The Wife Between Us

by Greer Hendricks

  I use scissors to slice through the masking tape and open up my past.

  Our wedding album is on top. I lift the heavy satin keepsake. Beneath it I see some of my clothes, neatly folded. When I left, I took mostly cold-weather outfits. Richard has sent ensembles suitable for summertime. He has selected the pieces that always looked the best on me.

  At the bottom is a padded black jewelry box. I open it and see a diamond choker. It’s the necklace I could never bear to wear because Richard gave it to me after one of our worst fights.

  This isn’t all I’ve left behind, of course. Richard probably donated the rest of my things to charity.

  He knows I never cared much about clothes. What he really wanted me to have is the album and the necklace. But why?

  There’s no note in the box.

  But he is sending me a message with its contents, I realize.

  I open the album and stare at a young woman in a lacy gown with a full skirt, smiling up at Richard. I barely recognize myself; it’s like looking at an image of a different person.

  I wonder if his new fiancée will take his last name: Thompson. It is still my name, too.

  I see her turning her face up to Richard as the minister unites them. She is beaming. Will he think of me briefly and remember how I looked in that moment, before he pushes the memory away? Does he ever call her my name by accident? Do they talk about me, the two of them, when they’re cuddling in bed?

  I pick up the album and hurl it across the room. It leaves a mark on the wall before it falls to the floor with a thud. My entire body is shaking now.

  I’ve been putting on an act for Aunt Charlotte. But my costume can no longer camouflage what I’ve become.

  I think of the liquor store down the street. I could buy a bottle or two. A drink might help douse the rage inside me.

  I shove the box into my wardrobe, but now I’m imagining Richard lifting her chin and clasping a diamond choker around her neck, then leaning in to kiss her. I can’t bear the image of his lips on her mouth, of his hands on her.

  My time is running out.

  I need to see her. I waited outside of her apartment for hours today, but she never appeared.

  Is she scared? I wonder. Does she sense what is coming?

  I elect to allow myself a final bottle of wine. I’ll drink it and go over my plan again. But I choose to do one thing before going to the liquor store. And miraculously, because of that simple act, an unexpected chance drops into my lap.

  I decide to call Maureen. Even after all these years, she is the person with whom Richard is the closest.

  We haven’t talked in a while. Our relationship began pleasantly enough, but during my marriage to her brother, her feelings toward me seemed to shift. She grew distant. I’m sure Richard confided in her. No wonder she was wary of me.

  But early on, I tried to form an independent relationship with her. It seemed important to Richard that we be close. So I called her every week or two. But we quickly ran out of things to talk about. Maureen had a Ph.D. and ran the Boston Marathon each spring. She rarely drank, other than a single glass of champagne on special occasions, and she rose at five A.M. to practice the piano, an instrument she’d taken up as an adult.

  Shortly after my wedding, I accompanied Maureen and Richard on the annual ski trip they took for her birthday. They whipped down black diamonds with ease, and I only held them up. I ended up leaving the slopes at lunchtime and curling up by the fireplace with a hot toddy until they returned, pink cheeked and exhilarated, to collect me for dinner. They always invited me to come, but I never joined them after that first trip, staying home while they went to Aspen or Vail, and on their week-long trip to Switzerland.

  Now I dial her cell number.

  She answers on the third ring: “Hang on a sec.” Then I hear a muffled “Ninety-second and Lexington, please.”

  So she is in town already; she comes here in the summer to teach a course at Columbia.

  “Vanessa? How are you?” Her tone is measured. Neutral.

  “I’m okay,” I lie. “How about you?”

  “Fine.”

  One of my podcasts recounted a psychology experiment in which a researcher flashed different faces from a projector and students had to quickly identify the emotions portrayed. It was astonishing. In less than a second, with no clues but a subtle shifting of features, almost everyone could accurately differentiate between disgust and fear and surprise and joy. But I’ve always thought voices reveal just as much expression, that our brains are capable of deciphering and categorizing almost imperceptible nuances in tone.

  Maureen wants nothing to do with me. She is going to end the call quickly.

  “I was just wondering … could we meet for lunch tomorrow? Or coffee?”

  Maureen exhales. “I’m a little busy now.”

  “I can come to you. I was wondering … the wedding. Is Richard—”

  “Vanessa. Richard has moved on. You need to do the same.”

  I try again. “I just need to—”

  “Please stop. Just stop. Richard told me you’ve been calling all the time.… Look, you’re upset things ended between you two. But he’s my brother.”

  “Have you met her?” I blurt. “He can’t marry her. He doesn’t love her—he can’t—”

  “I agree it’s very sudden.” Maureen’s voice is kinder when she speaks again. “And I know it’s hard to see him with another woman. To think of him with anyone but you. But Richard has moved on.”

  Then the last, frayed thread tying me to Richard is severed with the click of the phone.

  I stand there, feeling numb. Maureen was always protective of Richard. I wonder if she’ll befriend his new bride, if the two of them will go to lunch …

  Then clarity sweeps through my cloudy brain like an arcing windshield wiper. Ninety-second and Lexington. That’s where Sfoglia is. Richard used to love that restaurant. It’s almost seven o’clock—dinnertime.

  Maureen must have been giving the address to a cabdriver. The restaurant is a long way from Columbia, but it’s close to Richard’s apartment. Could she be going to meet him—them—there?

  I have to get her alone, where Richard can’t see.

  If I leave now, maybe I can be waiting on the corner when she arrives. If not, I can ask for a table by the ladies’ room and follow her if she uses it.

  Two minutes is all I require.

  I glance at my reflection in the beveled glass mirror beside my armoire. Although I must get there quickly, I need to appear presentable so I blend in. I take a moment to brush my hair and apply my lipstick, belatedly realizing the shade is too dark for my chalky complexion. I dab concealer under my eyes and smooth on blush.

  As I locate my keys, I call out to tell Aunt Charlotte that I need to dash out for an errand. I don’t wait for her response before I hurry out the door. The elevator is too slow, so I spiral down the stairs, my purse banging against my side. Inside it is everything I need.

  The streets are clogged with traffic. It’s rush hour. No buses are in sight. Maybe a cab? As I head toward the East Side, I scan the yellow vehicles, but they all seem full. It’s a twenty-minute walk. So I break into a run.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTEEN

  BY THE END of the taxi ride, Nellie had pushed away the oppressive sensation of the frat guys’ touching her. It wasn’t too difficult; she’d long ago learned to compartmentalize the sorts of feelings they’d conjured in her. Still, she wanted to take a moment alone in the restaurant bathroom. She suspected she could use a fresh swipe of lip gloss, not to mention a spritz of perfume.

  However, when she arrived, the maître d’ informed her another woman was waiting at her table. “Shall I take your bag?”

  Nellie relinquished the electric-blue-and-yellow Nike satchel containing her damp uniform, feeling like a rube. She wondered if she was supposed to tip him. She’d have to ask Richard; she was far more familiar with restaurants that featured a hostess offering oversize menus al
ong with crayon packets for children.

  Nellie was led through the bar area, past a silver-haired man in a tuxedo playing a grand piano, then through the high-ceilinged dining room. Her stomach clenched. Maureen was sixteen years her senior and a college professor, and here was Nellie, a slightly disheveled preschool teacher who smelled like a deep fryer.

  This introduction couldn’t have come on a worse night.

  But the moment Nellie saw Maureen, she exhaled. Richard’s sister looked like the photonegative of him. Her hair was cut in a classic bob, and she wore a simple pantsuit. She was peering at The Economist through reading glasses, biting her lower lip the way Richard always did when he was concentrating.

  “Hi!” Nellie said, leaning over to give Maureen a hug. “Was that weird? I just feel like we are going to be sisters … and I’ve never had a sister.”

  Maureen smiled and tucked her magazine into her purse. “It’s wonderful to meet you.”

  “I’m sorry I look like a mess.” Nellie slid into the chair across from Maureen, feeling chatty, a side effect of the tension that had been brewing inside her. “I just came from work.”

  “At the preschool?”

  Nellie shook her head. “I waitress, too … or I did. I actually quit. I was just covering for a friend. I’m a little frazzled because I was worried I’d be late.”

  “Well, you look just fine to me.” Maureen was still smiling, but her next words caught Nellie off guard. “And you’re totally Richard’s type.”

  Hadn’t Richard’s ex been a brunette? “What do you mean?” Nellie reached for the bread basket. The last thing she’d consumed was a banana on the way to graduation more than ten hours ago. On the table rested a shallow bowl of olive oil topped with a floating purple flourish of vinegar and a sprig of thyme. She tore off a small piece of a roll and tried to delicately dip it without ruining the ornamentation.

  “Oh, you know. Sweet. Pretty.” Maureen folded her hands and leaned forward.

  Richard had said Maureen was honest almost to a fault; it was one of the things he most appreciated about her. Maureen’s remark wasn’t intended to sound demeaning, Nellie told herself—no one would consider being called sweet and pretty an insult.

  “Tell me all about yourself,” Maureen said. “Richard mentioned you’re from Florida?”

  “Um-hmm … But I should be asking you questions, like what Richard was like when he was younger. Share a story he wouldn’t have told me.” The roll was warm and studded with herbs, and Nellie gobbled another bite.

  “Oh, where to begin?”

  Before Maureen could say anything more, Nellie caught sight of Richard heading to their table, his eyes fixed on her. She hadn’t seen him since he tucked her into bed after her bachelorette party. Without hesitating, he bent down and gave her a kiss on the lips. It’s really okay, she thought. He has forgiven me.

  “Sorry.” He gave his sister a quick peck on the cheek. “Flight was delayed.”

  “Actually, you’re too early. Maureen was just about to tell me all of your deep, dark secrets,” Nellie joked.

  As soon as Nellie spoke, she saw Richard’s features briefly tighten, then he smiled. She expected him to come back around the table to sit next to her, but he took the chair to Maureen’s right, diagonally across from Nellie.

  “Right, all those controversial summers at the golf course at the club.” Richard shook out his napkin and placed it in his lap. “And there was that incident when I was elected vice president of the debating team.”

  “Shameful,” Maureen joined in. She brushed a piece of lint off Richard’s lapel. It struck Nellie as a maternal gesture. Even though Richard was an orphan, at least he had a big sister who clearly adored him.

  “I bet you looked cute in your preppy golf outfits,” Nellie said.

  Instead of replying, Richard gestured for the waiter. “I’m starving. But first we need drinks.”

  “Sparkling water with lemon, please,” Maureen told the waiter.

  “Could I get the wine list for my fiancée?” Richard winked at Nellie. “I’ve never known you to turn down a drink.”

  Nellie laughed but was aware of how this might sound to Maureen. Nellie had been concerned about the odor of grease. But had she smelled like gin when she greeted Richard’s sister?

  “Just a glass of Pinot Grigio, thanks.” Nellie tried to cover her embarrassment by dipping the last bite of her bread into the tangy olive oil.

  “I’ll have a Highland Park on the rocks,” Richard said.

  There was a little pause after the waiter left, then Nellie blurted, “I came here straight from Gibson’s. Some idiot spilled a drink on me. My wet uniform is in my gym bag, so…” Was she babbling again?

  “I thought you quit,” Richard said.

  “I did. I was just covering for Josie. She landed her first commercial and couldn’t find anyone else.…” Nellie let her words trail off, unsure of why she felt the need to explain.

  When the waiter brought their beverages, Richard lifted his toward Maureen. “How’s your hamstring?”

  “Getting better. A few more physical-therapy sessions and I should be able to get back to my longer runs.”

  “Were you injured?” Nellie asked.

  “Just a pulled muscle. It’s been bothering me off and on since the marathon.”

  “I could never run a marathon!” Nellie said. “Three miles and I’m done. That’s really impressive.”

  “It’s not for everyone,” Maureen joked. “Just us type A’s.”

  Nellie reached into the bread basket and pulled out another roll, then put it back, realizing no one else was eating any. She tried to discreetly brush away the crumbs around her plate.

  “I enjoyed your article on gender stratification and intersection theory,” Richard said to Maureen. “Interesting angle. What’s the reaction been like?”

  As they talked, Nellie nodded and smiled and fiddled with the beads on Jonah’s bracelet, but couldn’t find a way to contribute to the conversation.

  She glanced at the surrounding tables and saw a flash of green as a waiter scooped up a credit card sitting atop a silver tray.

  It made her think of the AmEx she’d dropped out the taxi window. By now that card was hopefully in the hands of a thief making the rounds at Best Buy and P.C. Richard. Or better yet, a poor mother stocking up on food for her children.

  She was relieved when their server delivered their entrées so she could pretend to focus on her chicken and couscous.

  Maureen seemed to notice and turned to Nellie. “Early education is so important. What drew you to it?” Maureen elegantly twirled her tagliatelle on her fork and took a bite.

  “I’ve always loved children.”

  Nellie felt Richard’s leg touch hers beneath the table. “Ready to be an aunt?” he asked Maureen.

  “Absolutely.”

  Nellie wondered why Maureen had never married or had children. Richard had told Nellie he thought she intimidated men because she was so intelligent. And, Nellie supposed, she’d been a mother to Richard already.

  Maureen looked at Nellie. “Richard was an adorable baby. He learned to read when he was barely four.”

  “I can’t take all the credit for that. She’s the one who taught me.”

  “Well, we’ve already picked out your guest room,” Nellie said. “You’ll have to come visit all the time.”

  “And likewise. I’ll show you around my town. Have you ever been to Boston?”

  Nellie had just taken a forkful of couscous, so she shook her head and swallowed as quickly as possible. “I haven’t traveled much. Only to a few states in the South.”

  She didn’t elaborate or explain that she’d only driven through them when she left Florida for New York. The thousand-mile trip had taken two days; she’d wanted to put her hometown behind her as quickly as possible.

  Maureen spoke fluent French, Nellie recalled, and guest-taught at the Sorbonne a few years ago.

  “Nellie just got her
first passport,” Richard said. “I can’t wait to show her Europe.”

  Nellie smiled at him gratefully.

  They chatted a bit about the wedding—Maureen mentioned that she loved to swim and couldn’t wait to take a dip in the ocean—then, after the waiter cleared their plates, Maureen and Richard declined dessert, so Nellie pretended she was too full for the blood-orange mousse she secretly craved. Richard had just stood up to pull back Nellie’s chair when she exclaimed, “Oh, Maureen, I nearly forgot. I have something for you.”

  It had been an impulse buy. Nellie had been walking through the Union Square market the previous week when she saw a vendor displaying jewelry. A necklace had caught her eye. Its light purple and blue glass beads were suspended by gossamer-thin silver wire, so they appeared to be floating. The clasp was fashioned to look like a butterfly. She couldn’t imagine anyone not feeling joy when it was fastened around her neck.

  Richard had asked if Maureen could be Nellie’s maid of honor, and even though she would’ve preferred Samantha, she’d said yes. Because the wedding was so small, Maureen was going to be their only attendant. Maureen was planning to wear a violet dress. The necklace would look perfect against it.

  The artist had nestled the necklace into a fluffy cotton bed in a brown cardboard box (recycled, she’d explained) and tied a bow around it with a ropy string. Nellie hoped Maureen would like it and also hoped Richard would understand it was more than a necklace. It was a gesture that meant Nellie wanted to be close to his sister, too.

  She reached into her purse for the small box. Two of the corners were slightly bent and the bow had wilted.

  Maureen carefully unwrapped the present. “It’s charming.” She lifted it up to show Richard.

  “I thought you could wear it at the wedding,” Nellie said.

  Maureen immediately put it on, despite the fact that it clashed with her gold earrings. “How thoughtful.”

  Richard squeezed Nellie’s hand. “Sweet.”

  But Nellie dipped her head so they wouldn’t see the blush staining her cheeks. She knew the truth. The necklace that had looked craftsy and pretty just last week suddenly appeared flimsy and a little childish around Maureen’s neck.