The Wives

by Tarryn Fisher

  My eyes stray to Lauren’s locker, which is four spots over from mine. Most days I try not to look, keeping my eyes trained on my blank space, reminding myself it doesn’t matter—but today I stare at each one of her photos, a strange feeling bubbling in my belly. Mostly there are glossy four-by-six selfies with an occasional card stuck between them, a sappy You are the love of my life in pink cursive across the front. The cards seem like a dare. Anyone can go over and flip it open to read what’s inside, and part of me thinks Lauren wants that. I take a step closer to study the photos: Lauren and John posing in front of the Eiffel Tower, Lauren and John kissing in front of the pyramids, Lauren and John hugging next to a trolley in San Francisco. How many times had I heard her tell people that they were an “adventure couple”?

  I’ve suspected that the only reason Lauren and John travel so much is because they can’t have children, and my suspicion was confirmed when I was pregnant and she suddenly stopped talking to me. I asked one of the other nurses about it and she’d told me in a hushed voice that it was hard for Lauren to be around pregnant women what with all of her miscarriages. I’d brushed it off, giving her room and making sure never to mention my pregnancy around her. A few months later when I lost our baby, Lauren had taken an immediate interest in me again, acting like we were long-lost sisters. She’d even gone as far as sending a huge bouquet of flowers to the condo when I took the week off of work to grieve. The whole thing made me uncomfortable, having something so ugly and devastating in common with someone. Maybe if we had books in common, or an interest in makeup, or a television show—empty wombs weren’t a bonding topic. I’d ignored her invitations for Seth and me to come over for dinner until they finally stopped coming. Her texts eventually stopped, too, and now we barely make eye contact unless she’s busting my balls about something.

  The truth is, Lauren’s happy vacations and attentive husband stories make me jealous. She doesn’t have to share her husband with anyone else and I crave that, as much as I try to tell myself that I don’t. Things would be so much easier if the other two weren’t in the picture. Holidays whenever we wanted to take them, dinners out in public where everyone could see what a beautiful couple we were, a husband who opened the front door every night rather than two days a week. Even the fight we had last night would be avoided since it had, in essence, been instigated by the situation.

  I’ve just collected my stethoscope and pocketed my trauma scissors when a text comes through from Seth. I cheer up as soon as I see his name. Slamming my locker, I brace myself for what has to be an apology text. I’d accept his apology, of course; I’d apologize myself for causing our argument. No use holding grudges. But when I open my phone, it’s not the message I was expecting to see. My mouth goes dry as I squint at the screen.

  I picked some up. I’ll make an excuse and get out of it. Love you.

  I stare at the words, trying to make sense of them and then it hits me: this text wasn’t meant for me. Seth made a mistake, typed his message to the wrong name. It’s a painful thing when you realize you’ve received a text your husband meant for another woman. It’s even more painful when you gave him permission to do so. Which one is it? I think bitterly. Regina or Hannah? I squeeze my eyes closed, pocketing the phone, and take a few deep breaths before pushing through the door. I can do this. I signed up for this. Everything’s fine.

  * * *

  In between patients, I alternate between reading Seth’s mistakenly sent text, wondering what exactly it was he was trying to get out of, and scrolling through Regina’s photos. I decide to text Hannah—see if she’ll let on about anything.

  Hi! Hope you’re well. Checking how everything is. I send it and pocket my phone until five minutes later when I’m changing someone’s IV and there’s a buzzing on my leg.

  “Shoot, I forgot to put that on silent.” I wink at my patient, a middle-aged man who came in with chest pains.

  “Go ahead and check it, honey,” he says. “I know how you young people are about your phones.”

  The text is from Hannah. Thanks for checking on me. Feeling great! When are you in town next?

  Her text is almost too cheerful. Last time I saw her, she’d said that Seth hid her birth control pills to get her pregnant.

  Everything okay with you and hubby? I text back. And then, as an afterthought, I add, Maybe later this month. Let’s get together!

  All sorted out. And that would be great.

  I stick my phone back in my pocket, a frown on my face. Hannah is a happy woman at the moment. “Look at you, Seth,” I say under my breath.

  Four hours later, Seth has still not acknowledged that he sent the wrong text to the wrong person. I can’t imagine how exactly he will address it when it does come up. How does one deal with a situation like that? I’m sorry, honey, I meant that text for my other wife.

  As for Regina, it’s impossible to stay away now that I know all of the information is out there—just floating around on the internet. It’s creepy actually, that a person can just scroll through your life without you knowing. I’ve studied the photos and visited her friends’ pages, searching for comments she might have left on their posts. I want to know more—everything—even the way she interacts with people.

  “You’ve been bent over that phone all night...” Debbie, a middle-aged nurse, swings around the nurses’ station, carrying an armful of charts. Her French braid is the same bright yellow as the suns on her scrubs. I turn back to my phone without acknowledging her, hoping she takes the hint. The last thing I feel like dealing with is questions, especially since Lauren already gave me the third degree.

  Debbie drops the folders onto the counter, then scoots next to me, standing on her tiptoes to catch a glimpse of my phone. Her broad expanse of hip and breast brushes against my arm, and I shoot her a look that I hope says, Back off! Some of the other nurses and I have a running joke about it—if anyone gets too nosy you call them Debbie and tell them to back off.

  “What are you looking at?” she chirps as I lift my elbows to prevent her from seeing the screen.

  Some people have no concept of personal space. I hold the phone to my chest, the screen hidden, and frown at her.

  “An ex-girlfriend,” she says matter-of-factly, folding her arms across her ample bosom. “I check on Bill’s all the time.”

  Debbie and Bill have been married for as long as I’ve been alive. What ex-girlfriends could still be around to pose a threat to their deep-rooted marriage? I want to ask, but asking Debbie anything means an hour-long conversation. But my curiosity is piqued, so I ask, anyway. “What do you mean?”

  “Oh, honey. When you’ve been around as long as me...”

  I soften at her tone. Clearly, I’m not the only woman who suffers from insecurities, who lets them get to me until I act irrationally. I structure a question in my mind, one that won’t give anything about my situation away.

  “How do you deal with it—the doubts about whether he loves you?”

  Debbie blinks at me, surprised. “It’s not his love I’m worried about,” she says. “It’s theirs.”

  Someone walks past us carrying a Styrofoam cup of coffee. Debbie waits until she’s around the corner and out of earshot before continuing.

  “Women can be very conniving, if you know what I mean.” She gives me a look that says I should know what she means. But I’ve never had many friends, just Anna, really, and my mother and sister. But yeah, if you pay attention to TV and movies, they paint women in an untrustworthy light.

  “I guess so,” I say.

  “Well, I wouldn’t put anything past them. Or myself for that matter. I know what I’m capable of.”

  Our heads bent together, I try to picture cheerful, plump Debbie as the conniving type she’s referencing and can’t.

  Debbie looks around to make sure no one can overhear us, and then she leans so close to me I can smell the cherry blossom showe
r gel she uses.

  “I stole him from my best friend.”

  “Bill?” I ask, confused.

  Bill has a potbelly that sits on top of two spindly legs and only a horseshoe pattern of hair left on his head. It’s hard to believe he ever needed stealing.

  “And you still, um...look at her profile?”

  “Of course.” Debbie pulls a stick of gum from her pocket and offers me half. I shake my head and she folds the stick onto her tongue in a perfect half.

  “Why?”

  “Because women don’t ever stop wanting what they want. They see another man who’s considerate and handsome, and it reminds them of what they’re missing in their own lives.”

  There is a bitter taste in my mouth. I wish I’d taken the half stick of gum she’d offered. If Debbie is worried about Bill’s exes twenty years past, how much should I be worrying about the women my husband fucks on the regular?

  Just then, her pager buzzes, and she shoots me a wry look as she unclips it from her hip and glances at the screen.

  “Have to run, doll. Talk later.”

  I watch her go, the wide gait of her steps as her white Reeboks squeak down the hall. Before she reaches the junction near the elevators, she turns around and faces me. Her arms pump at her sides while she walks backward.

  “It’s even better when you spy on them in person, by the way.” She winks and then she’s gone.

  Nosy, annoying, no-personal-space Debbie just might be my new best friend. I hear a ping on my phone. When I look down, a notification has appeared at the top of the screen. It’s from the dating app I downloaded. Regina has sent you a message.

  ELEVEN

  The front door swings open and Seth walks in, carrying two large bags of takeout. Ah, it’s Thursday. I’d forgotten. Lately, all I think about is my husband’s wives. Somewhere along the way, Seth has been replaced. I give him half a smile. We both know it’s forced. A bouquet of white roses rests in the crook of his arm. Roses for no reason, or roses because he sent me a text meant for one of the others? Normally, I’d rush over to relieve him of what he’s carrying, but this time I stay where I am. He never even attempted to explain his mistaken text. And I waited all week for something...anything. My mood is dour—and I don’t plan on faking a good mood for his sake.

  I picked some up. I’ll make an excuse and get out of it. Love you.

  The lines on his face are relaxed, his eyes alert. I fold a towel and place it carefully on the put-away pile as I watch him kick the door closed and come sauntering down the hallway toward me. Everything about his demeanor bothers me. He’s not playing the part of the contrite husband.

  “For you,” he says, handing over the flowers.

  I stand awkwardly with them in my hand for a few seconds, and then set them aside to deal with later. I’m a mess again—hair loose and air-dried to waves. I’m wearing my favorite yoga pants, the ones with the hole in the right leg. I brush hair out of my eyes as he holds up the take-out bags and shakes them at me.

  “Dinner,” he declares.

  The smile he’s wearing is almost contagious, except I don’t feel like smiling. I wonder if he’s pleased with himself for picking up dinner, or if he has good news. It’s a risk grabbing takeout without knowing if I cooked, but I suppose he suspects I am on strike.

  “Why are you so happy?” I fold my last towel and pick up the pile to carry to the towel closet. Seth smacks my butt as I move past him. I think about shooting him a death glare, but I keep my head stiffly pointed forward. Why does his effort bother me now? I would have reveled in this attention a few weeks ago.

  “Can’t a man be happy to come home to his girl?” Can’t a man be happy to come home to just one girl?

  I press my lips together to keep from actually saying those words and busy myself arranging the towels in the linen closet.

  When I’m finished with the laundry, we sit down at the kitchen bar to eat. I’ve said no more than a few words since he walked through the door, though he hasn’t seemed to notice. Or perhaps he’s ignoring my silence as a way to pretend everything is fine. I watch as he unloads grease-stained containers onto the counter, glancing at me every few minutes to gauge my reaction.

  The smell of garlic and ginger wafts from the boxes and my stomach grumbles. He stands up to get plates but I wave him back.

  “No need,” I say, leaning forward and pulling a container of garlic chicken toward me. Flipping open the lid I pinch a piece of chicken between my chopsticks, watching him over the rim of the box as I chew. He eyes my UGGs, which are propped up on the counter next to the food, bewildered amusement on his face.

  “First ramen, now Chinese takeout,” I say. “Next comes pizza...” It’s meant as a joke, but my voice is devoid of emotion. It sounded more like a threat, I think.

  Seth laughs, dragging his bar stool closer to mine, reaching for the lo mein. “And shoes inside,” he says of my UGGs. “I like it.”

  “To be fair, UGGs are practically slippers.” I’m flirting and I hate myself for it.

  “I didn’t know you were capable of allowing yourself to breathe,” Seth says.

  My toes curl in protest. I have the urge to yank my boots off the counter and grab proper plates from the cabinet, but I stubbornly stay where I am, staring squarely at my husband. Maybe I want to focus on knowing the man instead of impressing the man. Probably something I should have done in the first place. Instead, I’d been swoony, full of dreams and the belief that we had something.

  I set the container of chicken on the counter and wipe my mouth with one of the flimsy napkins Seth hands me. For the first time, I notice that he’s wearing a T-shirt underneath a hoodie I’ve never seen before. When was the last time I saw my husband this casual, in a T-shirt? For the last year, Seth’s wardrobe has consisted of dress shirts and ties, distressed loafers and sports coats—work Seth, married Seth. He looks like an entirely different man in scuffed Chucks and a worn T-shirt. I feel something stir in my belly... Desire? Someone I’d like to hang out with, I think.

  “You’re different tonight,” I say.

  “So are you.”

  “What?” I’m so lost in my thoughts, his voice alarms me.

  “You’re different, too,” he notes.

  I shrug; it feels terribly juvenile to do so, but what is there to say? I’ve found your wives and now that they have names and faces everything feels different? I don’t know who you are anymore? I don’t know who I am?

  It’s difficult to put into words all the things I’ve been feeling, so I say the only thing I’ve actually worked out. “People change...”

  I’m almost afraid of the casual way he’s looking at me, and then I remind myself that I’m trying to care less about what he thinks and to focus on what I think.

  “You’re right.” He picks up his beer and holds it out to me. “To change,” he says.

  I hesitate only for a moment before raising my bottle of water and tipping it toward his beer. His eyes hold steadily on to mine as we toast and sip our drinks.

  “Let’s go for a walk,” he says, standing up and stretching his arms above his head. His T-shirt lifts to reveal a tanned, toned stomach.

  I quickly look away, not wanting to be distracted. I am a sexual creature—he controls me with sex, and I control him with sex. It’s a merry-go-round of pleasure and servitude that I’ve always enjoyed. But being dick-whipped or pussy-whipped can sate you just enough to blind you. My mother once told me that a relationship could withstand almost any trial if the sex was good. It had sounded shallow and ridiculous at the time, but now I see that’s exactly what has happened with Seth and me. A lot happens in a relationship, probably a lot that you really need to pay attention to, but you’re too busy fucking to notice.

  At the door, I shrug on my jacket and pull a beanie over my hair. I turn to the door and find Seth staring at me, a stran
ge expression on his face.

  “What?” I ask. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “Nothing,” he says, a little sheepishly after being caught. “Just appreciating the view.”

  He leans in and kisses me lightly on the tip of my nose before opening the door. I follow him into the elevator, my nose tingling. We ride to the lobby in silence, and when we step out, he grabs my hand. What’s gotten into him? Flirting, public displays of affection... It’s like he’s a different man. As we step out onto the sidewalk, a feeling lurks in the back of my mind, something I’ve forgotten. I push the thought away. Here and now, I tell myself. Be here and stop thinking about everything else.

  Normally, Seth and I don’t venture out of the condo on the days he visits, part of the reason being we prefer to stay at home and just be together. The other part, of course, is being spotted by someone who knows him as Regina’s husband. In the beginning it bothered me; I’d try to get him to go out to a restaurant or the movies, but he insisted on staying home. It hadn’t seemed fair at the time—I was his legal wife, after all. Eventually I gave up, resigning our relationship to be one that stayed behind closed doors. And now here we are, stepping out into the wet streets of Seattle, my hand firmly gripped in his. Brava for me!

  Seth glances at me and smiles, like this is as much of a treat for him as it is for me. My boots plow through puddles as we make our way to a cider stand on Pike. Seth unrolls dollars from his money clip, one after another. He leaves a generous tip and hands me a paper cup of liquid gold. The money clip was a gift from me a few Christmases ago. I’ve not seen him use it until now; he always carries a worn leather wallet in his back pocket.