The Replacement Wife: A Psychological Thriller

by Britney King

  When she starts to speak, I interrupt her. “I love that skirt. It’s such a statement piece.” Her eyes follow mine and land on her legs. “You have to tell me where I can find one…we could be, what do they call it…” I stop myself and stare into the air between us. Finally, I reach up and grab the thought. “Ah, matchy-matchy. I’ve always wanted to do that. Never had a sister… but now—”

  Beth presses her perfect lips to one another. Lipstick stains her teeth when she opens her mouth. She smiles pleasantly. “I doubt they make your size.”

  I feign surprise. I’m not as green as my counterpart thinks.

  “I mean, I doubt they come in maternity.”

  “You’re probably right.” I touch my stomach. “And I have every intention of getting as big as a house…”

  She doesn’t outright say so, but I can see she likes the idea of this. “Anyhow—I’m short on time so let’s stay focused on the rules—”

  “Yeah,” I agree, shooting for eager. “I just feel like Josie was so distracted that I didn’t get the full rundown.” My hand moves from my stomach to my heart. This makes sense to her. She sips her tea and waits for me to go on and so I do. “I really didn’t mean to upset the Men’s Alliance. I guess… it’s just…well, it’s easy to break the rules if you don’t know what they are.”

  Her chest heaves. It’s like she’s deflating. No need to worry, her implants will keep her afloat. I’m impressed by the way they’re so…out there. They have to be Ds at least. I want to ask, but I don’t know the proper way to tell someone you like their tits without just coming out with it. This seems like it might be breaking the rules, and anyway, she speaks before I have the chance.

  “Very true,” she tells me, and she seems relieved so it takes me a minute to remember what we’d been talking about. It helps when she goes on. “And, I couldn’t agree more. I think we should start from the beginning.”

  “Wonderful,” I tell her, and that’s when I feel it. Unmistakable warmth, the wetness between my legs. It’s subtle at first but then I’m sure, and if I stay still for a moment I know I’ll get a proper gush. My period. I thank God. It’s right on time.

  I realize Beth is waiting for me to speak. My head spins.

  I do the only thing that makes any sense. I stand. Blood runs down my legs.

  “Oh, my,” Beth says. And then, her face goes blank. “We’d better get you to the hospital.”

  I do not for a second regret forgetting to suggest grabbing a towel on the way out.

  My tragedy, my forgetfulness, earned Beth a new car. But that’s not all. It got rid of June’s horrid couch and the armchair went with it. Small sacrifices, as they say.

  Chapter Ten

  Tom

  “Is it going to hurt?” It’s a ridiculous question, in retrospect. Of course, it was going to hurt. This might explain why I can’t force myself to look away. As the nurse readies the instruments, my wife lays motionless on the exam table. I stand beside her and watch. When I look down at Melanie, she isn’t watching. Her eyes are closed. I study the rise and fall of her chest. Her rate of breathing has increased. I can’t blame her for being nervous. She doesn’t want this, as much as she knows it has to happen. I think that’s why she refuses to look at me.

  “It smells funny in here,” I mention casually. It’s supposed to smell clean and sterile. Like antiseptic. Instead it smells like someone heated up their lunch—an Indian dish—and that’s a real problem for me. I quite like Indian food.

  This is sure to ruin it.

  I let out a long and heavy sigh. When this is all over, I plan to have a word with management. It should be illegal to heat up your lunch in this kind of place, where things go to die.

  “What kind of person could eat at a time like this?” I demand, as the odor grows more intense, wafting through the air like poison, doing future damage to my taste buds.

  Melanie doesn’t answer. She doesn’t even open her eyes. The nurse pretends she hasn’t heard, but later when I hear her whispering just outside the door for someone to bring a fan, and I know she has.

  I take a seat in the cold, hard chair and fold my arms. Nothing in this room is made for comfort. Melanie doesn’t seem to care. They have given her something for anxiety. “The meds should kick in soon,” I say.

  Again, she doesn’t acknowledge I’ve spoken. Maybe they already have.

  I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees. I start to tell her this is for the best, but she knows that deep down, even if she can’t see it yet.

  Thankfully, the doctor comes in, saving me from further meaningless chitchat. I study his expression, his serious expression as he reads the words on the screen, notes the nurse has charted.

  The baby is a boy, Melanie said. She wanted to name him Ethan. I did not have an opinion. I’ve always thought it bad luck to name a child before they are born.

  The doctor pats my wife’s knee. “Shall we proceed?”

  She opens her eyes then. They meet mine. I nod slightly. Melanie looks up at the physician and nods her head in agreement.

  I check my watch. This is where I’m supposed to say I wish I could take her place. The truth is, I don’t. It wouldn’t matter anyway. There’s no point in wishful thinking. That’s not how this works.

  I feel the nurse watching me, watching us. I might pass out. The sight of blood, the metallic smell, it makes me dizzy. I reach over and grab my wife’s hand. She doesn’t pull away. But I can feel that she wants to.

  “Don’t worry,” the doctor says. “We’re just starting with an exam.”

  I squeeze lightly. I’m not good at these things, so I repeat the words I’ve practiced. “It’ll all be over soon.”

  “I’m going to pick up the dry cleaning,” I say to Melanie. “Then I was thinking about stopping for Indian food.” I can’t get that smell out of my mind. I refuse to let their incompetence ruin my favorite dish for me. “Hungry?”

  “No,” she tells me.

  “You haven’t eaten since breakfast yesterday.” I can’t blame her. I pretty much lost my appetite then, too.

  “I’m fine.”

  You’re not fine. You’re a liar. I don’t say this, of course. There’s time for that.

  Thankfully, Melanie let me off the hook yesterday when she asked me to step out while the doctor performed his exam. The pregnancy resolved itself, she said, and that was it. She doesn’t want to talk about it, and I get it.

  Needless to say, I haven’t had the chance to bring up the fact that I’m aware she’s been lying to me. I know about her past. I also haven’t yet worked out what to do about it. When an event like this occurs, I am forced to draw on other areas of expertise. In the mathematical theory of stochastic processes, time is a stochastic process associated with diffusion processes that characterize the amount of time a particle has spent at a given level. How this relates is, Melanie’s lie is not a new one. It was not random. Therefore, I decide it can wait until I’ve had proper sustenance. I pat her head. “I’ll grab you some soup, just in case.”

  The morning prior an email from Adam arrived interrupting my breakfast. Adam likes to send emails during non-work hours. This one was different.

  The subject line read: Only open if you’re alone.

  Never a good sign.

  I wasn’t alone. But I opened it anyway.

  Staring at me on the screen was a picture of my wife, in a precarious position.

  I remember where I know Melanie from, Adam wrote. My kid brother’s bachelor party. She was the entertainment, if you catch my drift. And let’s just say…he still talks about her. You lucky duck, you.

  The simplest answer is most often the correct answer. Occam's razor is the process of paring down information to make finding the truth easier. According to the problem-solving principle, when presented with competing hypothetical answers to a problem, one should select the one that makes the fewest assumptions. This is how I come to my hypothesis as it relates to my wife.

  Why w
ould Melanie lie about her past?

  Her sexual history, of which I did a full accounting of from the very beginning, was supposed to have included two previous partners. Not exactly ideal, as I would have preferred none, but excusable, I guess, for someone of her age and generation.

  However, given the latest evidence to the contrary, which is sitting in my inbox, two was incorrect. She lied, and there can only be a handful of reasonable answers as to why that would be. I plan to force the right one.

  I am thankful the bookstore has many materials on the subject from which to choose. I select the most obvious. A Survivor’s Guide to Sexual Abuse. At checkout, I ask the clerk to gift wrap it, and she gives me a strange look. “The gift that keeps on giving,” I say and then to clarify, “Closure.”

  She studies me for a long moment before walking away. I am then handed off to a boy with bright blue colored hair. He offers no explanation for the delay in appropriate customer service, he only says the woman can no longer assist me. This is my fault. I should not have expected much. His eyebrows are painted on like rainbows. I can only assume his parents paid him little attention growing up, and now he is taking his revenge on the rest of society. “Very new wave,” he mentions, glancing toward the book even though I haven’t asked his opinion. I’ve never understood why people insist on making small talk at the expense of quality conversation. “With the gift wrapping,” he adds. “Gotta make these things mainstream.”

  I shrug. I do not understand what he means. He could be speaking Portuguese for all I know. But I keep my mouth shut; I do not want to encourage him. Nor do I have time to be handed off to someone else.

  Melanie is still seated on the new couch when I return. It’s not really my taste, but we needed a replacement quick. At least one of us likes it. When her eyes meet mine, I hand the gift to her. The ladies from the church have been by, she tells me. To match her need for small talk, I could tell her about the rude clerk or the guy with blue eyebrows but I am not feeling particularly generous where she is concerned.

  “Open it,” I say.

  She unwraps it carefully. “What’s this?” she asks as she flips it in her hands.

  “I’m sorry you suffered.”

  My lying wife throws the book at me. Literally.

  I duck and cover.

  Her brow furrows. “What is wrong with you?”

  “So, you weren’t abused?”

  “No,” she huffs. “Where would you get an idea like that?”

  “But you lied.”

  “About what?”

  It concerns me that she has to ask.

  “You had more than two sexual partners.”

  Her eyes widen. She realizes she’s trapped. “I’m— I’m—what does it matter, anyway?”

  “It matters because statistically speaking, the more—” I stop myself. Clearly, she doesn’t care about statistics. If she had, she would have been a little more reserved. “It matters because you lied.”

  She scoffs. “I can’t believe you’re doing this now.” I recognize this as classic avoidance. In no time flat, the tears come. Soon, she has pulled out all the stops and she is full out crying. I recognize this too: A form of female manipulation.

  I give her time and eventually, when I haven’t caved, she wipes her nose with the back of her hand.

  “Well?”

  “Seriously? You want to go there now? After what I’ve just been through.”

  “What you’ve been through? I’ve just learned my whole marriage is a sham.”

  “Really?” She cocks her head. “Is that what you think?”

  I dig my heels in. “How many, Melanie?”

  She narrows her eyes, and this is war.

  “How many what?” All warfare is based on deception.

  “How many men were there?”

  “I’m not doing this with you, Tom.” she says. We stare at each other for a moment, waiting to see who will be the first to draw. Finally, she stands. I think for a second this is to achieve better aim. But she chooses to retreat. I listen as she climbs the stairs, goes into the guest room and locks the door. Subdue the enemy without fighting.

  This is a poor choice on her part.

  The next morning when I wake up, Melanie is gone.

  Chapter Eleven

  Melanie

  I had been dreaming about flirting with danger when my eyes flutter open. It’s a rush, teetering on the edge like I have these past few days, and this has a way of making dreams feel more real. As I slip further from sleep, as I try to recall what the dream was all about, it dawns on me how bright the room seems. I shield my face and then twist in an attempt to pull the covers free of whatever is holding them back so I can cover my head. They refuse to budge.

  I sigh at how a pleasant dream can so easily slip from your grasp, how quickly real life can thrust you head first into annoyance. It’s just like Tom to open all the draperies in order to coerce me from sleep. I rub at my eyes, and then as my vision comes into focus, I shift slightly. Suddenly, I realize nothing about where I am is familiar.

  A small moan forces itself from my lips as I sit up in bed with a start. I wince. My body aches. I feel it before I see it, and when I look down, there is an icepack shoved between my thighs. This is all wrong. I force myself out of bed. It isn’t pleasant to move, but the adrenaline pulsing through my veins sees me through. I cradle my abdomen, an instinctive measure, made before it slowly dawns on me I no longer have to lie. The pretend baby has left the building. The secret remains safe with me.

  “We all have our terrors, I suppose,” a small voice says. Still shielding my eyes, I survey the room. Once my vision steadies enough, I settle in on the woman. I wait for her to say something further, I wait for her to explain who she is. I wait for her to tell me why I’m here. She doesn’t. She stares back at me, curiously.

  Edging my legs over the side of the bed, I scoot slowly until my feet reach the floor. Everything is happening so fast and so slow all the same. I tell myself it’s possible I’m still dreaming.

  The woman, who looks more like a girl, closes the book in her lap. She uses her fingertips to smooth her long, chestnut hair. “I’m Vanessa.”

  “Mel,” I say, noting our surroundings. Two metal-framed twin-sized beds are situated adjacently to one another. I occupy one. Vanessa is perched on the bed opposite me. The walls are white. Bare. Florescent lights hang overhead. Other than the beds, the room is empty, save for a pair of matching nightstands. The top of mine is empty. On hers rests a stack of books.

  Carefully, I push myself upward to a standing position. I waddle toward the door. Twelve steps, I count. Each one jabs worse than the one prior. When I reach the door, I desperately jiggle the handle, only to find it’s locked from the outside.

  I glance over my shoulder at Vanessa. She watches me carefully at first, but when I look back again in search of answers, her eyes have glazed over. It’s as though I’ve vanished all together. I press my face against the small windowpane until I feel the cool of the glass on the tip of my nose. My knees could buckle at any moment. “Hello?” I call out. I feel eyes on me.

  I clear my throat. “Hello,” I call again, my voice louder this time.

  “I wouldn’t do that, if I were you,” Vanessa says. “Screaming doesn’t bring help. Quite the opposite actually.”

  I turn to her. “The door is locked.”

  She smiles wickedly. Her round, cherub-like face, her large eyes and her perfect nose, don’t fit the expression she wears. Her eyes are on her book, which gives me a chance to properly study her. She’s young. Maybe my age, maybe slightly younger. It’s hard to say.

  “Why is the door locked?”

  Her eyes meet mine like a challenge she refuses to answer. I notice her eyes match her hair.

  I scream this time. I scream out, asking if anyone can hear me. I pound on the door with my fists. If a challenge is what Vanessa wants, fine. You have to be good at manipulation to manipulate. You have to be meticulous in your
planning and diabolical in your execution to pull it off. Judging by her simple, perfect face, I don’t think she has it in her. But I plan to find out. She can either give me the answers I seek, or we can go about this the hard way. It’s her call.

  Nothing happens. No one comes.

  “I really wish you wouldn’t do that,” Vanessa chides. I open my mouth to give it another go. My eyes are on her. Her voice lowers to a whisper. “We’re the lucky ones.”

  I lean against the wall for balance. It freaks me out when strangers speak with this kind of honesty, even if I’ve asked for it.

  “Right now, they are out of rooms,” she offers. Her expression has turned serious. “That’s why we’re together.” Finally, I think we’re getting somewhere. “This never happens,” she assures me, shaking her head. “You’re going to ruin it.”

  I can’t help but stare when she speaks. She’s gorgeous, stunningly so, or rather she could be in another circumstance. Most people aren’t beauty queens in hospital gowns. “What kind of hospital is this?”

  Vanessa doesn’t immediately answer, so I turn my attention back to the small window. I can see a long hallway, which is empty. “Hello?” I say to her and to anyone who will listen. I don’t want to repeat the question. I realize I’m afraid of what she might say.

  “Oh,” she murmurs, and when I turn back, she laughs, the corners of her mouth edging more deeply as she does. “This is no hospital.”

  I look on as Vanessa motions grandly around the room. “This is a center for healing.”

  I turn the word over in my head. “Healing,” I repeat aloud.

  This isn’t my first rodeo. She’s insane.

  I am rewarded with another small smile. “Many are the afflictions of the righteous, but the Lord delivers him out of them all. Psalm 34:19.”