The Wrong Family

by Tarryn Fisher

  The box at the door (which Nigel had ordered) said the new bell played “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.” Winnie had squealed excitedly when she saw it, and Juno had smiled knowingly into her elbow. Juno knew that Nigel had been snide in his choice, yet his bubbling blond bride was pleased as pudding.

  She heard him linger for a moment longer before he moved on. There would be no doorbell installation tonight.

  2

  WINNIE

  It was 6:47 p.m. when Winnie’s car pulled past Mr. Nevins’s ancient Tahoe and into her own driveway. As soon as her car was in park, she cast an irritated glance in her rearview mirror. The Tahoe, a rusty beige thing festooned in bumper stickers, was parked on the street directly outside her living room window. It had been there for the last three weeks, and Winnie was tired of looking at the yellow rectangle that said You Mad Bro? that Mr. Nevins had slapped drunkenly on the back passenger-side window. Yes, she was mad, and she didn’t need that sticker calling her out every time she happened to look that way. But tonight was not the night to be angry at the neighbors; tonight was a celebration.

  She checked her makeup in the visor mirror, having freshly applied it at work before she left. It looked like she was wearing little to no makeup, of course. That’s how Winnie rolled: she liked to make things look easy when really everything she did had a lot of sweat behind it.

  Stepping into the drive, Winnie tiptoed across the gravel, being careful not to sink her heels into the dirt. Her bag under her arm, she opened the side gate, hearing Nigel moving around the kitchen before she could see him. She felt bad about last night; she’d overreacted. She knew that now. Her plan was to apologize right away, get it out of the way so that they could enjoy the rest of their kid-free night. She hadn’t meant for things to get as heated as they had, but lately Winnie had felt off balance emotionally. It was her own fault; sometimes she looked for things to be upset about, as if a lack of problems was its own problem in her mind. Nigel would rather pretend that nothing was wrong, though he hadn’t always been like that. Her husband hated confrontation, and that comforted Winnie. The kitchen window came into view, and Winnie saw that Nigel had left the back door open.

  She breathed a sigh of relief when she stepped into what she thought of as the belly of the house. It was clean, the spills from last night mopped and cleared away—not a speck of her Pyrex on the floor. She felt more positive than she had even five seconds ago. Nigel was a good man; he’d cleaned everything up so she wouldn’t have to, even though she’d been the one to pick the fight.

  As she closed the door quietly behind her, Nigel stood with his back to her, examining the contents of the fridge. Winnie took a moment to admire him; he hadn’t heard her come in on account of the music he was playing, “Dreams” by Fleetwood Mac. She didn’t want to startle him, so she waited, her hip leaning against the lip of the counter. It felt like such a strange thing to do, being that they’d been married for over a decade, but sometimes Winnie had no clue how to act around her husband.

  For the most part, Nigel was charming, funny, easy to talk to—check, check, check. The one thing people never seemed to pick up on was the fact that he refused to talk about himself. If you asked him a question, he’d deflect, lead the conversation back to you. For this reason, Winnie felt like she couldn’t really know her husband; he simply didn’t want to be known. She was content to be part of him, however shallow that made her.

  When he turned around, she had her best smile ready.

  Nigel jumped. “Je—sh—you scared me.”

  “Sorry. I was actually trying not to.”

  Nigel didn’t smile back; he was distracted. Winnie cocked her head, trying to read his face. He was wearing his feelings tonight. Nigel became still when he was troubled—his face, his body, everything frozen in sagging, bent defeat.

  She skipped over, wrapping her arms around him. He smelled so good, and not because of cologne or aftershave—Nigel smelled good. When they’d first started dating, he’d accepted her enthusiastic affection with the amusement an owner would have for a new puppy. And Winnie had loved being Nigel’s new puppy; the joy her personality seemed to bring him gave Winnie’s every day meaning. He’d given her the nickname Bear, a Winnie-the-Pooh joke.

  But then the bad thing had happened.

  After that, it was as if the rosy illumination with which he viewed her had been replaced with harsh, supermarket lighting. She wasn’t Bear anymore. Now she was just plain old Winnie. But it wasn’t like she still had hearts in her eyes every time she looked at him, either. They were settled into their arrangement, whatever that was, and though Winnie loved her husband very much, she saw him through human eyes now.

  “Nothing for dinner,” he said. Lifting his hands to her back, he looked over his shoulder, staring dully into the fridge. Winnie thought he was joking. She smiled, wanting him to get on with it and tell her where they were going.

  But then he pointed to the plastic containers stacked on the otherwise bare shelf: spaghetti and fried rice. “The spaghetti is old,” he announced, and then held up the Tupperware container of rice. “There’s barely enough for one person. I could have sworn there was more left over.”

  She screwed up her face, the two of them examining the Tupperware, Winnie trying not to cry. He’d forgotten their anniversary. He’d forgotten once before, in the beginning, and he’d felt really bad about it. Winnie didn’t think he’d feel bad about it this time.

  “Eggs,” Nigel said suddenly, jarring her. “We have a box of powdered eggs that came with that survival kit your brother got us.”

  “For our wedding?” Winnie gaped. She was hoping the word wedding would spark some recognition in her husband, but Nigel didn’t answer—he was in the pantry moving things around.

  “Why can’t we just get takeout...?”

  There was no answer. When he emerged from the pantry, the box of powdered eggs in his hand, her heart shriveled a little. This was for real, this was serious: they were going to eat fifteen-year-old powdered eggs for dinner. Winnie opened her mouth, the words poised on the tip of her tongue, ready to fly, but then she noticed a dark curl resting across her husband’s forehead. He looked like a little boy—like Samuel. She didn’t really know why in that moment she lost her voice, or why she’d lost it a hundred other times. She loved this man something terrible; she just wasn’t sure if he loved her anymore. Today was their fifteenth wedding anniversary, and they were having powdered eggs for dinner.

  While they ate, Nigel talked about a book. Usually Winnie was better at listening, but today she was furious that he’d forgotten their anniversary and now was talking about something that didn’t interest her in the least. Had he thought she’d read it? It was Stephen King, for God’s sake. The only feelings Winnie could pull when she thought of those brick-sized books were misery and desperation. All puns intended.

  She watched as he ungracefully spooned neon eggs into his mouth, oblivious to her discomfort. He was so hungry; why was he so hungry? The ketchup, she noted, made their anniversary dinner look like a crime scene. Picking up her glass of water, she drank deeply, trying to open her ever-constricting throat. The kitchen was cold. Winnie wanted to get up and close the door, but she was too tired. Nigel’s voice was a dull drum, and she listened to the beat rather than the words. She wondered if she should give him the present she’d bought him; it would make him feel bad, but she’d been so excited about it. In the end, she said nothing, pushing her fake eggs around her plate until eventually she dumped it all down the disposal. She didn’t want to upset Nigel; she needed him in the mood.

  Winnie wanted one last shot at getting pregnant again before her ovaries went into retirement. Her friends thought she was crazy—she had a perfectly healthy thirteen-year-old son, why in the world would she want to start all over? As she stacked the plates into the dishwasher, she tried to list the reasons: because she hadn’t gotten to enjoy it the
first time, because she felt like she owed Samuel a connection in life other than her and Nigel, and because she wanted someone to love her unconditionally.

  But by the time Winnie’s dainty blue dinner plates were tucked into the dishwasher, her attitude was limp and her tear ducts were straining. Nigel was still sitting at the table, scrolling through his phone with glassy eyes. She didn’t like the way he was sitting, with one ankle balanced on a knee so casually. Winnie stood in front of the fridge to hide the tears now rolling down her cheeks.

  One, four, eight and fifteen: those had been the hardest years of their marriage. Sometimes it had been her who’d caused the trouble and sometimes it had been Nigel. A lot could happen in fifteen years. But no matter how Nigel messed up, no matter what trouble he brought into their marriage, it would never be as bad as what Winnie had done. She knew that and he knew that.

  The very thing that kept them together was also the thing that kept them apart.

  3

  WINNIE

  Her first date with Nigel had been a setup by Winnie’s cousin Amber, who “knew a guy.”

  The guy she knew was Nigel Angus Crouch, and if Winnie had heard his full name before she agreed to the date, she would have said “Hard no.” Fortunately, her cousin kept his full name to herself during the matchmaking. Amber had just moved to Washington from New York the year before. She already knew more people than Winnie, who’d grown up there.

  “What guy? How do you know him?”

  “Kevin knows him. He’s starting over.”

  “Starting over? What does that mean?” Winnie hadn’t exactly trusted Amber’s taste in men; her last boyfriend had kept pet snakes. She shuddered, remembering the time he’d made Winnie wear one. A scaly scarf wrapped around her neck with a lethal heaviness. Amber’s answer came three seconds late because she was taking a drag of her cigarette.

  “He was engaged. I think it was a bad breakup.” Her lips formed a cartoonish “O” as she blew the smoke out. Winnie waved it away. “His fiancée didn’t want kids. Look, he’s nice...maybe a little weird...good-looking, the way you like ’em.”

  Whatever that meant. Winnie had agreed in the moment because she hadn’t had a date in six months and was starting to feel dried out. Amber set up the date via text while sitting sideways on a lawn chair, blowing smoke away from Winnie this time. The guy had agreed right away; Winnie guessed he felt dried up, too. Dinner would be at a restaurant downtown, Winnie was to meet him there, and if things went well, they could grab a drink at Von’s after. But when the day rolled around, she hadn’t wanted to go. Her friends were going to Marymoore Park for a concert and someone had backed out, leaving a spare ticket. She was about to text her date and cancel, but he texted her first.

  I’ve stalked you on social media and still can’t decide if a distressed leather jacket or a suit jacket would impress you more.

  Winnie, who had been lying on her back in bed, sat up suddenly, having a strong opinion on the matter. Winnie was very protective of animals; she had a theory that one day they’d get angry enough to take the world back from people. The ones who would be spared were definitely the vegetarians, more props to the vegans. She did not eat, wear, or put animals in cages for this reason.

  Faux leather or real? She’d texted back. She’d been wearing a Nirvana hoodie with a yellow smiling face and she wound the string around her finger as she waited for his answer.

  I’m about as faux as they get, he replied. She’d liked his dry humor and she liked that he’d admitted to looking at her social media; she’d tried to do the same but his was set to private and the only photo visible was of a group of five men. Winnie had no idea which one he was.

  She texted her friends to let them know she wouldn’t be coming, after all, and got ready for dinner instead.

  Nigel, as it turned out, was the opposite of what Winnie pictured. He was small, though well put together—symmetrical, like a gymnast, with thick black hair swept stylishly away from his face. When he greeted Winnie in the lobby of the restaurant, wearing dark denim and a white T-shirt, she’d immediately felt disappointed. She imagined he’d be more dapper, but there he was—his face unremarkable, his eyes the most boring brown. Winnie was in the process of fixing him—adding a beard, dressing him in colors more suited to his skin tone—when she lost track of her thoughts. Nigel was smiling. The transformation was so stunning that she’d suddenly felt shy. And he wasn’t wearing just any jeans, she saw now, they were designer. She reached up to secure her hair at the nape of her neck and then ran her hand down the length of it until it sprang free of her fist. Nigel’s eyes watched all of this like someone observing a dancing poodle, good-natured amusement on his face.

  “Faux nervousness or real?” His sensual mouth curved around the question, pulling into a lazy smile.

  Winnie had butterflies. She wasn’t even embarrassed that he’d picked up on it; it made him seem older, sexy.

  “Ask me again after we’ve had a drink,” she’d said decidedly.

  By the time dinner came, Winnie was on her third cocktail and she was more focused on Nigel’s hand slowly climbing up her knee than she was on his boring face. She didn’t think he was boring anymore. In fact, she’d never felt more electric. They had sexual chemistry, but it wasn’t just that. Where Nigel seemed subpar in the looks department, until he smiled, he was extraordinary in every other department. He never moved his eyes from her face, not the entire night; not even when their server in her slinky dress tried to make eye contact with him. They would often drift down to her lips while she was talking, which made Winnie squirm in her seat. And he asked her intelligent questions; questions that were so intense Winnie felt both sad and relieved to be talking about it at the same time: “How did your father’s death affect the way you viewed your mother?”

  Before Nigel, Winnie had only dated athletes, and a variety of them, too. There had been a rugby player, a tennis player, a quarterback, and a professional fisherman. Winnie had often wondered why she was attracted to Nigel, who wasn’t even remotely her type. She found him sexy because he assumed that he was her type. His confidence was so audacious, so misplaced on the dull features and short stature, that Winnie had been fascinated—and oddly enough, turned on. Their date had led to another the following night, and then another. Within a month Winnie had moved into Nigel’s apartment (it was closer to the city than hers), and in six short months they were engaged. And maybe he had been on a bender after his previous relationship, but here they were fifteen years later, living in Winnie’s dream house.

  Even her friends bought into it now. Though they still occasionally made comments about Nigel’s lack of enthusiasm for their nice things. It was, Winnie thought, funny how they’d brag about their boats, and extravagant trips to Europe while Nigel’s face would look...bored. “Can’t you at least pretend to be interested?” she’d chide him after.

  “They’re such phonies, Winnie. Isn’t it enough that I accept them as phonies? Can’t we call it a day with that?” She’d laughed, and then they’d made love. Nigel was clever and Winnie was beautiful. She’d cultivated the perfect life, but it couldn’t erase the past.

  If it weren’t for the house, Nigel might have been happy. Rephrase that, Winnie thought: if it weren’t for the house, Nigel might be happy with her. He’d made jokes about it being cursed, but she knew he believed it. Her husband was superstitious, a gift from his mother, and he blamed the house for most of their troubles. No matter how much Nigel hated it, Winnie loved their house on Turlin Street. It had chosen them, in a way. It was a little rough around the edges—harder to love in some rooms than others—but it was a very good house. And, most importantly, her friends were jealous. A house on Greenlake! Why, that’s almost as good as a house on Lake Washington! They’d all said so, which had brought a deep flush of pleasure to Winnie. Of course, that was fifteen years ago, and most of them had three kids and houses on actual
Lake Washington by now.

  She stepped into the tub and closed her eyes as the water climbed over her shoulders. So much for getting Nigel in the mood. At least she could enjoy a hot bath on her anniversary.

  Winnie had a tendency to just go for it when she wanted something, and if she were honest with herself, that was probably where the trouble started. She’d wanted the Turlin Street home, and they’d paid a huge amount of money to live in a house he hated. Winnie knew that if it weren’t for her, Nigel would be living in a place downtown, something new in one of those buildings that reflected the sky and had a Starbucks and a gym attached. Nigel hadn’t grown up like Winnie, in a large rambler with her twin brother and three sisters. His mom had been of the single variety, hardworking and bone tired. They’d rented rather than bought, always something small and modern.

  The house had almost seemed to fall into their laps—or perhaps Winnie’s lap. After months of bidding wars, failed inspections, and schlepping from one model home to another, Winnie had gone for a run around Greenlake, without Nigel, to clear her head. They’d been fighting about houses nonstop. She’d been parking her car along the curb as the owner drove the spikes of the For Sale sign into the front lawn. She’d hopped out of the still-running car and ninja-sprinted across the lawn in her New Balance sneakers.

  “I’ll buy it,” she’d said, barely out of breath. “Your house. It’s sold.”

  And as the former owner recounted later, Winnie had pulled the sign out of the ground and put it in the trunk of her BMW. They’d closed three months later.

  Winnie’s memories of those twelve weeks were hazy. There had been a lot of back and forth until finally the offer was accepted, and then all of a sudden, they were owners of a very old, very large house. Prime location. “Seriously, Nigel. Who doesn’t want to live on Greenlake.” Winnie had said those words as they walked arm in arm toward their new home, just twenty minutes after the closing. Her eyes were as wide as the day Nigel had proposed.