The Woman Inside

by E. G. Scott

  It emboldened us. After a stretch of confining ourselves to the living room, she slowly began to coax me upstairs. We’d do it on the steps, up against the wall in the hallway, and, finally, in their bed. The idea of me sticking it to her to stick it to him in the place where they slept became a huge turn-on for her, and then for me. It made me feel more virile, like I was the man of the house again. Not my house, mind you, but that was hardly the point. She’d run her fingers over my stubble as I worked away inside of her, and I felt for the first time in a long time like my old self. I felt wild. And rash. Which is what led me to do the thing I did next.

  “Hmm.” She looks around the bedroom, taking it in.

  “What’s that?” I watch as she studies the details of the space.

  “Didn’t think this is what your place would look like.”

  “You here for the Architectural Digest tour, are you?”

  She turns to me, bites her lip, and slides a hand between my legs. “You know what I’m here for.” She begins working the buttons loose on my shirt with the other hand. “And you’re sure your wife’s not going to be coming home anytime soon?”

  “Maybe don’t talk about my wife.” I hear the edge in my voice.

  She bites my earlobe a little too hard as she whispers, “Maybe make me.”

  I wouldn’t say that marriages are built on secrets, but they certainly help to sustain them. Especially twenty years in. After bringing Sheila into our home, I began to feel something like relief between Rebecca and me. With my needs being taken care of, my resentment and frustration ebbed. I discovered a newfound warmth toward my wife that I realized had been as dormant as our sex life. Fucking my mistress became the pressure release valve between my wife and me.

  In a way, I guess you could say that I did it for her. For us. For the marriage.

  five

  REBECCA

  After

  EVERY SECRET HAS been for him. The ones I’ve kept and the ones I’ve shared. They were all necessary for the sake of our marriage.

  Yes, I’ve colored outside the lines of the basic marital rules more than a few times. I’ve held back. I’ve omitted. I’ve said one thing when I’ve really meant another. I’ve used my body when my words weren’t enough.

  I believe these things have made me a good wife. Most people would say that complete openness is the most important thing in a healthy relationship. Most people would say that if their spouses were standing nearby, at least.

  This year will mark the half of my life that we’ve been together. Fifty percent of my time on earth has been making decisions with “us” in mind. It has been as much time letting go of the dreams as I spent creating them. After that long, you start to lose all concept of who you were alone versus who you are as half of a couple. My secrets have kept me from ceasing to exist completely. In the beginning it was the things we told each other and no one else that kept us focused on each other. Then it became the things we didn’t tell each other that seemed to be holding us together. But that fell apart, of course.

  If you asked Paul if he’s ever seen the real me, there would be no question in his mind. As far as he knows, he’s seen me at my weakest, most emotional and unhinged. Until the night in our bedroom, he really had no idea how violent my unhinging could become.

  I love my husband. Even if he is a lying, thieving prick of a man. I’ve done plenty of things that most people wouldn’t ever understand and would qualify as more of a betrayal than his spiriting away our money. I wouldn’t change any of it, even now. Except while Paul might not know the real me, he knows the worst thing that has ever happened to me and believes that he knows the worst thing I’ve ever done. And that is far more dangerous to me than anything else.

  All the same, I know his worst too.

  * * *

  I WAKE UP IN THE DARK, confused. I see that it is nearly ten P.M. I’ve passed out on my right side and my shoulder is screaming. I reach into my purse for one of the pain pills and swallow it dry. I realize I only have one pill left and a flicker of panic shakes me. I try to remember where I’ve hidden my emergency supply. Lately I haven’t seemed to be able to keep track of how many I have, or where I’ve hidden them. I kept a list for a while of my hiding places but managed to hide that so well, now I can’t even find that.

  I hear the sound of water running upstairs and a bolt of energy snaps me to attention. Has Paul come home? Duff is nowhere to be seen, so he must be in our bedroom with his master. He is always the most loyal to him, when given the choice.

  “Paul?” The continued sound of water above me is the only sound in response.

  I scramble around the couch cushions for my phone, which isn’t visible on any of the usual surfaces, and check my purse, coming up empty.

  “Duff? Come here, boy.” The sound of water seems to be getting louder and I try to remember if I started the shower before coming back downstairs and falling asleep. I definitely did not.

  Without Duff or my phone, I feel defenseless climbing the stairs in the direction of the bathroom. I decide against a weapon of any kind, which will undoubtedly look a little crazy to Paul. I consider what I’m possibly going to say to confront him and decide halfway up that I won’t say anything tonight. I’m too tired for a fight and honestly relieved that he’s home and I’m no longer alone in our house.

  When I reach the top of the stairs, the bedroom is dark, but I can see the light from under the closed bathroom door as I move through our room. I knock on the door lightly, realizing the sound is the bath, not the shower.

  “Paul? Honey?” There’s no response, and I conclude that he must not be able to hear me over the water. “I’m coming in, okay?”

  When I push open the door, I see that the shower curtain is half closed and that the tub is inches away from spilling over. The windows and mirrors are fogged up, and the steam clears enough with the door open for me to see that the bathroom is empty. I move quickly to the spout and stanch the flow.

  I survey the empty room. On the counter I see a neatly folded towel, a single straight-edge razor sitting on top of it, and off to the side, my phone. I sit on the edge of the tub to get my bearings and retrace my steps from earlier today until now. I have absolutely no recollection of coming upstairs, starting the bath, or leaving my phone out, let alone a razor blade or the towel. The scene is out of a scary movie.

  Knowing that a side effect of the pills can be paranoia, I remind myself that the simplest explanation is usually the correct one. I am not losing my grip. Paul must have come home and been careful not to wake me, started the bath, and left to walk Duff, forgetting about the running water. Although this seems completely uncharacteristic of him, given his general OCD about faucets, lights, and locks.

  The house has taken on an eerie silence aside from occasional water dripping. A shudder moves through me when my hand comes into contact with the plastic curtain. I stand and pull it open, revealing the half of the tub that was concealed. Bobbing up and down like a bright orange buoy is my emergency OxyContin bottle.

  Paul is getting very creative in his passive aggression about my self-medication. I grab the bottle angrily, flinching from the still-hot water. I barely register the pain before the vibrating phone on the counter diverts my attention. I see a text from Paul.

  Hey Babe. Did you get my message?

  Yes, babe. I’ve seen it. It is a little dramatic, if you ask me. I’m suddenly reinvigorated by the earlier rage returning.

  Yes I got your message. What the hell? Where are you Paul?

  As the message bubbles percolate, I realize my mistake. I see the missed call from Paul and a new voicemail notification on my screen. Dread reverberates through me.

  ?????? What do you mean? Are you okay? I’m at Wes’s. Did you listen to my voicemail?

  I type quickly.

  Sorry. I just woke up. Was confused. Listening to the message no
w.

  I move out of the bedroom and downstairs as I click into my voicemails.

  “Hi, honey. They made us do shots. Wes is wrecked and threw up out of the Uber window. I am pretty fucked-up too. But I think they’re going to offer in the morning, so mission accomplished.” His voice is calm and collected, though a little louder than usual. He doesn’t sound wasted, but I’m hardly a good judge of sobriety at the moment. “We’re at Wes’s house now, and I had to pay the driver extra to stop yelling at us and to cover the car wash. I’m gonna do the responsible thing and sleep here tonight and go directly to the airport tomorrow.” He laughs when he says “responsible,” his tenor faintly apologetic. Hard to believe that accountability is on his mind at the moment. “I’m seeing double. Love you.” My stomach somersaults. He’s definitely lying.

  When I reach the kitchen, Duff is outside the kitchen door fogging up the glass in giant wet-snout intervals. His tail wags impatiently. It is hours after his dinnertime. I wince at my neglect and flick the lights, letting him know I’m on my way. He jumps on the glass in a frenzy as I grab his food dish and let him in. I make it halfway to the floor before he knocks into me. Dog food cascades on the floor. And he is off, attempting to chase in four different directions. The plastic on the tile activates my jangled nerves. I sit on one of the chairs and breathe deeply, convincing myself that I’ve just experienced a minor fugue state and everything is fine. I push the panic down and focus. Me. Here. Now. Awake and aware. Duff happily crunching on his food. The full bottle of painkillers in my hand.

  I move my shoulder around in small circles to get the blood flowing. The site of the most recent injury has all but healed on the outside, but the old ache from the first trauma has been seemingly reignited by the new. I’ve got to remind myself to keep it mobile, since the painkillers do their job so well. It’s funny that I was taking them long before I had real pain; now I can barely remember what it was like before the most recent wound. I can’t actually recall if the ache in my shoulder was real or some unshakable phantom sensation I’d been unable to let go of from my childhood. I only remember the paramedic moving my face to the side and showing me a picture book that was meant for someone much younger while another popped my shoulder back into place. The explosion of pain was the worst thing I’d experienced so far in my relatively young life. Well, second to having it ripped out of the socket hours earlier.

  Now I have to take more beyond the actually prescribed amount, which puts me at always nearly out of pills. Even funnier: It wasn’t because I worked in pharma that I got hooked on them; it was because of Sasha. She was so deceptively together and perfect I never considered that she had a problem. My association with her and our secret together never felt like anything dangerous, only ripe with the possibility of improvement and inclusion for me. If I did more of the things she did, I would be more like her. And Paul had once described her as “unworldly” and I wanted to capture that in myself.

  I chug two glasses of water and consider eating something to steady myself before I set out on further investigations. I stare into the well-stocked fridge out of ceremony, scanning over the depressing spread: green juice, yogurt, kale, and myriad other virtuous foods. Even if I was hungry, there is nothing appetizing here. I linger in the cool for just a little longer. The burn running north of my throat to my cheeks abates for a few precious moments.

  In the living room, Duff’s already curled up in his dog bed. I’m itchy in my work clothes so I move quickly upstairs to our bedroom and strip down in the dark. I ball up my silk Tahari sheath before chucking it into the walk-in. I peel off my bra and panties in the direction of the hamper. I flinch hard when I see someone watching me from the chair in the corner of our room and jump back, slamming hard into the door handle. The impact knocks the wind out of me, and I sit naked on the floor for a few seconds before I turn the light on and realize that my watcher is a pile of pillows that Paul has taken off the bed. Everything feels dangerous now.

  I pull on a tank top and yoga pants. When I flip the light off, everything is so utterly dark that I can’t see anything. As my eyes adjust I catch a flash of movement near the trees. I let out a yelp and duck down fast. As I edge closer to the window on my knees, I hear Duff bound up behind me and pant happily in the direction of my phantom. Of course there isn’t anybody there. If there had been, one of the three newly installed motion detectors would have illuminated the yard and Duff would be barking like crazy.

  I shake off the feeling of being watched as I enter the bathroom to pull the stopper from the bathtub drain now that the water has cooled a few degrees. I grab some toilet paper from the roll and carefully wrap the blade a few times before dropping it into the wastebasket under the sink.

  As I head to Paul’s office, I respond to his voicemail with a text:

  Going to bed.

  Had a long day.

  Drink water.

  Call me before your flight.

  Hopefully this will deter any follow-up calls tonight. I don’t know if I have the self-control to keep avoiding him.

  Absurdly, I knock on the door first. I turn the knob and am surprised to find that it doesn’t budge. This stumps me momentarily, since it is the first locked door in the house that I can remember. I try to recall a time when we ever used the locks inside the house and can’t think of one. I twist the handle again and accept that certain measures are required.

  I kneel down, eye level to the knob, to estimate what I’m up against. It’s a pretty run-of-the-mill warded lock. Easy enough. I go to the kitchen and grab two paper clips from a listing packet that Paul’s left on the counter. I’ve blocked out most memories of my youth, but the choreography of pin-to-pin cracking is as natural as breathing. While most kids were learning how to ride bikes, I was watching my father pick the locks on doors separating my mother from him. Kids are like sponges, and I absorbed. I’m in easily.

  It takes a minute to find the light switch when I step in. This has always been Paul’s space. I’m overly careful not to trip on any of the towers of detritus I know are there. When I find the smooth switch and illuminate my surroundings, disorientation sets in. Paul’s office is pristine, as suspiciously tidy and clean as his laptop was. His piles of boxes, blueprints, and contracts are gone without a trace. It appears that while I was throwing myself into work and spin class, Paul was cleaning up old messes and making new, bigger, invisible ones. The surface of his desk is completely clear except for a copper letter opener with Celtic knots winding around the handle.

  A chair that’s been in Paul’s life longer than I have sits neatly behind his desk. I sink into his imprint, momentarily worried he might notice the change in the worn leather. This is the desk of a confident man: big, sleek, and leather. The two medium-size drawers on the right are as they always have been. I pull the brass knob of the top one and find it unlocked.

  It’s empty save for the usual desk fare: a calculator, a stapler, and some pens. These items don’t hide the glaring absence of his handgun. It wasn’t exactly the most secure way to store a potentially lethal firearm, but without kids in the house, the easy access had never posed a threat. I shudder at this thought now. I know he’s moved it out of the house and away from us.

  I’ve gone back and forth about being relieved it is out of the house and wishing it were within arm’s length, especially at night. Today I feel equally ambivalent and conclude it is probably best for Paul that I don’t have access to a gun.

  I attempt to open the second drawer but it doesn’t budge. Interesting. I jimmy the keyhole easily using a bobby pin from my unwashed and haphazardly updone hair. They work better on a pin-tumbler lock than a mangled paper clip because the shape of the ends when the plastic bits are removed is a perfect fit. As expected. Inside the drawer sits a medium-size lockbox I’ve never seen. The irony of my husband putting this many locks between me and whatever he’s hiding is rich. He has no idea of my childhood talent,
and I wonder how he’d feel if he’d seen how far I’d managed to get through his obstacles. Most wives would have stopped at the locked door.

  I lift the lever-locked metal box and place it in front of me. I’ll need both hands to get into this one. I decide the letter opener will do just fine and thank Paul for leaving it out. The slender tip slips in easily and I pull up and left with one smooth flick of my wrist. An image of my father flashes in my head as I hear the click. Once he caught on that I was watching him pick locks, he amused himself by showing me how to tackle different kinds of catches and clasps. For a short time it bonded us and kept him away from my mother, who continued to lock herself behind the bedroom door, even after he picked it over and over until he finally just removed the knob altogether. Inside the box is a blue velvet jewelry bag that looks like a movie prop. I pull the ribbon closure, spread the mouth of the bag, and tip it into my hand. I half expect gemstones to cascade into my palm like at the end of the movie The Goonies, a favorite of mine from childhood from one of my early foster homes. It was the only VHS they had, and nobody cared if I watched it five times a day. It made me happy in an otherwise miserable arrangement.

  Instead of jewels, though, a ring box slides into my hand. Inside is an engagement ring I’ve never seen. It is a stunning canary-yellow diamond, and much bigger than the one currently on my finger, a modest solitaire that he got me while he was still married. This new one looks to be about three carats. Not a million-dollar ring, but definitely worth a big chunk of life savings. Could this be Paul’s plan? To give me an upgraded ring? It seems unlike him to use our house money for a single piece of jewelry, especially given how things have been between us. This can’t be the only thing he’s hiding.

  There is an envelope sitting at the bottom of the box. It is unsealed, and from it I extract a small stack of Polaroids. Before I flip through the synthetic plastic squares, my eye catches a familiar translucent orange bottle pushed to the back of the drawer, behind the lockbox. My stomach drops with the thought that Paul has discovered one of my hiding places and confiscated my stash, but this fear dissipates quickly after I snatch the bottle. These are definitely not mine. I don’t need to read the medicine name to know what I’m holding; the blue rounded-edge diamond pills are unmistakable. Viagra. Another secret. And one I’m definitely not reaping the benefits of these days. Who is? I feel sick.