The Wives Page 19

  I wander upstairs and find a bedroom. There is floral paper on the walls, peeling at the corners, and an old bed is pushed against a wall. I sit on the corner of the bed, the mattress sloping beneath me. What am I doing here? Was I wrong in coming? The way Hannah looked at me, like she didn’t know who I was. Had Seth warned her...? Threatened her...? Or... God. I run my hands through my hair, catch the snags and flinch at the pain it causes behind my eyes. Or—had she never seen me before? Could a person make an entire relationship up? In a different case, I’d call my doctor, ask him what he thinks, but I don’t trust my doctor, or my husband, or myself. Seth has gotten to all of us.

  My head still aches. I lower myself backward and roll onto my side, pulling my knees up to my chest. Just a short nap. Until the headache subsides and I can think clearly.

  When I wake up, it’s morning. I don’t know what time it is. Sleep has become a confusing thing in the last months—a mixture, I’m sure, of my changing locations and medications. I sit up and search the room for a clock, but the walls are bare except for the warped floral paper. Has Seth woken up yet? Has he started making calls to find me? I hadn’t thought about a tracker on my car, but that seems extreme. Seth wouldn’t...would he?

  I take a shower in the master bathroom, listening to the clank of the pipes as they accommodate the lukewarm water that sprays through the showerhead. The towel I find is rough and scratchy, and I drop it before I’m fully dry and quickly pull my clothes over my damp skin. In my haste, I’d only brought jeans and a sweater. The once-clingy sweater now drapes loosely on me. Oh, well, it’ll have to do. I shrug the insecurity away, pulling on my Converse and snatching up my keys before heading for the door.

  It’s time to talk to Regina.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Adele plays on the radio as I navigate through the early-morning traffic. I feel better today, more like myself. I turn up the volume and at the same time I slam on the breaks. The work truck I almost collided with surges forward another few feet and I follow more cautiously this time. Adele’s voice is so melancholy that I suddenly feel the full loneliness of my situation. What am I doing here? Maybe I am crazy. I pull into the parking lot abruptly, cutting Adele off as I kill the ignition. No, Seth is a liar and I have to find a way to prove it. What happened with Hannah has been replaying in my mind all morning. I get a knot in my stomach remembering the vacancy in her eyes when she looked at me. Something is wrong and I need to get to the bottom of it. Reaching out to Regina is the only option I can think of. I think about the dating profile I set up for Will Moffit. It’s been ages since I’ve checked it and I wonder if Regina thinks he’s blown her off.

  The offices of Markel & Abel are located in a three-story white stone building that faces a small lake. They share the building with a title company and a pediatrician’s office. I peer into car windows as they drive by, heading into the underground garage beneath the building. One of them could be Regina. I consider cornering her in the garage, but that would accomplish little except making me appear unhinged. No, I need to do this the right way, the way I’ve planned. I tell myself this, but right before I get out of the car I start to cry. They’re mostly numb tears; I can’t pinpoint if I’m scared, or sad, or angry, but they won’t stop coming. I catch them on the back of my hand, drying it on my jeans.

  Something feels wrong, but I don’t know what. I dry my eyes for the final time and swipe lip gloss over my lips, a poor attempt to look like a woman not falling apart. When I push open the doors of the building I can hear the squeal of a toddler and the pounding of little feet. A second later, a tiny blond human comes barreling around the corner, his exhausted-looking mother in fast pursuit.

  “Sorry,” she says, scooping him up as he knocks into me. He cuddles into her arms, looking pleased with himself, and dips his head to her shoulder. A pang of something in my chest—but I push it away, smiling at her as she adjusts him on her hip and carries him back toward the doctor’s office.

  I almost follow them just to see what will happen, then remember why I’m here. I climb the stairs to the second floor, slowing as I eye the glass doors. Behind them is a large sitting area flanked with brown leather couches, elegant and masculine. To the rear of the room, and directly in my line of sight, is the receptionist’s desk. A woman with a topknot and glasses has a phone pressed to her ear as she types something into a computer. I feel overly conscious about my too-big sweater and scruffy jeans. I wish I’d brought something more appropriate.

  Pushing through the doors, I walk directly to reception and greet her with a smile just as her call ends.

  “Welcome,” she says with practiced professionalism. “How can I help you?”

  “I have an appointment,” I say. “With Regina Coele.” I pause, trying to recall the name I used when making the appointment. It feels like ages ago, not just weeks. “I’m Lauren Brian.” I clasp my hands at my waist and try to look bored. She briefly glances up at me before typing something into the computer.

  “I see that you missed your appointment last week, Mrs. Brian.” She frowns. “We don’t have anything scheduled for you today.” She looks at me expectantly.

  I lift a hand to my forehead and arrange my face into what I hope is a perplexed expression. “I... I...” I stutter. Tears fill my eyes as I lock my gaze with hers. I’d been locked away in Queen County, eating my Jell-O and staring at Susan’s lack of eyelashes on the day of my appointment. I don’t have to act flustered, since I already am. Lifting a hand to my face, I drop it abruptly.

  “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 st
ool 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.

  “Not just considering,” I say. “And by the way, thank you for giving up lunch to see me. I realize that I missed my appointment. It was very kind of you.” My mother always said that confident people didn’t overthank or overthink.

  “It’s business,” Regina says. “Work now, food later, right?” She smiles. “So tell me about your situation.”

  I clear my throat. In the cuff on my sleeve I can feel the price tag I forgot to pull off. I thumb the cardboard, pushing it farther up my sleeve.

  “My husband is a polygamist.” It’s a statement meant to jar an average person. I’d often thought about blurting it out at other times to strangers or my colleagues just to see the look on their faces.

  Regina’s face, however, remains the same. It’s almost as if she hasn’t heard me. She doesn’t ask me to clarify or expound and it’s not until she says, “Carry on,” that I do.

  “I am his legal wife. He has two others.”

  She stares at me, hard. “Are there children involved?”

  I pause, thinking of Hannah, how she’d looked at me like she’d never seen me before when I rang her doorbell last night. The confusion and hurt in Seth’s eyes when I told the doctor what he was. I feel a niggling doubt creep into my mind. You are crazy, you are crazy, you are crazy.

  “His third wife is pregnant, not very far along.”

  “And these other wives, do they all share a home with your...husband?”

  I shake my head. “Two live here, in Portland. I live in Seattle.”

  I search her face for any sign of recognition. Did she know as little about me as I had known about her?

  “Do they know about you?” she asks.

  I look long and hard at her face, the full lips lined and colored in cherry, the splattering of freckles across her nose showing through her makeup. It’s now or never, this is what I came for.

  “Do you know, Regina? How much has he told you about me?”

  Her expression never changes. She crosses her legs as she leans back in her chair, blank eyes drilling into mine. For the longest time we stay just like that, her watching me and me watching her. It feels like I’m about to fall off the edge of a precipice.

  “Thursday,” she says.

  And I want to leap from the chair and scream, that one word validating everything I am here for. Regina knows my name, she knows who I am. Self-doubt is slime and glue, but Regina saying my name has washed me clean.

  “Yes,” I say, breathless...pathetic.

  Her face is arranged in undisguised disgust. She sighs, uncrosses her legs and leans forward, forearms on thighs. She doesn’t look so put together now, just tired. It’s amazing what a facial expression can do to change someone’s look.

  “Seth contacted me. He said you might come by.” She stares at the ground between her heels before straightening up.

  So Seth already knows where I am. He knows me better than I realized. There is a sinking feeling in my stomach as I stare at her. While I’ve been imagining him scrambling to call my mother and Anna, he went straight to Regina. I blink hard, trying to disguise the shock that must be on my face. I thought I had been smart, but apparently my husband is smarter. Silly me. But that is the theme of my life for these last years: silly me. Seth had anticipated this, my breakaway from his plan. He’d thought about all of this, predicted my actions. Perhaps only in the last weeks, but maybe always.

  “All right, Thursday, you came all this way, so tell me why you wanted to see me. I gather it’s not about divorce.” Her lips are tucked in at the corners—resolute and disgusted. She’s very wrong about the divorce, but I don’t tell her that. Let her think what she wants. All I want are answers about the man we both married.

  I look around the office for the personal touches of the woman I’m speaking to: picture frames, rugs, anything that will tell me more about who she is. The decor is masculine, which could have very little to do with her; women don’t opt for this much cherrywood. She has a penchant for ferns, as there are three in total: one sits on top of a bookshelf with its leaves spilling over the sides, the other is smaller and on her desk and the third rests on the windowsill—the healthiest of the three. They’re well-tended, too, lush.

  “I’m here because I don’t know my husband. I was hoping you could give me some clarity.” That’s the nice way of putting it, really. My husband hits women and had me institutionalized for asking too many questions. As it turns out, I am a really stupid woman, and I need Regina to tell me that she was equally as stupid for trusting him, and then I can tell her about Hannah.

  “Your husband?” Her face is amused, eyebrows raised.

  I want to tell her that now’s not the time to get into a pissing match about who Seth belongs to, but I stay quiet.

  “I’m not sure I can help you—in fact, I’m not sure I want to.” She smooths out her skirt and glances at her watch. It’s subtle, but she meant for me to see it. I’m wa
sting her time. I suddenly don’t feel as sure as I did a moment ago. The temperature has switched.

  “You’ve been with Seth for eight years—” I begin.

  “Five,” she interrupts. “Seth and I were together for five years before the divorce, but of course you know that because you’re the reason we got divorced.”

  I stare at her blankly. Of course I was, but she’d agreed to it. This isn’t going the way I expected it to. Why is she being so sour about something she agreed to? Seth met and married Regina five years before me. I remember the jealousy at all the extra time they’d had together, how I’d never be able to catch up.

  “And these last three...?”

  “These last three, what?” She snaps that part, the poise falling away for the briefest of moments as something flashes in her eyes.