The Wife Between Us

by Greer Hendricks

I’d called her after my breakdown on the subway. I can’t remember our entire conversation, but I do remember crying.

  “Let me know if you need to leave a bit early,” she says now.

  “Thank you.” I drop my head, feeling ashamed.

  It is busy today, especially for a Sunday, but not busy enough. I thought coming in to work might distract me, but visions of her crowd my mind. I imagine her hands on her swollen belly. Richard’s hands on her swollen belly. Him reminding her to take vitamins, urging her to get enough sleep, holding her close at night. If she gets pregnant, he’ll probably assemble a crib and perch a teddy bear inside.

  Even when I was struggling to become pregnant, a soft, smiling teddy bear waited in the room we’d designated for a baby. Early on, Richard had called it our good-luck charm.

  “It’ll happen,” Richard had said, shrugging off my worry.

  But after those six months of failed tests, he went to a doctor to have his sperm analyzed. His semen count was normal. “The doctor said I’ve got Michael Phelps swimmers,” he joked, while I tried to smile.

  So I set up an appointment with a fertility specialist, and Richard said he’d try to reschedule a meeting to attend.

  “You don’t have to.” I’d attempted to keep my voice light. “I can fill you in after.”

  “You sure, sweetheart? Maybe if my client leaves early, I can meet you for lunch, as long as you’ll be in the city. I’ll have Diane book a table at Amaranth.”

  “Lunch sounds perfect.”

  But an hour before the appointment, just as I was stepping onto the train, he called to say he’d come to the doctor’s office. “I put off my client. This is more important.”

  I was grateful he couldn’t see my expression.

  The fertility specialist would ask me questions. Questions I didn’t want to answer in front of my husband.

  As my train sped toward Grand Central Terminal, I stared out the window at the bare trees and graffiti-littered buildings with boarded-up windows. I could lie. Or I could try to get the doctor alone and explain. The truth was not an option.

  A sharp pain made me look down. I’d been picking at my cuticles and had torn one below the quick. I put my finger in my mouth, sucking away the blood.

  The train screeched into the terminal before I’d come up with a plan, and far too soon a taxi delivered me to an elegant Park Avenue building.

  When Richard met me in the lobby, he didn’t seem to notice my agitation. Or maybe he thought I was just anxious about the appointment. I felt as if I were sleepwalking as he pressed the button for the fourteenth floor in the elevator, then stepped back so I could exit first.

  Richard’s urologist had referred us to Dr. Hoffman. A graceful slender woman in her mid-fifties, she greeted us with a smile shortly after we’d signed in and led us to her consult room. Under her lab coat I saw a flash of fuchsia. We followed her down the hall, and even though she was wearing three-inch heels, I struggled to match her pace.

  Richard and I sat side by side on an upholstered couch facing her uncluttered desk. I twisted my hands in my lap, fidgeting with the slender gold bands on my finger. At first, Dr. Hoffman was hesitant to even indulge our insecurities as she explained that it took many couples more than six months to conceive. “Eighty-five percent of couples are pregnant within a year,” she assured us.

  I mustered a smile. “Well, then…”

  But Richard interjected. “We don’t care about statistics.” He reached for my hand. “We want to get pregnant now.”

  I should have known it wouldn’t be that easy.

  Dr. Hoffman nodded. “There’s nothing to prevent you from exploring fertility treatments, but they can be time-consuming and expensive. There are also side effects.”

  “Again, with all due respect, these are not issues that concern us,” Richard said. I caught a glimpse of what he must be like at work—commanding, persuasive. Impossible to resist.

  Why had I ever thought I could hide something so significant from him?

  “Baby, your hands are icy.” Richard rubbed mine between his.

  Dr. Hoffman turned her head to look directly at me. Her hair was swept into a fashionably loose twist, and her skin was smooth and unlined. I wished I had worn something more elegant than simple black pants and a cream turtleneck sweater, which I’d just noticed had a small bloodstain by the cuff. I tucked the material under the finger I’d injured and tried to curve my lips upward.

  “Okay, then. Let me start by asking Vanessa some questions. Richard, perhaps you’d like to take a seat in the waiting room?”

  Richard looked at me. “Sweetheart, would you like me to go?”

  I hesitated. I knew what he wanted me to say. He’d taken off work to accompany me. Would it be a bigger betrayal if I asked him to leave and he found out anyway? Maybe Dr. Hoffman would be ethically bound to tell him, or a nurse might glance at my chart and slip up someday.

  It was so hard to think.

  “Honey?” Richard prompted.

  “I’m sorry. Of course, it’s fine if you stay.”

  The questions began. Dr. Hoffman’s voice was low and modulated, but each query felt like a bullet: How frequent are your periods? How long do they last? What methods of birth control have you used? My stomach clenched like a fist. I knew where this was heading.

  Then Dr. Hoffman asked, “Have you ever been pregnant?”

  I stared down at the thick carpet—gray with small pink squares. I started counting the shapes.

  I could feel the heat of Richard’s stare. “You’ve never been pregnant,” he said. It was a statement.

  I still thought about that time in my life, but the memories had remained locked inside me.

  This was so important.

  I couldn’t lie, after all.

  I looked up at Dr. Hoffman. “I have been pregnant.” My voice sounded squeaky and I cleared my throat. “I was only twenty-one.”

  I recognized the “only” as a plea directed at Richard.

  “You had an abortion?” I couldn’t read the expression in Richard’s voice.

  I looked up at my husband again.

  And I knew I couldn’t tell the full truth, either.

  “I, ah, I had a miscarriage.” I cleared my throat again and avoided his stare. “I was only a few weeks along.” That part, at least, was true. Six weeks.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” Richard leaned back, away from me. Shock flitted across his face, then something else. Anger? Betrayal?

  “I wanted to.… I just—I guess I couldn’t figure out how.” It was such an inadequate response. I’d been so stupid to hope he’d never find out.

  “Were you ever going to tell me?”

  “Listen,” Dr. Hoffman interrupted. “These conversations can get emotional. Do you two need a moment?”

  Her tone was calm, the thick silver pen she’d been jotting notes with poised in midair, as if this were a normal interlude. But I couldn’t imagine that many other wives had kept the same kind of secrets from their husbands as I had. I knew I’d have to privately tell Dr. Hoffman the full truth at some point.

  “No. No. We’re fine. Let’s keep going?” Richard said. He smiled at me, but a few seconds later he crossed his legs and released my hand.

  When the questions were finally over, Dr. Hoffman conducted my physical and blood work while Richard sat in the waiting area, thumbing through emails on his BlackBerry. Before she left the room, Dr. Hoffman put a hand on my shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. It felt like a motherly gesture, and my throat convulsed as I tried to hold back tears. I’d hoped Richard and I would still go to lunch, but he said he had postponed the client meeting to one o’clock and he needed to get back to the office. We rode the elevator downstairs in silence along with a few strangers, all of us staring straight ahead.

  When we stepped outside, I looked up at Richard. “I’m sorry. I should have…”

  He’d silenced his phone during our appointment, but now it began to buzz with
an incoming call. He checked the number, then kissed me on the cheek. “I need to take this. I’ll see you at home, sweetheart.”

  As he walked down the street, I stared at the back of his head and willed him to turn around and give me a smile or a wave. But he just rounded a corner and disappeared.

  That wasn’t the first time I’d betrayed Richard, and it wouldn’t be the last. Nor would it be the worst—not even close.

  I’d never been the woman he thought he’d married.

  * * *

  During a lull in customers at Saks I duck into the break room for coffee. My stomach has settled but a dull ache lingers between my temples. Lisa, a salesperson from the shoe department, is sitting on the couch, nibbling a sandwich. She is in her twenties, blond and pretty in a wholesome way.

  I pull my gaze away.

  One of my psychology podcasts featured the Baader-Meinhof phenomenon. It’s when you become aware of something—the name of an obscure band, say, or a new type of pasta—and it seems to suddenly appear everywhere. Frequency illusion, it’s also called.

  Young blond women are surrounding me now.

  When I came into work this morning, one was trying on lipstick at the Laura Mercier counter. Another was touching fabrics in the Ralph Lauren section. Lisa raises her sandwich for a bite and I see the ring gleaming on her left hand.

  Richard and his fiancée are getting married so quickly. She can’t possibly be pregnant, can she? I wonder again. I feel the familiar hitch in my breath and the cold seep into my body, but I force myself to ward off the panic.

  I need to see her today. I need to know for certain.

  She lives not too far away from where I stand right now.

  Sometimes you can learn a lot about people online—everything from whether they had sour cream on their lunchtime burrito to their upcoming wedding date. Other people are harder to track. But with almost everyone, you can determine a few baseline facts: Their address. Their phone number. Where they work.

  You can learn other details by watching.

  One night, back when we were still married, I followed Richard to her place and stood outside her apartment. He was carrying a bouquet of white roses and a bottle of wine.

  I could have pounded on the door, pushed my way in behind him, screeched at Richard, and demanded he come home.

  But I didn’t. I returned to our house, and a few hours later, when Richard arrived, I greeted him with a smile. “I left dinner for you. Should I heat it up?”

  They say the wife is always the last to know. But I wasn’t. I just chose to look the other way. I never dreamed it would last.

  My regret is an open wound.

  Lisa, the pretty young saleswoman, is gathering up her things quickly, even though some of her sandwich is still left. She tosses the remains in the trash, sneaking glances at me. Her forehead is creased.

  I have no idea how long I’ve been staring.

  I exit the break room, and for the rest of my shift, I greet customers pleasantly. I fetch clothing. I nod and give an opinion when asked about the suitability of dresses and suits.

  All the while, I bide my time, knowing I’ll soon be able to satisfy my growing need.

  When at last I can leave, I find myself being pulled back to her apartment.

  To her.

  CHAPTER

  NINE

  NELLIE BENT OVER the toilet, her stomach heaving, then slumped down on the marble floor in Richard’s bathroom.

  Images from the previous night began to surface: The shots. The smoking. The kiss. And the look on Richard’s face in the taxi as they made their way back to his apartment. She couldn’t believe she’d nearly sabotaged her future with him.

  Across from her, a full-length mirror reflected her image: mascara smeared under her eyes, silver glitter from the veil dotting her hair—and a crisp New York City Marathon T-shirt, courtesy of Richard.

  She struggled to her feet and reached for a towel to wipe her mouth, then hesitated. They were all snow-white with royal-blue trim. Like everything else in Richard’s apartment, they were starkly elegant—everything but her, Nellie thought. She grabbed a Kleenex instead, then tossed it in the toilet. Richard never seemed to have garbage in his trash bins; she wasn’t going to leave her soiled tissue behind.

  She brushed her teeth and washed her face in icy water that left her skin pale and blotchy. Then, even though she craved a retreat back under Richard’s luxurious down comforter, she steadied herself to find him and endure whatever he had to say to her.

  Instead of her fiancé, she discovered a bottle of Evian and a container of Advil on the gleaming granite kitchen counter. Beside them rested a note on thick ecru paper embossed with his initials: I didn’t want to wake you. I’m off to Atlanta. Back tomorrow. Feel better. Love you, R.

  The clock on the oven read 11:43. How had she slept so late?

  And how could she have forgotten Richard’s travel schedule? She didn’t even recall his mentioning Atlanta.

  As she shook out two tablets and downed the still-cool water, she studied Richard’s neat block letters and tried to gauge his mood. Last night’s images were jagged and incomplete, but she recalled him tucking her in, then leaving the room and shutting the door. If he’d eventually returned and climbed into bed beside her, she hadn’t noticed.

  She picked up the cordless phone on his counter and dialed his cell, but it went straight to voice mail. “I’ll get right back to you,” he promised.

  Hearing his voice made her feel the ache of missing him.

  “Hi, honey.” She fumbled for words. “Um … just wanted to say I love you.”

  She headed back to the bedroom, passing a few large framed photographs lining the hallway. Her favorite was of Richard as a boy, his small hand clasped in Maureen’s, as they stood at the ocean’s edge. Maureen had towered over him. Richard was five feet eleven inches now, but he hadn’t had a growth spurt until he was sixteen, he’d told Nellie. The next photograph was a posed shot of Richard and Maureen with their parents. Nellie could see that Richard had inherited his piercing eyes from his mother and full lips from his father. At the end was a black-and-white picture of his mom and dad on their wedding day.

  It said so much about Richard that he decorated his walls with images of family, that these were the faces he wanted to see every day. She wished his parents were still alive, but at least Richard had his sister. Nellie would get to meet Maureen tomorrow at dinner at one of Richard’s favorite restaurants.

  Her reverie was interrupted by the house phone ringing. Richard, she thought, feeling a rush of joy as she ran back into the kitchen and grabbed the receiver.

  But the voice that greeted her was feminine: “Is Richard there?”

  “Um, no.” Nellie hesitated. “Is this Maureen?”

  Silence. Then the woman replied, “No. I’ll call him back.” Then came the dull, unbroken note of the dial tone.

  Who would phone Richard on a Sunday and not want to leave a message?

  Nellie hesitated, then checked caller ID. The number was blocked.

  She had come to Richard’s apartment on many occasions. But this was the first time she’d ever been here alone.

  Behind her, in the living room, a wall of windows afforded a stunning view of Central Park as well as several other residential buildings. She walked over and looked out, her eyes sweeping over the apartments. Many were dark or shuttered by blinds or curtains. But others had nothing covering the panes of clear glass.

  From certain angles, she thought she could see the shadowy outlines of furniture or figures inside.

  Which meant anyone in those buildings also had a view into Richard’s apartment.

  She’d seen Richard close the blinds before at night—a complicated electronic system on that wall wired his lighting and shades. She jabbed at a button and the recessed overhead lights turned off. It was so gloomy outside that the apartment was plunged into shadows.

  She pushed the button again and the bulbs flashed on. She
exhaled slowly, then tried another button. This time she managed to do it correctly and the blinds glided down. Even though a doorman was stationed in the lobby, Nellie quickly walked to the front door to check the lock. It was engaged. Richard would never leave her unprotected, no matter how annoyed he might be, she thought.

  Nellie took a shower, washing her body with Richard’s citrus-scented L’Occitane soap and shampooing the smell of stale smoke out of her hair. She tilted back her head and closed her eyes to rinse the suds, then shut off the water and wrapped herself in Richard’s robe, thinking of the soft voice on the phone.

  The woman had no accent. It was impossible to discern her age.

  Nellie opened Richard’s medicine cabinet and took out gel, combing a bit through her damp hair and securing it in a ponytail. She changed into the exercise clothes she kept at the apartment since she occasionally used the gym in the building, then found her crumpled top and leather pants neatly folded on top of a small canvas tote by the foot of the bed. She tucked her belongings into the bag and left the apartment, rattling the door to make sure the lock clicked into place.

  As she walked toward the elevator, the only other neighbor on Richard’s floor, Mrs. Keene, stepped out of her apartment, holding the leash of her bichon frise. Whenever they bumped into her in the lobby, Richard pretended he needed to collect his mail or came up with another excuse to avoid her. “She’ll talk you to death if you let her,” Richard had warned.

  Nellie suspected she was lonely, so she gave the woman a smile as she pressed the call button for the elevator.

  “I’ve been wondering why you haven’t been around lately, dear!”

  “Oh, I was just here a few days ago,” Nellie said.

  “Well, next time, knock on my door and I’ll have you in for tea.”

  “Your dog is adorable.” Nellie gave its puffy white fur a quick stroke. The woman and her dog looked as if they shared a hairstylist, Nellie thought.

  “Mr. Fluffles likes you. So, where’s your paramour?”

  “Richard had to go to Atlanta for work.”

  “Work? On a Sunday?” The dog sniffed Nellie’s shoe. “He’s so busy, isn’t he? Always racing off to catch a plane. I’ve offered to keep an eye on his place while he’s gone, but he said he’d never impose on me.… So where are you off to now?”