that the mashed potatoes are instant. I shovel food into my mouth at an alarming rate. When I’m finished, I settle back against the pillows with a stomachache. My eyes are closed and I’m dozing off again when I hear Seth’s voice. I consider not opening my eyes, pretending to be asleep, in hopes that he leaves.

  “I know you’re awake, Thursday,” he says. “We need to talk.”

  “Then talk,” I say, without opening my eyes. I hear the rustling of a paper bag and the smell of food reaches my nose. When I open my eyes, Seth has laid out containers between us—five of them. Despite the heaviness of the hospital food sitting in my stomach, my mouth begins to water.

  “Your favorite takeout,” he says, one side of his mouth lifting in a smile. It’s his most charming smile, the one he used on me that day in the coffee shop. He glances up at me, his head still ducked, and for a moment he looks like a little boy—vulnerable and eager to please.

  “I’ve already had delicious hospital meat loaf,” I say, eyeing the container of mushroom risotto.

  Seth shrugs and his smile turns sheepish. I almost feel sorry for him, but then I remember where I am and why I’m here.

  “Seth...” I stare at him hard and he stares back. Neither of us quite knows what to do with the other, but we’re preparing for some sort of emotional warfare—I can see it in his eyes.

  “Why won’t you tell the truth?” I say finally. That’s really the bottom line, isn’t it? If he told the truth, I could get out of here.

  But if he told the truth, things could...things could never go back to normal. That’s when I understand it, the steely look in his eyes. It all comes to me. Not only do I know who Hannah is, I know that he’s been physical with her—hit her—and things between us can never be the same. Initially, my hopes were that he’d want to be with me, only me. But that will never happen, and I don’t even want it to happen anymore. I don’t know who my husband really is. I don’t know anything at all. What he says next is not what I expect.

  “The truth is that you’re very sick, Thursday. You need help. I tried to pretend it wasn’t happening, I played your games...” He stands up and the containers of food wobble precariously on the bed.

  I’m so angry I could toss them at him. He walks to the window, stares out before he turns back to me. His face has changed from one instant to the next; there’s a grim determination written across it now, like he has something awful to say to me.

  “You changed,” he says slowly, cautiously. “After the baby...”

  “Don’t,” I say quickly. “Don’t bring the baby into this.”

  “You won’t talk about it, and we have to. You can’t just move past something like that,” he says. There’s more conviction on Seth’s face than I’ve ever seen. His fists are balled at his sides and my mind flashes to last night in the kitchen. He looks just as angry, but also sad.

  He’s right. I’ve always refused to talk about what happened. It was too painful. I haven’t wanted to relive those feelings, drag over them again and again in some shrink’s office. My hurt is a living thing—sick and swollen, still festering under the surface of my calm. It’s personal; I don’t want to show anyone else. I nurture it on my own, keep it alive. Because as long as my hurt is still there, the memory of my son is, as well. They have to coexist.

  “Thursday!” he says. “Thursday, are you listening to me?”

  The smell—even the sight—of the food makes me sick. I begin pushing the containers off the bed, one by one.

  The sound of them hitting the floor with wet thuds diverts Seth’s attention. He races for the bed, which is just five steps away, and grabs my wrists before I can get to the pea soup. I lift my knee under the white sheet and try to topple it off. That’s the one I’ve been looking forward to most—seeing it spread across the hospital tile like sludge.

  “Our baby died, Thursday. It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t anyone’s fault!”

  I writhe, throwing myself back against the pillows and then rearing up again. My wrists ache where Seth holds them and I bare my teeth at him. That isn’t true and we both know it. It isn’t true.

  “You have to stop this,” he pleads. “All the lies you tell yourself. They won’t let you out of here until you tell the truth...”

  An alarm goes off, high and ear-piercing. I wonder if it’s because of what I’ve done. Sarah races into the room, her braid flying comically behind her. She’s followed by a man and another woman—all flashes of blue scrubs and determined faces.

  The alarm is here, in this room, I realize. Seth must have set it off. But no...it’s not an alarm...it’s me. I’m screaming. I can feel the burn as the noise churns through my throat and out of my open mouth.

  One of the nurses slips, and she goes down hard into the smear of food across the floor. The male nurse helps her up, and then they’re on me, pushing Seth aside to hold me down. He backs away, against the wall, watching.

  I expect his eyes to be wide with fear, or his face distorted with worry—but he looks quite peaceful. I feel something cold slide into my veins and my eyes flutter back. I force them open; I want to see Seth. He blurs for a minute, but he’s still there, watching. The drugs tug at my eyelids, pulling me down. What was that look on his face? What did it mean?

  TWENTY

  When I come to, I am cold. I don’t remember where I am, and it takes a few minutes for the events of the last few days to settle over me. Scratchy memories—they don’t feel go
od. The smell of antiseptic fills my nostrils and I struggle to push sheets aside and sit up in bed.

  A hospital... Seth... Food on the floor.

  I rub my forehead, which is throbbing painfully, and peer over the side of the bed; there’s no trace of the collage of color I left behind before they cocktailed me out. Why did I do that? It’s a stupid question because I know. Because Seth thinks food fights are wasteful and stupid. I hadn’t thrown anything at him, but throwing it on the floor had felt like enough—a childish display of acting out.

  Practical, dry, somewhat stern Seth—that’s not how I would have described him a few weeks ago. What changed?

  Hannah! That name hits me harder than the rest. Because it’s been how many days since I last heard from her? Three...four? I remember the look on Seth’s face before the drugs pulled me under... I couldn’t make out his expression; it was a mix of things I hadn’t seen on his face before. Isn’t that something? Being married to a man for years and seeing an expression for the first time.

  I have to contact Hannah—see if she’s all right. But without my phone, I don’t have access to her number, and what if Seth has already been through my phone and deleted the texts we’d exchanged? Does he know my password? It’s not hard to figure out—our dead baby’s due date.

  A new nurse walks in, this time an older man with a buzz cut, white eyebrows and a face like a bulldog. I slink down in bed. His shoulders are too wide and I can tell he won’t take my shit. I was hoping for someone younger and inexperienced, like Sarah, who I could talk into helping me.

  “Hello,” he says. “I’m Phil.”

  When did his shift start? When will he be gone?

  “I spoke to your doctor. Seems like everything looks good with your head...” He knocks on his own skull with his knuckles as he pages through my chart and I grimace at the gesture. He’s a caveman in a nurse’s uniform. “They’ll be transferring you over to the psych ward.”

  “Why? If I’m fine, why am I not being discharged?”