The Replacement Wife: A Psychological Thriller

by Britney King

  “Oh,” Vanessa gasps when she sees him on the ground. “He likes to eat dirt. And whatever he can find, really. ”

  She retrieves wet wipes, and I wonder if there’s a school where they teach you these things.

  “Sorry,” I tell her. “It’s still hard for me. After…you know.”

  “Oh my gosh. I am so sorry!”

  “It’s okay.” I shrug. “He’s just so cute…and my baby was a boy.”

  She looks like she might cry. “I’m sorry.”

  We sit in silence for a long while. Vanessa lets the kid half-toddle half-crawl out into the playground and then she glances around the park. “I was looking for my water bottle so I could take my pills, but I can’t find it anywhere. Sean says I’m so forgetful.” She smiles. “Sure enough, I’ll go home, and there it’ll be, waiting on the table in the entryway.”

  “A sip of coffee won’t hurt.”

  She massages her temples.

  “Headache?” I ask. I feel one coming on too and I hope she has the good stuff.

  “No, these are our daily vitamins. New Hope branded them. Isn’t that funny?”

  “Our daily vitamins?”

  “Well… yours will be different, since you’re trying for a little one.”

  This is news to me.

  “What kind of vitamins?”

  She searches for the bottle and puts them back in on account of not having the water and the coffee being forbidden. I take it from her. “Do you even know what’s in these?”

  She shrugs. “Who cares? They give me so much energy.”

  I almost want to pop a few. Her stupidity is draining mine. I shift on the bench and get a good look at Vanessa. She’s hardly older than I am. I shudder to think that could have been me. That this could have been my version of escape, too. That coming here could be my best shot at a break. I take my phone from my pocket and snap a picture of the ingredients.

  “They really help with the postpartum depression.”

  “The what?”

  “It’s a real thing. I didn’t believe in it either…but then moving here…and dealing with being a second wife and all. I guess it wasn’t as easy as I thought it was going to be.”

  “Your husband. Where’s his first wife?”

  “She died.”

  I cock my head. “How’d you meet?”

  Vanessa’s eyes light up. “Online, actually. Then I ran into him in person, and we figured out he was the person I had been chatting with all along. Like that movie. What’s it called?”

  “I hate movies.” I know exactly the one. This version seems a little different. I can’t yet tell Vanessa that.

  “But after Daniel was born, Sean saw me differently. Less like an object of desire. More like a…well, more like a mother, I guess.” She’s looking far off. I don’t know why I’m still here.

  “I know having a child was supposed to make me happy. But it didn’t. Quite the opposite actually. And the saddest part of all is, it’s not his fault.”

  She takes a deep breath. I’m just about to make a run for it when she says, “Do you know what it’s like to hate yourself, Melanie?”

  “No. I’m a surface level kind of person, to tell you the truth.” Of course, I don’t tell her the real truth. That I don’t know because I don’t have real feelings.

  She meets my eye. “Well, I do. My son, he deserves better. I know what it must look like to someone like you. But I clean, and I take these pills, and that’s enough for me. It has to be.”

  I nod. She really should know better than to offer up this kind of honesty. Someone should warn her; it’ll only get her into trouble.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Tom

  When I add it all up, ten grand and some change is what it takes to make Melanie happy. A car lease, clothing items no doubt made by slave laborers in horrific conditions, in addition to visits to the rejuvenation center for spa treatments, laser hair removal, and body sculpting. Who knew it could be so easy on someone else’s dime?

  She looks good. Life is grand. We’re on an upswing. Nothing can stop us now. But it only leaves one question…what will it take to keep her happy?

  When I was in junior high we participated in the Million Dollar Project. Now, I’m not exactly a young guy, but I start by saying that it is far, far easier these days than it was back then to blow a million bucks.

  Back then, I thought it would be a dream, all those dollars. So many zeros. I literally dreamed about all the stuff I would buy. Being a poor kid, I assure you, it was a lot.

  In the end though, there was a bigger lesson than getting rid of all those zeros. I was surprised to find that having the fake money hadn’t made me as happy as I thought it would. I was surprised to find it was a burden trying to spend it all.

  I wanted more to manage it than see it fly out the window on fleeting happiness. What I learned is it took very little to actually make me happy. I realized then my threshold was lower than a lot of people’s. It was lower than June’s, and it’s certainly lower than Melanie’s. This adds up to a compatibility issue.

  Clearly, I know my part in the problem: I have expensive taste in women. One I’ve managed to solve in the short-term by throwing off expenses onto the church’s back. But it’s only a matter of time before someone finds out. Not everyone gets to be Mark Jones. My work is to see how long I can.

  Basically, you could say I’m testing his tolerance threshold. He hasn’t yet realized this. But he will. What Mark needs is something to worry about other than the killing spree he wants me to embark upon. It’s exhausting, this business of murder. Add in trying to maintain a job, and a home, and deal with a needy wife, and well, I have no idea who has the time for this. It’s time-consuming interviewing contract killers, trying to nab the proper one for the job while managing everyday life and trying to keep one’s hands clean in the process. It requires speaking in code, secret meetings, and a transfer of funds. I know enough to know you’re guilty the moment money exchanges hands. No one even has to die. Suffice it to say, I’m still not convinced I shouldn’t handle matters myself. Get my feet wet, so to speak.

  In the meantime, as I weigh my options, life goes on as normal. I mostly work. It’s big business shuffling digits around, hiding some, bringing others to light. This is an art, crafting things the way you want them to be. Even numbers. Especially numbers.

  Speaking of art, Melanie’s spending is out of control. She appears to be consumed with improving herself. She’s obsessed with what the other wives are up to. Lunching or brunching or whatever is popular these days. I’m too busy making it all work to dig too deep. It’s tough to stay caught up on the trends with so many balls in the air.

  One morning over breakfast Melanie says to me, “You’ll be happy to know I scheduled my rhinoplasty for next week.”

  This is news to me. “Your nose is fine.”

  “Beth doesn’t think so.” She points. “And I’ve always had this little bump…”

  I squint. “I have twenty-twenty vision, and I see nothing.”

  “Don’t worry. It’s outpatient. So, I’ll be home in time for dinner.”

  “Do you know how they perform rhinoplasty? They literally chisel your bone. With a chisel and a hammer.”

  “I watched YouTube videos,” she says.

  “Your eyes will be black…I’ve heard it’s quite painful.”

  “Did you try and talk June out of the boob job?”

  I deadpan. “No. Why?”

  “Nothing,” she tells me. “I just thought you might be worried that the same thing might happen to me.”

  “Anesthesia is relatively safe,” I inform her. “In most cases.”

  I watch as she crosses the kitchen.

  “I was wondering something…”

  I hope it leads to sex.

  “How many men at New Hope have younger wives?”

  Talking about other women rarely leads to sex. “Why do you ask?”

  She twists her mouth. “Just
curious.”

  “I really like this one,” I mention, stabbing at my french toast. If she’s going to blow off my desire for a morning quickie by talking about other women, I’ll join her.

  Melanie tilts her head. “This chef,” I say. “I think this one can stay awhile.”

  “Tom?” She repeats my name, which is her way of reminding me of her question. “How many?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She softens. “Like, what percentage would you say?”

  I spin the bread around in the syrup and watch it pool together. Same as blood, I tell myself. Call it conditioning, if you will.

  “Tom!” I meet my wife’s eye. For a second, I consider killing her now. At least then I could enjoy my breakfast in peace. But she looks so good in that new nightie, and I haven’t yet found a replacement, so I keep it simple instead. “It’s fairly common in this tax bracket.”

  Another email from Adam arrives. This time thankfully I’m already on my way into the office.

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

  Not again.

  I am alone. But I would have opened it anyway.

  Staring at me on the screen are words that change everything.

  Melanie uploaded a photo of New Hope vitamins to Instalook. Mark is livid. That’s proprietary information, Tom. Surely, you had to have warned her. But brace yourself...that’s not the worst of it…not for you. I’m sorry, man. You need to be careful. Not only that, you won’t want to hear what I’m about to say. Melanie’s been visiting Vanessa Bolton. Sean’s wife. Which I guess isn’t such a bad thing considering the rest of it…

  Fine, I’ll bite. I write back. The rest of it?

  Adam responds immediately. Supposedly, Melanie told her she was never really pregnant—that she tricked you into marrying her.

  Everyone knows Sean Bolton’s wife is crazy, I type. We’ve sent her for reprogramming, what like six times? And, what’s wrong with posting the vitamins? I’m sure she thought it was branding. That’s what Beth wants…

  My notification chimes. I scan Adam’s response. It was the ingredients she posted. Pretty telling, don’t you think?

  I don’t write back. I call Mark.

  “Don’t worry,” I tell him. “It’ll be taken care of tonight.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Melanie

  Planned obsolescence. I can see what’s happening here. What a surprise to realize my husband is not the first man in the church to bring home a new young wife shortly after being recently widowed. I’ve learned about seven cases in the neighborhood so far. One of the wives died like June, two have committed suicide and the other four simply disappeared.

  What I intend to find out for sure, before my gravy train runs out, is just how much Tom knows. As soon as the time is right, I have every intention of a confrontation. In the meantime, I need to safe guard my future. More than anything, I’d like a taste of the settled in, married life, I’m always hearing about.

  When Tom calls me from work a few days later, and I detect blatant anger in his voice, I think the time has come to go toe-to-toe. “Pack a bag,” he tells me. Those three words put the brakes on things.

  “Why?”

  “Melanie,” he says with a heavy sigh. I hear the exhaustion in his voice. It’s the opposite of what a vacation is supposed to feel like. This doesn’t sound like the Tom I know, so calm, so sure of himself. “I’m going to give you a set of instructions and I need you to listen to me. This is serious.”

  “How serious?”

  “Don’t leave the house, serious.”

  I wait for him to go on.

  “We’re taking a trip, serious.”

  For Tom to do anything spur of the moment, I know he’s right. To him, this is serious. To me, it sounds like an adventure. “What should I pack?”

  “Lightly. That’s all that matters. We don’t want to raise any red flags.”

  All of a sudden, this is starting to sound like a bad movie.

  “Can you at least give me a clue? What can I expect— temperature-wise?”

  “I haven’t decided.”

  I think he’s lying. With my husband, everything is decided. “What if I need to go shopping?”

  “You can shop when we get there. In the meantime, don’t pay anyone any visits, don’t answer the door, close the blinds, make it look like no one is home, and whatever you do, do not leave the house.”

  “Jesus. You’re not—”

  “I have some things to take care of here at the office,” he says cutting me off. “And then I’ll be home.”

  I stare out the window. I think he’s lost his mind.

  “Oh, and Melanie—”

  “Yeah?”

  “For God’s sake, don’t post anything to social media.”

  When I hang up the phone, I realize this must have something to do with Instalook. Tom hates social media so I’m not surprised. I open the app and scan my profile to see what could have pissed him off. Sometimes Beth posts for me. She says I’m still getting the hang of it, and when you’re building something, momentum is important.

  Sure enough, Beth has posted three photos on my account. One of new shoes, a photo of some weird looking food that only a tiny bird could find appetizing, and a photo of me in a yoga pose she snapped last week. She isn’t all wrong. My profile has grown by twelve hundred followers in three days. She assures me this is good. I say there should be more. I’m half-dressed in most of the shots. She says this helps with the momentum of things.

  That’s when I see it. The shot I took of Vanessa’s “vitamins.” My breath catches in my throat. A lump forms around it. I hadn’t meant to post that, as Beth would say, I’m still getting the hang of it. This reminds me I never did look up the ingredients.

  First things first—I delete the photo from Instalook. It doesn’t match with my theme or color scheme. Beth is always getting onto me about this. She drones on and on about aesthetics and how important they are to my target demographic. I bet she finally mentioned this to Tom, and that’s why he’s insisted on the trip. She must have convinced him I need something interesting. Probably something to match my color scheme. You’re selling an image, she’s always saying. I hope for my sake the image she’s going for now happens to be exotic. I could really do for a turquoise beach. I mentioned this to Tom. But he only knows work. That’s why it’s nice to have someone else do your bidding. Someone like Beth. Surely, my husband will understand. It feels nice to use a trick from his playbook.

  I scan my phone for a photo to upload so Beth can see I’m doing my job. If it needs to be on the teal side of the color chart, then so be it. Maybe this will help Tom with his destination decision. I know how much my husband wants Beth’s approval. As I’m scrolling through the photos in my album the shot of Vanessa’s vitamins catches my eye.

  I must know. I open Google and type in the first ingredient into the search bar: sodium fluoride.

  What I come up with is a whole host of articles. Apparently, especially in large quantities, sodium fluoride is a neurotoxin. I don’t know what constitutes as large but I know Vanessa mentioned she takes three capsules, three times a day. I could barely remember to take my birth control pill, I’d said. She told me she lives and dies by her alarm.

  Crazy, I’d said.

  But the more I read, the more I realize it could have something to do with what she’s taking. According to the internet, sodium fluoride effects memory, IQ and a whole host of other things. Several articles cite that it causes calmness and complacency. Who knows what’s fake news these days and yet this could explain why Vanessa acts dumbed-down, more like a robot than a person. Surely, this has to explain why she cooks and cleans and child-rears to her heart’s content. I don’t know anyone in their right mind who would sign up for that kind of boring life.

  I spend the morning packing my suitcase and organizing many of my new things. I don’t want to bring along too much, otherwise my husband will think I don’t
have a reason to shop. Things have been good between us lately; the last thing I want is a fight. Especially since I can’t be sure he won’t replace me. There’s a lot riding on this. I haven’t yet secured an upgrade, nor do I have a significant enough investment to warrant the kind of divorce settlement I’d need to sustain this kind of lifestyle. Plus, I like it here. I finally have something I’ve wanted my whole life. Friends. I haven’t managed to mess it up yet, and I don’t plan to anytime soon. I have a bestie now, thanks to Beth, and the other women are starting to look up to me. But there’s another issue too. A bigger one. I think I might actually feel something for Tom.

  I’ve been practicing. I’ve been praying about it. There’s a method to my madness.

  By the early afternoon, after I’ve packed and internet researched Vanessa’s problems, and Tom still isn’t home, I dig out his and June’s wedding album. He keeps it at the top of his closet. I flip through the photos just as I do most every day. This one is no different. I realize I want that. Then I pray. I breathe in and out. I do what they call meditation. Then I pause and pray some more. I tell myself, if I can love him for one minute, then I can make myself love him for two, and if I can love him for two, I can love him for three, and if I can love him for three, I can love him forever. I tell myself I can feel something. Something for real, something like love, and in this moment, even that seems insurmountable.

  It goes like this: Me. A bottle. Ghosts. Reminders. Mementos. Truth. This is how the majority of my days unfold in this house, in this stupid neighborhood, on this stupid idyllic street. I shuffle my way through the wedding album. This causes me to pull from my secret stash of scotch. Sometimes I only go for wine. Scotch is what I reach for when I’m not messing around. This feels like the good old days. Then I get this itch, I can’t stop. It helps if I do another shot and then another. I keep trying to satisfy it, trying to make it go away. But eventually, it gets so bad I have to scratch it, and this is when I log in to June’s computer, still in its place, like so many other artifacts. I click on the icon she had on her desktop, the one with all their family photos. I don’t stop until I get to their wedding video. It looks nothing like ours. It’s like picking a scab. I never feel the pain. I just want it to scar so I have proof. This is why I keep going back.