The Wives

by Tarryn Fisher

  Seth is standing in the reception area, talking to one of the nurses, as the doctor walks me up with my paperwork.

  “He’s called every day to check on your progress,” Dr. Steinbridge says softly. His breath smells like old man and onion bagel. “People deal with things differently, so don’t be too hard on him.”

  I nod, gritting my teeth. What a little boys’ club. Dr. Steinbridge wears a wedding band on his hairy finger but spends all of his time here. I wonder if Mrs. Steinbridge sits at home waiting for him or if she has a life of her own, and if there is someone in her life saying, “He works hard, don’t be too hard on him...” Waiting...waiting...that’s what women do. We wait for him to get home, we wait for him to pay attention to us, wait to be treated fairly—for our worth to be seen and acknowledged. Life is just a waiting game for women.

  I’m still playing the docile game and I’ll play it all the way off the property until I’m free. I set my face in an impassive mask as I put one foot in front of the other. Seth looks like a model of success and composure. He’s wearing his Regina clothes: dark gray slacks and a forest green sweater over a button-down, his hair neatly gelled and combed, his face free of stubble. It’s all a different style than he wears with me. I’m realizing that he’s different with each of us, adopting different styles to match his wives. For Hannah it’s the hoodies, baseball caps and band shirts: young clothes to match his young wife. The clean-shaven face and the work clothes are for Regina, so he can be the respectable businessman for his lawyer wife. I get the sexy Seth: the stubble, the suit jackets, the fitted T-shirts and expensive shoes. He’s a chameleon and he gets to play house with variety. When we’re a few feet away, Seth looks up from his conversation and smiles at me. Smiles at me! Like nothing is wrong and this is all normal and fine. Drop your wife off in a hospital for the mentally ill and disappear all this time without a word. I force my mouth into a weak return smile that doesn’t reach my eyes. The nurse behind the desk glances over at me like I’m soooo lucky, and what’s a guy like him doing with a nut like you? I want to pat her on the head and tell her he’s the real nut in this relationship, but I ignore her and focus on Seth, my darling husband. I walk right into his arms like nothing is wrong, and stay there while he holds me. His cologne is overpowering, sharp...not the one he wears with me. I’m sure I look like a frightened, relieved wife, but as I’m pressed against his chest, smelling his Regina cologne, I am nothing but furious.

  “Well, I’ll leave you two to it,” Dr. Steinbridge says. “Remember to call if you have any questions or concerns. My number is right on the paperwork there.” He points to a spot on the sheet he’s holding before setting it on the counter in front of Seth. We both thank him, our voices blending together as if we’re a perfectly synchronized couple. We certainly have been in the past, mostly by my effort.

  Seth has brought me a change of clothes: sweatpants and a long-sleeve T-shirt, and my Nikes.

  “Your mother went to your condo and grabbed a few things,” he says, handing them to me.

  Your condo, I think. Why would he say your and not ours? I go to the bathroom to change and find that everything aside from the shoes is too big for me. I walk out, tugging self-consciously on my shirt, which is swallowing me up.

  “You look great,” Seth says when he sees me.

  Skinny like Hannah! I think. On our way out, Seth grabs my hand and squeezes, and for a moment, I’m lost in remembering what it’s like to be loved by him. Wake up, Thursday!

  I wake up. I squeeze back and allow him to lead me to the car, but I am awake in every sense of the word. A month locked in a grimy place like Queen County has me staring around the parking lot in wonder. Free! I can run in any direction and I’m free. I climb into the passenger seat, adjusting the vents, as is my habit. Seth notices and smiles. It’s all back to normal for him—predictable Thursday. I’m awake! When he walks around the front of the car I fume and practice hating him. It’s not his car. What car is this? Everything is wrong: the smell is different, the seats...but I don’t want to ask questions. He could accuse me of having delusions again. When he gets in, I smile, tucking both hands between my thighs to keep them warm. It’s raining, gentle splashes on the windshield, not the violent rain of the past week. Seth reaches out and pats my knee. It’s so paternal.

  “Listen, Thursday...” he says, once we are on the highway. “I’m sorry about not coming to see you—”

  That’s what he’s sorry for?

  “You didn’t call, either,” I point out.

  Seth glances at me. “I didn’t call, either,” he admits. Casual, like a husband admitting to forgetting an anniversary, not institutionalizing his wife. I could call him out for it right now, confront him about everything, but something is off; it’s like the air is different between us, filled with tense static. As I look out the window, we pass a minivan and a little girl with red hair waves at me from her booster seat. I don’t wave back and I feel guilty. I lift my hand too late and wave at the empty road. I feel crazy for the first time. I didn’t feel crazy in Queen County, but I feel crazy now. Funny.

  “I was...angry,” Seth continues. He’s choosing his words carefully. “I blame myself for what’s happened to you. If I’d done better...been better... I didn’t know what to say.”

  Angry? Does Seth even know what anger is? His life is crafted exactly the way he wants it, with three women to sate him; when one of us does something to upset him, he simply buries his cock and attention in someone else until his anger melts.

  I think of all the things he could have said, things I want him to say. So many things...and then it hits me that he didn’t say what he was angry about. Angry that I ratted him out to the psych ward? Angry that I accused him of hitting his young, pregnant, third wife? Angry that I’d been sneaking around to see said wife? Or perhaps angry about all of it. One accusatory word to Seth could cause him to turn the car around and take me back to Queen County, where Dr. Steinbridge would be waiting with a slew of new treatments that would leave me slack-jawed and drooling. I have to keep control, and that means pretending that I don’t have any.

  I’ll give it to him—he looks genuinely wounded. My poor, victimized husband.

  My body tenses.

  “You lied to the doctors, made up stories...”

  So even outside of the hospital Seth is holding to his theory that I’m lying. I can hardly believe it. My toes curl involuntarily in my shoes, and I stare straight ahead at the cars in front of us. I’m the only one who knows the truth other than Hannah and Regina. Seth has made sure that my friends and family see me as imbalanced and delusional. He could send me back to Queen County and no one would be on my side. I remember the look on Lauren’s face the last time she came to see me, and bite the inside of my cheek. Hannah is out there, I know exactly where to find her. All I need to do is go talk to her. She reached out to me that last day, left a message asking for help. Keep your mouth shut until you have proof, I tell myself.

  “I understand,” I say softly.

  Seth seems pleased enough with this that he doesn’t feel the need to push the conversation further. He taps the steering wheel with an index finger. His body language is all different; I feel like I don’t even know him.

  “Are you hungry? Your mother restocked the fridge, but we can grab something, too, if you prefer that?”

  I’m not hungry, but I nod and manage a half-assed smile. “I just want to be home. I’m sure I can find something there.”

  “Good,” he says. “We can make something together—you’ve been promising to give me lessons for years...” His voice is overly cheerful. I don’t know if there’s anything worse than someone forcing cheerfulness down your throat when you don’t feel a bit happy.

  Giving Seth cooking lessons was one of those things we always spoke about but never truly intended to do. It’s like saying you’d take ballroom dancing lessons, or go couples skydi
ving. Imagine that! and Wouldn’t that be fun! Seth’s about as interested in cooking as I am in building a house.

  “Sure,” I say, and to be more convincing, more pliable, I add, “That would be fun.”

  * * *

  When we walk into our condo thirty minutes later I am prickly with nerves. The air smells fresh and I notice that he’s left a window open in the living room. It’s chilly inside and I go to close it. Seth is at my elbow, hovering, like I’m going to snap at any moment. I bump into him on my way back from the window and we apologize like strangers. I’m unsure if he wants to catch me if I fall, or return me to Queen County. This is what I wanted—to be home, yet I am coming home under completely different circumstances: my husband is not the man I thought he was, and I am not the woman I have been pretending to be. Everything looks the same and feels horribly, irrevocably different.

  The first thing I do is take a shower: a long, hot, soapy shower. I lather the shampoo in my hair using double what I normally use, and I think of Susan. We hadn’t exchanged information, but I’d like to find her one day, check on her. We could meet for coffee and pretend we didn’t meet in a mental facility. When I step out onto my bath rug, my fingers are shriveled. I press the wrinkled pads together, chewing on my bottom lip. I’m anxious, but for the first time in a long time, I feel clean. I wrap myself in my furry robe, take a deep breath and step out of the bathroom, steam trailing behind me.

  * * *

  “I’m going to stay here with you for a while,” Seth says.

  A while? What does “a while” mean? If he’d said those words to me just a month ago, I’d be so thrilled I’d probably throw myself at him, but now I just stare. Two days? Three days? His presence already feels oppressive and it’s only been a few hours. My home feels less private than the hospital I just left. Has he gone through my things? My drawers look rumpled, like someone with unpracticed hands has been shifting things about. Seth and I have always respected each other’s privacy, but now that I know something about him, I’m sure he needs to know things about me.

  “What about work?”

  “You’re more important than work. You’re my priority, Thursday. Listen,” he says, taking my hands. His hands feel wrong—awkward. Has it been so long that I don’t recognize the feel of them anymore?

  “I know I’ve failed you. I realize that I’ve put things before you. I want to make things right between us. Work on our relationship.”

  I nod like this is exactly what I want to hear. Forcing a smile, I twist my wet hair on top of my head. I’m as casual and compliant as the old Thursday. Skinnier, though! Seth’s pretty little fuck doll.

  “I’ll make us something to eat. You hungry?” I need the distraction, I need to think without Seth watching me, but then he stands up, blocking my way to the kitchen. My heart leaps as adrenaline rushes through my body. If he tries anything, I’m ready, I’ll fight him. I take a full breath, filling my lungs to capacity, and then I smile. It’s the most genuine smile I’ve given anyone in weeks.

  “No, let me,” he says. “You rest.”

  I exhale, unclenching my fists beneath the sleeves of my robe. I extend my fingers straight out, trying to relax. Seth strolls into the kitchen, glancing around sheepishly. Even in my current situation I want to laugh at his uncertainty. Just like my father. He has no idea what he’s doing. I stand frozen to the spot and then I call out, “I’m not sick, or tired, or broken.”

  He peeks his head around the doorway. “Maybe I should ask your mother to come...”

  He says it in such a normal, cheerful way, except I don’t want my mother here. And since when did my husband call my mother for backup? She’d fuss and cluck and look at me with disappointed eyes, judging my marriage. I walk into the kitchen, taking him in. He’s standing in front of the open fridge, a package of chicken breasts in his hand. He has no idea what to do with it. I take it from him.

  “Scoot,” I say. I bob my head toward the kitchen doorway, indicating that he needs to leave.

  He opens his mouth and I cut him off. “I don’t mind. I want to keep busy.”

  That seems to appease him. He turns toward the living room, a weak shrug moving his shoulders. This is the essence of him; he makes a big show of effort. It’s always given me the illusion that he’s trying, working hard to please me; but in the end it’s just an act and I’m the one who does the heavy lifting. I pull a pan from the cabinet, cut up an onion and fresh garlic and set them in the hot olive oil. I hate him. When the chicken is sizzling in the pan, I lean back against the counter, folding my arms across my chest. I can hear the television playing from the living room, the news. And then I realize what’s happening: things are returning to normal. Seth is trying to make everything feel like it used to in hopes that I will slip into the role as seamlessly as I always do.

  I sink onto the floor, not sure what to do with myself. I have to get out of here.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  I’m not allowed to drink, not on my medication. It makes the next four days unbearable, as Seth and I sit on the couch and watch hour after hour of sitcoms, him on one side of the couch, me on the other. The space between us is widening every day. I fantasize about the sharp tang of vodka sliding down my throat, burning so good. The way it would first heat my belly and then roll slowly into my veins, settling somewhere in my head and making me feel light and flimsy. When did I start drinking so much? When Seth and I first met I didn’t touch alcohol. Maybe it was seeing my sister consistently drunk and high that turned me off the stuff, but at some point I picked up the bottle and never put it down.

  Seth doesn’t drink—mercy sobriety. He gave up drinking when I was pregnant, too. It makes me wonder if he ever liked drinking or if he just reserved it for our time together. Sexy, dangerous Seth. He was playing a role with me, living out a fantasy.

  The orange bottles that dictate my life sit next to my electric kettle in the kitchen, a line of sentries. It was Seth’s idea to place them there.

  “Why not in the bathroom?” I complained when I’d first seen them.

  “So you won’t forget,” he’d replied.

  But really, he put them there to remind me and anyone else who comes over that I’m sick. Every time I walk into the kitchen to get water or a snack, they catch my eye, their little white labels glaring.

  My mother stops by with her minestrone soup. Soup—like I have a head cold. I could laugh, but I smile and take my “sick” soup. When she catches sight of the bottles, her face visibly pales and she turns away and pretends she hasn’t seen them. People treat being sick in the body as fine, normal, empathy-worthy; they’ll bring you soup and medicine, and press the back of their hand to your forehead. But if they think you’re sick in the mind, it’s different. It’s mostly your fault—I say “mostly” because people have been told again and again that mental illness isn’t a choice—it’s chemical.

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you got out of the hospital,” she says. “Did Daddy tell you that I was visiting Aunt Kel in Florida?”

  “Daddy? He doesn’t talk to me. He’s ashamed.”

  She stares at me oddly. “He’s trying. Honestly, Thursday, sometimes you can be so selfish.” I’m the selfish one? Where was my father? If he cared, where was he?

  The medication makes me feel thick-limbed and sloppy. Seth disappears for a few days, presumably to go back to Portland to see the others. My mother stays with me, doling out pills each morning and each night. I get a sleeping pill at night—the only pill I’m grateful for. Sleep is the only time I rest from the reel of worrisome thoughts that run in a continuous stream through my mind. Planning, planning, planning...

  The next time my mother comes, my father comes with her. I’m surprised to see him. In the years I’ve lived in the condo, my father has only been to visit a handful of times. He’s not the type to do the visiting, my mother once said. He’s the type to be visited. I cha
lked that up to my father’s sense of self-importance; a king in his own mind, his subjects came to him. I stand aside as they shuffle in, wondering if Seth orchestrated their visit. He left not ten minutes ago, saying he needed to spend a few hours in the Seattle office. I’d barely gotten dressed when the doorbell rang.

  “What are you doing here?” The words are out of my mouth before I can arrange them in a nicer way. My father frowns like he’s not sure himself.

  “Really, Thursday. What a way to show appreciation,” my mother says. She marches toward the living room, her purse swinging on her arm like a little designer monkey. My father and I exchange an awkward smile before picking up the pace and following her. I’m acutely aware of his presence as we move through the hallway, made uncomfortable by it. He shouldn’t be here and I shouldn’t have been in the nuthouse, we both know this about each other. I have a sour taste in my mouth as I sit in the chair opposite them. Parents are emotional prison guards, always ready with their stern looks and Tasers.

  “Your father has been worried sick.”

  She reaches into her purse and pulls out a tissue, which she dabs delicately to her nose while I look at my father, who is staring at me uncomfortably.

  “I can see that,” I say.

  I’m eager to be rid of them. I have things I need to do. I decide to get down to business.

  “Did Seth ask you to come?”

  My mother looks affronted. “Of course not,” she says. “Why would you think that?”

  I open and close my mouth. I can’t very well accuse him of keeping me prisoner—that would make me sound crazy. I arrange some bullshit about him being worried about me on the tip of my tongue but then my father beats me to it, speaking first.

  “Thursday...” The expression he’s wearing is the same one he used on my sister and me as children. I don’t know whether to buckle down for the talking-to of a lifetime or to be offended that he still thinks I’m twelve. “Enough with this Seth business.” He slices the air with his hand, palm down like he’s chopping the “Seth business” in half. “All of that needs to be put behind you. You need to move forward.”