“Seth...?” I say it again, louder this time. “Seth...”
The moon is bright outside the bedroom window, and its glow illuminates my husband’s face as he slowly opens his eyes. I’ve interrupted his sleep, but he doesn’t look angry. Earlier, Seth stood behind me and wrapped his arms around my waist, kissing my neck slowly, as we looked out at the city below. I must have forgiven him sometime between his bowl of ramen and our lovemaking, because the only thing I feel for him at the moment is intense love.
“Yes?” His voice is heavy with sleep and I reach out to touch his cheek.
“Are you angry with me for what happened to our baby?”
He rolls onto his back and I can no longer see every detail of his face, just the slant of his nose and one blue-green eye.
“It’s midnight,” he says, like I don’t already know.
“I know that,” I say softly. For good measure, I add, “I can’t sleep.”
He sighs, rubbing a hand over his face.
“I was angry,” he admits. “Not at you...at life...the universe...God.”
“Is that why you found Monday?” It takes all of my courage to form those words into a sentence. I feel as if I’ve cut open my own chest and splayed out my heart.
“Monday hasn’t replaced you,” he says after some time. “I want you to believe that my commitment to you is real.” He reaches out a hand and caresses my face, the warmth of his palm reassuring. “Things didn’t quite pan out the way we wanted, but we’re still here and what we have is real.”
He hasn’t really answered my question. I lick my lips, thinking of a way to rephrase. My footing in our marriage is unsteady, my new purpose unclear.
“We could have adopted,” I say. Seth turns his face away.
“You know that’s not what I want.” His voice is clipped. End of story. I’d brought up the topic of adoption before, and he’d immediately dismissed it.
“What if the same thing happened to Monday...that happened to me?”
His head snaps right so he’s looking at me again, but this time there’s no kindness in his eyes. I’m startled by it.
“Why would you say that? That’s a terrible thing to imagine.” He pushes himself to a sitting position, so I do, leaning back on my elbows until we’re both staring at the bay windows and the stars beyond.
“I—I didn’t mean it like that,” I say quickly, but Seth is flustered.
“She’s my wife. What do you think I’d do?”
I bite my lip, gripping the sheets in my fists; such a stupid thing to say, especially after things had been going so well all evening.
“It’s just...you left me. You found her after...”
He stares straight ahead, not really seeing anything. I see the muscles in his jaw jump.
“You knew I wanted children. And I’m here. I’m right here with you.”
“But are you?” I argue. “You need two other women—”
“Enough.” He cuts me off. He gets out of bed and reaches for his pants. “I thought we were done with this.”
I watch as he steps into them, not bothering to button them when he pulls on his shirt.
“Where are you going, Seth? Look, I’m sorry. I just—”
He walks toward the door and I swing my legs over the side of the bed determined not to let him leave. Not like this.
I throw myself at him, grabbing onto his arm and trying to pull him back. It happens in an instant, his hand shoving me away. Caught off guard, I fall backward. My ear clips the nightstand before I land on my rear on the wood floor. I cry out but Seth has already left the bedroom. I raise my hand to my ear and feel the warm trickle of blood on my fingertips, just as I hear the front door slam closed. I flinch at the sound, not because it’s overly loud, but because of the anger behind it. I shouldn’t have done that, woken him up in the middle of the night and put thoughts of dying babies in his head. What happened wasn’t just hard on me; Seth had lost his child, as well. I stand up, wobbling on my feet. Squeezing my eyes closed, I cup my bleeding ear and wait for the dizziness to pass, then I walk slowly to the bathroom, flicking on the light to assess the damage. There is a centimeter-long cut on the outside of my ear, running parallel to the cartilage. It stings. I clean it with an alcohol wipe and dab some Neosporin on the wound. It’s already stopped bleeding, but not hurting. When I return to the bedroom I stare at the bed for a long time, empty, the sheets rumpled. Seth’s pillow still holds the indentation where his head rested.
“He’s under so much stress,” I say out loud as I climb into bed. I think my problems and insecurities are extreme, but I only have one man to keep happy. Seth has three women: three sets of problems, three sets of complaints. I’m sure we all pressure him in different ways: Monday and her baby, Tuesday and her career...me and my feelings of inferiority. I pull my knees up to my chest, unable to close my eyes. I wonder if he’ll go back to Hannah. Or maybe it will be Regina this time.
* * *
I tell myself that I won’t search for them online, that I’ll respect Seth’s privacy, but I know it’s not true. I’ve already crossed a line, befriended his other wife. Tomorrow, I will type their names into a search box so I can see who they claim to be. So I can study their eyes, search for regret, hurt...or anything that looks similar to what’s in my own eyes.
NINE
Regina Coele is tiny, maybe five feet on a good day. I walk away from my laptop where it rests on the kitchen counter, and pull open the freezer. It’s only ten o’clock, but I need something stronger than the Coke I poured to drink with breakfast. I pull a bottle of vodka from where it’s wedged between a bag of frozen peas and frostbitten hamburger patties. I study the photo of her on Markel & Abel’s website: a family law firm with two offices, one in downtown Portland and one in Eugene. In the website photo, she wears dark-rimmed glasses perched on a slightly upturned nose. If not for the smear of red lipstick and her sophisticated hairstyle, she’d easily be mistaken for a girl in her late teens. I top off my juice with the vodka and add a few cubes of ice to the tumbler. Most women would feel fortunate to have such a youthful appearance. But I imagine that in Regina’s line of work, she needs clients to respect her, not question if she’s old enough to drink. The orange juice does little to disguise the heavy pour of vodka. I suck my teeth, deciding what to do next. I told myself that I just needed to see her, just one quick look. I’d made the silent promise even as I typed her name into the search box, but now that I’m looking at her I just want to know more. I throw back the rest of the vodka and the juice and pour another before carrying my laptop to the living room.
I uncap my pen and lean my notebook on the armrest of the couch, ready to work. In neat letters, I write Regina Coele at the top of the page and then the name of the law firm where she practices. I follow that with her email and the firm’s phone number and address. Recapping my pen and setting it aside, I leave the law firm’s website and go to the most obvious place to look for a person. Facebook has never heard of Regina Coele—not the one I’m looking for at least. There are a dozen profiles of wrong Reginas, none of them matching the details my sleuth skills have already uncovered. But no, I think ruefully; she wouldn’t use her name on social media, not if there was a chance her clients could search for her.
I type in Gigi Coele, R. Coele and Gina Coele with no results. I lean back on the sofa, linking my hands and lifting my arms above my head in a stretch. Maybe she’s not on Facebook; there are plenty of people who steer away from the intrusive probing fingers of social media. But then I see the freckles in my mind, the round nose—and I remember a little girl who lived on my street when I was growing up. Georgiana Baker—or Barker—or something like that. She was a tomboy to my girlie girl and she liked to be called Georgie. Something about my childhood memory of Georgie reminds me of Regina. Perhaps it’s the freckled nose.
I type Reggie Coele into the search b
ar on Facebook and I strike gold. A different version of Regina Coele pops up, this one with wavy hair, heavy eyeliner and glossy lips. Her privacy settings restrict me from seeing anything past her profile picture, but the casual way she embraces a friend, wearing spaghetti straps, tells me that this is the real side of her—a stark opposition to her stiff-backed lawyerly look. Once I find her, it’s a rabbit hole of information. I can’t stop, my finger moving the cursor of my MacBook from website to website. I’m manic in my research, hating her one minute and liking her the next. My eyes are wide with the information I’ve been thirsty for the past two years, my stomach a tangle of anxiety and excitement. This is my husband’s other wife. One of them, anyway. I’ve looked up her Instagram (private), her Twitter account, which is not private, but the last time she tweeted was a year ago. On an off chance that she’s doing something she shouldn’t, I search her name on a website that would link Regina (or Reggie) to any of the popular dating sites. My search pings two results: Choose—a site that allows you to swipe left or right to pick and eliminate matches in your area, and GoSmart—a more elaborate dating website that matches you according to the results on the Myers-Briggs personality test.
Why would Regina be on dating websites? She’d been with Seth since college, when he barely had any hair on his chin, so there was no lapse in their relationship when she would have been single. I rearrange myself on the couch, tucking my socked feet underneath me and staring at the screen with grim determination. I have to find out, don’t I? Seth couldn’t possibly know about this, and it’s the sort of information that changes people’s lives. I think of the deep hurt it would cause him to know that his beloved Regina is being unfaithful, and almost shut my laptop.
Perhaps this is better left alone. I could finally put my white-hot jealousy to rest, knowing that Seth’s other wife is an unfaithful witch. I carry my tumbler to the kitchen, then circle around the living room with the fingers of one hand pressed to my forehead as I think. And then I realize: I can’t not know. I must uncover the secrets of my husband’s first wife or I’ll go mad.
To access Regina’s full profile, I have to sign up for an account. I decide to be Will Moffit, a website owner who recently moved to Portland from California. When I’m asked for photos to upload, I use pictures of my cousin Andrew, who is currently in prison for identity theft. Ironic. I feel guilty about it, but not enough to stop me. It doesn’t really matter, anyway. Once I have the information I need, I’m going to delete the account. No harm caused. I just need to take a quick peek. I fill out the information, my fingers gliding easily over the keys of my MacBook, filling line after line with perfect nonsense. Will’s favorite movie is Gladiator. He runs marathons and has a horde of nieces and nephews whom he loves very much, but he has no children of his own. I type faster and faster. I am lost in the information I am creating. And suddenly this man, Will Moffit, feels very real. That’s good. It’s perfect actually. Regina will think him real, too. I want the information that will condemn my husband’s first wife. Paint me in a favorable, faithful light. Look what I have found, my love! She doesn’t love you like I do!
And then the information is there in front of me. Compiled on a website with a hopeful green banner that reads Your soulmate is just a few clicks away! I click on Regina’s profile with one hand while the other bounces on my knee. I am lucky there is no one in the room to witness my exposure of nerves. Seth always says my body language is a dead giveaway to whatever I’m feeling.
She’s listed as a thirty-three-year-old divorcee from Utah. Her interests include hiking, sushi, reading autobiographies and watching documentaries. What a bore, I think, cracking my knuckles. I’ve never known Seth to watch a documentary in the years we’ve been together. I picture them on the couch together, holding hands underneath a blanket, her leg tossed casually over his. It doesn’t seem right. But maybe I know a different Seth than Regina. That is something I haven’t considered before now. Could a man be a different person with each of his wives? Could he like different things? Is he gentle when he has sex with them or does he like it rough? And perhaps that is why Regina is on a dating website in the first place. Because they have nothing in common and she is looking for someone to share her life with, someone with the same interests.
I click through her photos, recognizing some of the places in her pictures: the Arlene Schnitzer Concert Hall—Seth took me there to see the Pixies two years ago. Regina is standing in front of a poster of Tom Petty, hands perched on her hips, wearing a broad smile. In another photo she sits in a kayak, a Mariners cap shading most of her face as she holds an oar above her head in triumph. I reach the last photo and it’s then that I see her. I have to blink a few times to clear my vision. How long have I been looking at the computer screen? Is my brain playing tricks on me?
Standing up, I set my MacBook on the coffee table and walk over to the bar to make myself a real drink. No orange juice to cushion the taste of the liquor this time. I pour myself two fingers of bourbon and carry it back to the sofa. I’m not sure of what I saw and maybe I didn’t see anything, but the only way to know for sure is to walk back to my laptop and look at what spooked me in the first place. I bend over and hit the space bar. The screen lights up, and Regina’s photo is still there. I stare at it for a moment, my eyes narrowing before I turn away. I can’t be sure, there isn’t enough to be sure. The picture is of Regina standing in front of a restaurant, her arm casually thrown around a friend’s shoulders. She’s cropped the photo to show only herself, but there next to her is the slight profile of a much taller, much blonder woman. A woman who looks shockingly like Hannah Ovark. I click the icon that says Send Message and begin typing.
TEN
When I drive to work the following afternoon, I’m so distracted by thoughts of the wives that I miss my turn into the hospital and it takes me twenty minutes to loop back around in traffic. Swearing, I jerk my car in a spot in the employee garage and take the steps two at a time instead of waiting for the elevator. I’d spent my afternoon composing a message to Regina from Will. I kept it short: Hey! I’m new to the area. You’re an attorney. Badass. You showed up in my matches so I thought I’d reach out. This is me reaching out...awkwardly. No one said I was good at this dating thing. I ended the message with a smiley face and hit Send. It was just enough self-deprecating charm to catch a woman’s attention. Will screamed: I’m honest and not threatened by your success—or at least I thought so. On the off chance that Regina messages him back I’ll have an “in” to getting to know her.
“You’re late.” Lauren, one of the nurses, frowns at me as I walk through the doors. Why do people always feel the need to tell you you’re late like you don’t already know it yourself? My jaw clenches. I hate Lauren. I hate her always-on-time perfectness, the easy way she handles difficult patients like it’s her absolute pleasure to do so. She loves to take command; a perfectly pretty, blond general.
I relax my face in an attempt to look apologetic and mutter something about traffic as I try to squeeze past her. She pushes her chair away from the computer, blocking my way and staring me down.
“You look like shit,” she says. “What’s up?”
The last thing I want to do is explain myself to know-it-all Lauren Haller. I stare right through her as I consider what to say.
“Didn’t sleep well. This schedule sometimes fucks with me, you know?” I look longingly toward the break room, wishing she’d let me pass.
Lauren studies me for a moment like she’s deciding whether or not she believes me, then finally nods. “You’ll get used to it. I was like that my first year, didn’t know my ass from my elbow, I was so tired.”
I restrain the eye roll and smile. It isn’t my first year. And technically she’s only been here a year longer than I have, but she brandishes the seniority around like a cheerleader in uniform. Rah rah, I’m better than you!
“Yeah? Thanks, Lo, I’m sure it’ll get better.” I head f
or the break room, head down, to stash my stuff in my locker.
“Have a glass of wine,” she calls after me. “Before you go to bed. That’s what I do.”
I lift a hand to signify I’ve heard her and duck out of sight. The last thing I want to do is absolutely anything Lauren does. I’d rather be sober for the rest of my life than imitate her bedtime behaviors.
The break room is mercifully empty when I slip inside. I breathe easy and eye the lockers like I do every day. Same ol’, same ol’. People have decorated the front sides of their lockers with photos of husbands, children and grandchildren in various shades of happiness. There are anniversary cards, vacation magnets and the occasional dried flower—all taped up with pride. I kick aside a green balloon, which dangles limply in front of my own locker, the remnants of someone’s birthday. Happy 40th! it declares in primary colors. There is a smudge of white frosting on the top of it, a slip of a sticky finger. The front side of my locker is empty, save for the remains of a Sub Pop sticker its last occupant crookedly slapped on the metal. When maintenance tried to remove it, it left behind gray fuzz that stubbornly lingers despite how many times I’ve tried to scratch it off. I really should put something up, a picture of Seth and me, maybe.
The thought depresses me. I suppose that’s why I haven’t done it. I don’t feel like he is all mine, and the knowledge that somewhere out there, that two other women may have a picture of Seth on their desks or taped to a locker, makes me sick to my stomach. I reach up absently to touch the sore spot on my ear and think of Hannah’s bruises. An accident, she’d said. Same as what happened last night. An accident.
The Wives Page 7
