The Betrayed Wife

by Kevin O'Brien

  “Well, we’ll let you get settled in,” Dylan said, taking Sheila’s arm.

  Sheila gingerly wrestled away from him. “I’ll be down in a minute,” she said.

  After Dylan started down the hall, she worked up a smile and turned to her new stepdaughter. “You can call me Sheila,” she said. “I guess we got off to a rocky start yesterday. But I’d like you to think of me as a friend—and not your evil stepmother. I’m here if you need someone to talk to. And don’t hesitate to ask for anything. I know all this must be pretty strange for you, but give us a try. You might end up liking us . . .”

  She’d been thinking all day of what she’d say to this girl, something to break the ice.

  Sheila had imagined the snarky punk girl’s face softening, and then her saying, with a grateful smile, I’m so glad you said that, Sheila. I have to admit, I’ve been a little scared that no one would like me. And I’m really sorry I called you a “fucking bitch” yesterday. I can tell you’re a nice person. It was a terrible thing to say. Will you forgive me?

  Then Sheila would hug her, and the poor girl would start crying on her shoulder.

  Unfortunately, that didn’t happen.

  After Sheila told her, “You might end up liking us,” Eden just stared at her for a few moments, her eyes half closed.

  “Is that all?” the girl asked. “Because I’d really like to be alone so I can unpack.”

  “Of course,” Sheila said, with a pinched smile. “Dinner’s in about fifteen minutes.” She closed the bedroom door and retreated down the hall for the stairs.

  Now, she was heating up the garlic bread and making the salad. Dylan was setting the dinner table. “How did it go upstairs with the two of you?” he asked, collecting the cloth napkins from the drawer.

  “Fine,” Sheila muttered, cutting tomatoes for the salad. “She’s a real sweetie pie.”

  “That bad, huh?”

  She turned her back to him and kept slicing.

  Dylan sighed. “In the car, on the way here, I told her that—for now—her boyfriend wasn’t welcome in our house. Maybe that’s why she’s a little hostile. I also told her about the doctor and dental appointments. I guess she hasn’t been to either in quite a while.”

  Sheila just nodded. She could have bet on that.

  “I used the doctors’ appointments to segue to any previous or current medical issues—including alcohol or drug abuse, or allergies, or psychological problems . . .”

  Smooth, thought Sheila. The kid probably saw right through him.

  “She seemed to know what I was driving at,” Dylan admitted. “She said she doesn’t like the taste of alcohol, and she tried marijuana a couple of times and didn’t like that, either. I don’t think she’d tell us about trying pot if she wanted to hide something.”

  That’s just where she’s being clever, Sheila thought. “Well, she must smoke like a chimney,” she said. “Did you get a whiff of her? Unless Donna Karan has a new scent called ‘Ashtray,’ that girl’s a smoker. You better tell her she can’t smoke in the house.”

  “I already asked her if she’s a smoker, and she said no,” Dylan explained. “She said everyone in that rathole where she was staying smokes. It’s one reason she wanted out of there.”

  He touched her arm and smiled. “And that’s the most you’ve talked to me all day. You even made a joke.”

  “It wasn’t very funny,” Sheila muttered. Turning away from him, she grabbed the potholders and took the lasagna out of the oven to rest. “Will you please finish setting the table? Then you can tell the kids—and her—that dinner’s almost ready.”

  At the dinner table, Dylan desperately tried to get Eden talking, asking her if she was in any sports or groups at school, what her favorite subjects were, whether she’d traveled much outside Portland, and if she had any favorite TV shows. The girl kept her answers curt. Steve also tentatively tried drawing her out, but she wouldn’t engage. And she wouldn’t touch her food. Sheila had offered her meat or meatless, and Eden had picked a meatless portion of lasagna. But she just kept pushing the pasta around the plate with her fork.

  “Honey, don’t you like lasagna?” Sheila finally asked.

  “My name’s Eden,” she said. She dropped the fork on her plate with a clank. “I can’t eat this shit. I’m vegan. And this has cheese on it.”

  Sheila took a deep breath. “Well, why don’t you have some bread and salad? And if you’re still hungry after that, we can see if there’s anything in the kitchen you might like.”

  “I can’t eat the bread. It’s got butter on it. That’s dairy.”

  “God,” Hannah muttered. “And you guys think I’m picky.”

  Dylan passed the salad bowl to Eden, and seemed to work up a smile for her. “After dinner, why don’t you make a list of the foods you like? Tomorrow, we can go shopping.”

  “What?” Hannah said. “Is she getting a special menu? That’s not fair.”

  Sheila said nothing, but for a change, she and Hannah actually agreed on something.

  Dylan shot Hannah a look. “That’s enough,” he said under his breath. “Just chill.”

  “And I guess it’s perfectly fine for her to say shit at the dinner table,” Hannah continued. “If I did that, especially in front of Gabe, you’d bite my head off.”

  “I said that’s enough,” Dylan growled.

  “I’m not really hungry anyway,” Eden said. She got up from the table, pulled her phone out of the pocket of her hoodie, and looked at it as she left the dining room.

  Sheila watched her head up the stairs. She got to her feet, grabbed her empty plate, and then marched around to Eden’s place at the table. She swept up the full plate and set it on top of her own. Then she stomped into the kitchen and dumped both the plates in the sink with a loud clatter.

  “Honey?” Dylan called tentatively.

  Sheila ignored him. She grabbed a jacket from the hallway closet, threw it on, and then stepped outside. She figured she would walk around the block to cool off.

  As she left the house, she slammed the front door shut behind her and spitefully hoped that the little bitch upstairs heard it.

  *

  Steve glanced at the fake-antique Union Pacific Railroad clock on his bedroom wall: a quarter to eleven. His new stepsister had been in the bathroom for sixty-five minutes so far. The shower had been on most of the time, too. Okay, so she had looked pretty grimy. But really, how the hell long did it take her to get clean? Hannah was always giving him grief about his long showers, but this girl was setting a new house record tonight.

  Steve had heard the shower go off with a squeak about ten minutes ago. So what was she doing now?

  He just needed to brush his teeth and wash his face. Plus, his acne cream was in there.

  He finally headed down the hall and knocked on the bathroom door. “Hey, Eden?” he said timidly. He kept his voice down because he didn’t want to wake Gabe, sleeping down the corridor. “I don’t mean to rush you, but I need to get in there—for just a few minutes.”

  He heard an “Uh-huh,” and wasn’t sure if that meant she would be out soon, or “screw you,” or what.

  Steve thought about going downstairs and telling his parents that his new stepsister was a bathroom hog, but he didn’t want to be a jerk about it. He decided to give her a few more minutes. He retreated into his room, sat down on the edge of his bed, and waited.

  When his dad had first told him about an unknown stepsister, Steve had felt sorry for her. It sounded like she’d had a lot of tough breaks. Even though she looked kind of skanky in the photo his mom took, Steve had made up his mind to give her a chance and be nice. But now that he’d met her, he found her very unfriendly, even kind of hostile. Plus, she stank. Sometime after the dinner from hell, he’d knocked on her door and asked if she wanted to watch TV in the basement with Gabe and him. “You can pick whatever show or movie you want to watch,” he called out so she could hear him past the door she refused to open. “Would you like t
o do that? Would you like to watch TV with us?”

  “Not really,” she called back, sounding annoyed.

  “Okay,” he said, giving up.

  But before walking away, he thought he heard her whispering to someone. He figured she was on the phone with her skuzzy boyfriend.

  His dad had told him to give her time to adjust. But Steve didn’t like her, and he didn’t feel so sorry for her anymore.

  The person he felt sorry for was his mother, who—more than anyone else—seemed to be busting her butt to make this girl feel welcome. And more than anyone, she had every reason to loathe having her here. Steve couldn’t quite forgive his dad for what he’d done. It was such a betrayal of his mom. Steve wondered if this was just the tip of the iceberg. Maybe his dad had cheated a lot more than just this one time, seventeen years ago. Steve figured that would kind of explain why his mom was sometimes emotionally fragile.

  When his mom had first texted the photo of Eden and her boyfriend, she’d said they were shoplifters who were stalking her. They were potentially dangerous. But then, when his dad broke the news to them about Eden being his daughter, suddenly they took it back about how terrible she was. It was all just a misunderstanding, his father had said. But Steve wondered if his mom’s original assessment of the girl and her boyfriend was correct. Steve still didn’t trust her. He felt squeamish having her just down the hall from him while he slept. It was like having a member of the Manson family spending the night—only she’d be spending the next several nights, until God knew when. What was to keep her from sneaking her boyfriend in here in the middle of the night so the pair could kill the entire family? Of all the murder cases Steve had read about, some of the grisliest were when one family member killed another, or several others. No breaking and entering was necessary. The killer already knew the victim or victims—intimately.

  Steve wished he had a lock on his bedroom door. Maybe he could set up some cans along his closed door before going to sleep tonight so if someone tried to sneak in, the cans would fall and the clatter would wake him up.

  Down the hall, the sound of the bathroom door opening jarred him out of his thoughts. Steve stood up—just as Eden appeared in his doorway.

  She had a towel around her waist and was drying her platinum and pink hair with another towel. Otherwise, she was naked. She had a tiny potbelly and plump, round breasts with large, pale rose nipples. Covering her left shoulder was a big swirly tattoo that looked like a thorn bush.

  Stunned, Steve couldn’t help gaping at her. “Jeez,” he muttered.

  “The bathroom’s yours, bro,” she said with a blasé smile.

  Part of it was sexy, because she was practically naked. But it was repulsive, too. She was his half sister, for God’s sake! Mostly, it was just jarring.

  She sauntered down the hall, and then Steve heard her bedroom door close.

  For a few moments, he couldn’t move. He wasn’t sure why Eden had done that. As far as Steve knew, it wasn’t normal. He’d seen his mom and Hannah in their underwear, but they didn’t walk around the house half naked with their boobs hanging out. And he—along with his dad and brother—didn’t walk around bare-assed, either. Maybe she was one of those free spirits who embraced nudity. But it didn’t seem that way. It seemed deliberate, almost as if she was flirting with him or trying to shock him. He was a little turned on, but mostly he felt confused and uncomfortable. He wondered if he should tell somebody about this.

  But at this point, who could he confide in?

  His old friend, Adam, would have told him not to breathe a word about it to anybody. Steve could just hear him: “Are you nuts? Why mess up a good thing?”

  But she was his sister, and this didn’t seem good at all.

  It felt gross—and wrong.

  Still a bit stupefied, he wandered across the hall to the bathroom. The door was open, and the light was still on. Steam wafted in the air, and it smelled like Dove soap. There was a puddle on the floor. Every towel had been used and tossed on the floor, on the counter, or into the tub. The place was a complete mess.

  It was as if she’d done it on purpose—to screw with him.

  Just like appearing in his doorway that way.

  *

  The divorcée who had moved in next door obviously owned a dog—a very unhappy dog. It barked erratically: long yowling spells, then a break, and then it would start barking again.

  Sheila wondered what was wrong with the new neighbor that she’d let the dog go on like that so late. The clock on the nightstand read 12:38 A.M. Sheila had changed into her old pink pajamas. Her face was washed and her hair in a ponytail. She hadn’t turned down the bed yet. She wondered how she’d be able to fall asleep with all the noise next door.

  She’d delayed going to bed while Eden was still awake. She hated the idea of everyone asleep in the house other than that strange, insolent girl down the hall. Sheila simply didn’t trust her. So while the kids went to bed, one by one, Sheila kept checking the strip of light under Eden’s bedroom door. Dylan had been the last to turn in. Tonight, he was in Gabe’s room, sleeping in the bottom bunk—probably very soundly, the son of a bitch.

  She’d DVR’d a World War II spy movie on Turner Classic Movies: 36 Hours with James Garner and Eva Marie Saint. It was good enough to keep Sheila from dozing on the sofa in the den. Still, she paused the movie a few times to tiptoe upstairs and check the light under Eden’s door. The movie ended shortly after midnight, and she was happy to see that the light was finally off in Eden’s room.

  But now she had this stupid dog promising to keep her awake. It sounded like the dog was in a room directly across the way from her and Dylan’s bedroom. Sheila guessed that the noise wasn’t as bad in other parts of the house because everyone else seemed to be sleeping through it. She stood by the window, squinting at the Curtis house. It was dark. It didn’t look like anyone was home—except the poor dog, who wouldn’t shut up.

  Maybe with an Ambien, and some cotton in her ears, and the radio on low for background noise . . . maybe then she could fall asleep. But she didn’t want to get too dependent on the drug. And a part of her didn’t want to be completely knocked out—not with that girl down the hall.

  More than anything, she just wanted this awful day to end.

  Dylan and Steve had washed the dinner dishes by the time she’d returned from her walk. She’d decided to take the high road and go up to Eden’s room. “I’m not going to have you starve your first night here,” she’d told her. “Now, come down to the kitchen, and let’s find you something to eat.”

  Once Sheila had gotten Eden in the kitchen, she opened up all the cupboards to show the variety of food on hand. She said she’d be happy to cook something, or Eden could just help herself.

  “What stuff here is yours?” Eden asked warily.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t want to take anything that’s yours and then, later, have you pissed off at me when you see it’s gone.”

  Sheila figured this was something left over from the girl’s relationship with her mother. She assured Eden that she could help herself to anything. But Eden insisted on having Sheila point out what was hers exclusively.

  “Well, okay. I’m the only one who drinks the cranberry juice, but you’re welcome to it. No one else eats the rice crackers, or the Special K, or the orange marmalade, or the Yoplait. But please, feel free to help yourself . . .”

  Eden finally sat down in the dinette booth and ate a PowerBar, pretzels, and a Diet Coke. But that wasn’t until after Sheila had pointed out practically every type of food that she exclusively liked. It was strange. She tried to imagine what kind of incident had triggered this idiosyncrasy. Maybe Antonia had once beaten the crap out of her daughter for finishing off a jar of olives or something.

  Eden also asked if there was a Laundromat nearby where she could wash her clothes.

  “I can do that for you,” Sheila told her. “I do the wash for everyone else in the house.”


  “You mean, no one here washes their own clothes?”

  Sheila laughed. “I don’t think anyone else in the house even knows how to operate the washer or dryer. And sometimes, I feel like that’s all I do around here. Just leave your clothes in a pile inside your door, and I’ll take care of it.”

  Eden nodded.

  Sheila wondered if a “thank you” or a smile would have killed the girl. But it felt like maybe they were connecting a little—finally. Then, without saying anything, Eden got to her feet and started out of the kitchen. She’d left a mess on the dinette table.

  “Ah, honey, Eden?” Sheila said. “In this house, we clean up after ourselves.”

  The girl sighed and rolled her eyes. She stomped back to the table and grabbed the soda can and the PowerBar wrapper and dumped them in the garbage.

  “We recycle, too,” Sheila said, going over to pick the can and the paper out of the garbage. She tossed them in the recycling bin next to the garbage pail. “Here’s where it goes. See? I mean, just for future reference.”

  Frowning, Eden watched her. “Yeah, I see. Is that all? Can I go now?”

  Biting her lip, Sheila nodded.

  She’d decided to spend the rest of the evening avoiding her, which had been easy. Eden had spent over an hour in the second-floor bathroom and the rest of the time barricaded in her new bedroom. Dylan had knocked on Eden’s door to say good night, but Sheila had let him go solo on that venture. She’d had enough of Eden for one evening.

  And she’d had enough of this shitty day.

  She figured Ambien was the way to go tonight. Yes, it would probably knock her out, and she might not hear if Eden got up in the middle of the night. But the alternative was lying there wide awake, worrying, and listening to the barking dog. She just wished the kids’ bedrooms had locks on the doors. The master bedroom and the guest room in the basement were the only ones with locks. Sheila convinced herself that Hannah was probably using the lock on her new bedroom tonight. It was clear that Hannah was pretty wary of Eden, too. Gabe had his dad in the bedroom to protect him, and Steve had the baseball bat.