The Ruined Wife: Psychological Thriller

by Marin Montgomery

  I speed up the ramp, the exit light flashing as I head into the midday traffic. I’m curious to find out what Dr. Drexler would like me to do about the claims that are killing his reputation.

  If anyone can fix a ruined rep, it’s this lady.

  Sweeping my jet-black hair into a messy bun, I pop a breath mint after my latest chai, the challenge of fixing these kinds of problems a thrill.

  He chose a low-key restaurant to meet at—his country club—a baseball cap and golf tee hiding his bald head and the wrinkles underneath his eyes.

  Drexler stands when I arrive, his tall and thin frame now gaunt, at least from pictures I’ve seen on the internet, the stress taking its toll. I reach my hand out and grip his firm one. “Hi, Dr. Drexler, I’m Alastair Adams. Nice to meet you, though unfortunate under these circumstances.”

  He nods, motioning to the table. “Thanks for making the time, you come highly recommended.”

  I take a seat, his ball cap never leaving his head, a no-no for this country club, though I’d doubt they’d create a scuffle out of this. We sit and stare at each other as I wait for him to give me the sordid details on how a renowned neurosurgeon who has been practicing for over thirty years has been using details that might not have been his to use in the first place.

  “Let me begin.” His hands shake as he plays with the stem of his water glass.

  My favorite part of my job is listening, getting the perspectives, the justification for actions, some neither right nor wrong. After all, it’s their opinion or how they view what happened. Or their mistakes. A lapse in judgment. A wrinkle in time they wish they could come back from.

  After all, we all make mistakes that can’t be undone no how much we want to.

  Case in point, my life.

  3

  When I get home, it’s after 7:00 p.m. Liv has gymnastics, her obsession with flips and jumping off any high surface a scare to us as her parents, a thrill to her. Steven and I decided to harness it in and encourage it in the form of mats and balance beams. Shit, I mutter as I pull into the driveway, it’s my job to pick her up at 8:00 p.m. It’s next to my gym, so I run inside to change into my Lululemon shorts and a tank, grab a water bottle, and kiss Steven. He’s in the office where we both have a desk, both mid-century modern to match the bones of the house.

  Hi, babe,” he calls out, his eyes moving upward from the paper I presume he’s grading. “How was your day?”

  “Busy but good.” I step over some papers on the floor leaning in for a kiss. “I’m gonna work out and grab Liv.”

  “Okay, I’m going to finish marking these take-home quizzes and after, maybe you can join me in the hot tub?” He gives me a naughty wink, my heart beating faster. I grin, my fingers reaching out to run my hand through his thick chestnut hair. “Yes, I’d love that.” I breathe into his ear, inhaling his scent, the aftershave, his cologne, the smells of a man that I’ve slept beside for my entire adult life. He gives me a deep kiss, our eyes locking. The man I’d do anything for.

  Making my way to the gym, I grab a quick workout and step into the place next door right at 8:00 p.m. on the dot. Her class is focusing on the mats tonight, the instructor demonstrating a tumbling pass as the kids watch entranced. I scan down as my phone chimes, thirty emails already piled up since I last checked an hour ago. I feel a hand tug on my sleeve, “Hi, love bug.” I reach out and kiss the top of her forehead, her tiny form matching everyone else’s in a black leotard with her hair pulled up into the best ponytail her dad could help her with.

  “Hi, Mommy, did you see my cartwheels?”

  “Yes,” I lie, guilt on my face, my hand tightening around my phone. “They looked amazing.” I tug her ponytail. “Who knew I had a future Aly Raisman as my daughter?”

  “Can we change my name to yours?” She gives me a grin.

  “Of course not, silly.” I laugh and help her with her tote bag. “You were named Livvie after your grandma, you wouldn’t wanna hurt Daddy’s mom.”

  “Oh, I’ve been telling people I’m changing it to Alastair.” She giggles, her mouth widening into a grin. “Then people can call me Aly.”

  “That’s silly.” I pinch her gently on the cheek. “Let’s go, bug. It’s your bedtime.” We drive home as she chirps about her day, her teachers, the homework her dad helped her with tonight, always math being the main issue. I halfheartedly listen, my mind drifting to work. Always focusing on the next day’s agenda and what I have to do to stay on top and make my family proud of me.

  Livvie runs into her dad’s arms as soon as we get home. He’s sitting on the couch, his eyes immersed on the TV watching The Discovery Channel. We’re minimalists when it comes to television, the only TV in the house hangs above our fireplace in the living room.

  I’m hopeful that Liv’s relationship with her dad will continue to be this easy. I didn’t have a father growing up, but it’s always been important to me that she have one, and a good one at that. I married Steven not out of love initially, but out of obligation.

  We’d dated for two years in college. He was two years older, but he stayed and worked in the same city until I graduated and then proposed my senior year. I adored his close-knit family, his parents, his two siblings, and the relationships they had. I wanted that for my own. I didn’t love him the way I’d loved other people I dated. When we took a break my junior year, I dated a guy named Mikki who was handsome, seven years older, tatted up, and incredible in bed. He was reckless, but I fell hard. He died in a motorcycle accident that left me devastated, more so because I was supposed to be riding on the back but had fallen ill, a stomach bug that saved my life. He had a big personality, a smooth-talker who lived a fast life. He didn’t like rules or obligations, titles or promises. I was never his girlfriend and was rocked even more to the core to find out at his funeral that he had a fiancée and a baby on the way. I’d never known I was sharing him with Belinda, her swollen belly matching her red-rimmed eyes at the wake.

  After that, it took all I had to finish my junior year of college. Steven had also dated people, more so out of boredom and separation than an actual want. He’d never wanted the break in the first place. I’d suggested it since I felt trapped, he’d taken my virginity, and I was bored of his gentle touch and his steadfast ways.

  I fell into a deep depression, and Steven helped bring me back to life. He didn’t realize the impact of Mikki on me or even that I dated him. The only picture I have of us is buried in a photo album in the shed, my new lion tattoo on display as Mikki holds me in his muscular arms, his arms covered in a sleeve of tats. Steven thought I got the tattoo because I was rebelling, when in reality, I got it to impress Mikki and live a little on the edge of his big personality.

  Steven proposed my last year of university, and I was thrilled, but it never quite got into my bones the way it should’ve. I wanted his family, his traditions, leaving my broken one behind after my mom broke down and entered rehab for the seventh time.

  Sure, I was excited as he put the tiny diamond on my ring finger, but the spark took time to burn, longer than most couples I know. I started to fall in love with him when we built a life together, shared dreams and passions, made love, and brought a child into the world. When he held our daughter for the first time, I knew I’d chosen right. Steven’s a good man, kind, gentle, intelligent, and rooted in a moral fiber with a compass you rarely glimpse in others anymore. He opens doors, pulls out chairs, and has manners Jesus would be impressed with.

  Mikki, I’d have worried about cheating and flings, Steven never. The thought of him sleeping with someone else never entered my mind. He was always the husband that my friends compared theirs to, the pedestal higher and higher that no one could reach.

  No wonder he tumbled off and became just a man, a mere mortal.

  Livvie heads to take a shower and get ready for bed. I open a bottle of red left over from our trip and sit down next to Steven, pouring us each a glass. He’s still entranced in the program on television, and I smile
to myself at his excitement, a kid still fascinated by the way things work.

  “You ready to get drunk and make bad decisions?” I giggle into his shoulder.

  He nuzzles me with his face, the five o’clock shadow rubbing my cheek. “Always.” He’s casual, his plain V-neck tee and shorts different from his pressed pants and polo or plaid shirt from school.

  “I’ll go read Liv a book, and you get naked,” I say, guzzling my glass of wine. “In the hot tub, though.” He grabs a chunk of my long hair and pulls it, his eyes drifting into mine, then down to my cleavage, his fingers moving down to my chest. “Baby…” he moans, “… make it quick.”

  Laughing, I untangle myself from his hands, and help Liv get in her PJs and into bed. I listen as she reads to me tonight, her excitement over the old Little House on the Prairie books I found showing in her voice as she reads Laura Ingalls Wilder, and I sip my refilled glass of wine.

  I meet my husband out on the patio. He’s turned on the small light outside of our sliding glass patio doors that lead to the hot tub, not bothering with the other lights. He brought the bottle of wine and his phone, Spotify streaming with Jack Johnson, as I peel off my clothes and give him a slow, naked peep show before sinking into the warm water. It feels refreshing on my achy joints, my neck and muscles sore from sitting all day and then working out.

  We are quiet at first, enjoying the silence, the pitch-black sky pierced with stars, no streetlights this close to the mountain, the outline a majestic beauty. We picked this area because we saw potential, and if we couldn’t live by the water, we might as well live by the mountains.

  Our backyard’s a miniature paradise, the hot tub surrounded by pavers, a custom BBQ, cactus, and a large palm tree. There’s a shed Steven uses for various projects, sometimes science experiments, sometimes woodworking. A large patch of artificial grass is in the center. The brick wall backing up to the mountain is draped in lights.

  He finds my hand in the water, grasping it in his. I lean against him, my rock.

  “Are you okay?” he whispers as if the dark will betray his silence if he speaks in a regular voice.

  “Yes,” I murmur.

  “You always look stressed.” I sigh, fighting the urge to pull back. Sometimes I just want to be in the moment avoiding work and the talk of it. Steven understands I have a stressful job, but he fails to relate. It’s not his fault, it’s just that we have such different responsibilities.

  I lie. “I’m good, baby.” I reach behind me and grab the wine drinking straight out of the bottle. I take a long swig and then hand him what’s left over. “Backwash?” he jokes. “Only the best for you, babe.” I tweak his nose in the dark.

  “Do you still love me?” He pulls me onto his lap, my legs wrapping around his waist as he sits on the built-in bench in the water.

  I search his face, the wrinkles are minimal, mainly around his eyes and a few crossing his temples, his tanned skin and brown eyes glimmering in the dark. He looks worried. “Of course, baby.” I smooth his cheek with my hand.

  “I’d die if you ever left me.” He’s pensive, I can tell from the firm grip around my waist and the serious tone his voice takes on.

  “What makes you say that?” I’m curious at his mood after a weekend in Napa and a well-rested adults-only trip. This isn’t the kind of talk I expect for a weeknight.

  “I had a dream the other night…” he pauses, “… that you had an affair. It shook me up…” He rubs a finger over my lips, “… bad.”

  “I had an affair?” I kiss him gently. “Between a client meeting and a workout or do I squeeze it in between a shower and dropping Liv off?”

  His eyes narrow, “It’s not ridiculous.”

  “I’m not saying it is.” I take a lighter tone, “But I’d never have time to cheat.”

  “But would you want to?” He seems hurt that my first reaction is about timing. For me, timing is everything. The reason I got married to him, had a baby, built a career. It’s always been about time. I don’t have the luxury to do it any other way. Steven wanted the vacays, the beach destinations, places we’d read about in shiny magazines as newlyweds when we dreamed big but had no way of affording.

  “No,” I exhale slowly, “I don’t want anyone else but you.”

  He’s holding his breath and my stare, relaxing only when I say this.

  “Thank God, Alastair.”

  “Have you ever cheated on me?” I don’t know why I ask, but I do, a playful punch to his arm.

  I assume he’ll say no. I’d never had a reason to suspect him, never picked up his phone to see unknown numbers over text, never spoken to a woman claiming to be his mistress, and never had any doubt he would remain loyal to me. I was his wife, he was the steady husband who consistently ate Cornflakes for breakfast and never switched laundry brands because he was loyal.

  I’m stymied when I see pain in his eyes, a haunted look, his brows knitted.

  I gasp as he holds onto me tighter, his arms wrapped around my waist, not letting go, his eyes burning into mine.

  “Alastair…” he breathes heavily as if the weight of his words will suffocate him right now. “I made a big mistake. I fucked up.” I want to chide him for using the ‘f’ word, don’t you know there are better words to use, my focus on his language and the banned vocab he used instead of the context of what he just alluded to.

  My head’s fuzzy, the bottle of wine making me sleepy and confused all at once.

  Did he just say he cheated?

  I don’t comprehend, the bubbles in the hot tub burbling, our eyes locked on one another.

  “I don’t understand...” my voice trails off, confused. “Did you just say you had an affair?” I push away from his chest, his hands trying to hold me to him as I fight to release myself from his grip. I feel like I’m suffocating even though I’m upright. I might as well be drowning, the breaths coming in short spurts as I try to focus on his pained expression. Putting a hand on my chest, I scoot back as far as I can go, sliding across the water to the other side of the tub. I stare at him, my eyes begging him to take back what he just said, my mouth in a straight line, the thought of lovemaking and a nice night underneath the stars replaced by something ominous.

  Words. That’s the thing about them once they leave your lips—you can’t take them back. After they leave your mouth, they hang in the air. Permanently.

  4

  The next morning, I wake with a vicious hangover, my alarm repeatedly going off as I silence it. The professional in me tells me to take a hot shower, drink some strong coffee, maybe with brandy and suck it up. Part of me is sobbing hysterically, internally calling divorce lawyers and friends, burning his clothes on the lawn.

  After we sat in the hot tub, now a ruined end-of-day vice I used to enjoy with Steven, I scrambled out, his voice trailing after me like he couldn’t get the words out fast enough.

  “Enough,” I hissed, pacing around the yard naked and shivering not noticing the rocks cutting my bare feet. Steven followed suit until he told me I needed to get warm or I’d catch a cold. My inner voice was screaming, “How dare you tell me not to catch a cold when you didn’t care what I’d catch from your dick in her.” But I was paralyzed, still processing what he told me. I never expected nor suspected anything like this. A bomb dropped on our house would’ve been more believable.

  Not Steven. Not my husband.

  We go inside, him trailing me like a lost puppy, after turning off the hot tub, the lights, and grabbing our clothes on the patio. I turn on the shower in the master bath and sit on the bench underneath the spray, letting it hit me head-on. I’m numb, tears won’t even come. I have so many questions, so much I want to ask, yet I can’t. I don’t want to know. Everything I’ve worked so hard for is crumbling in the palm of my hand, his admission of guilt another crack in our façade of a semi-happy marriage.

  I pride myself on being prepared and asking the right questions so much so that when I’m in a situation I’m caught off guard for, I
completely shut down.

  I think of Livvie. Can she handle divorced parents? Will it mess her up? Therapy a life-long commitment? I step out of the shower, towel myself off and throw on a robe. Before I know it, I find myself in our guest bedroom, sheets tossed in a heap on the bed, unmade from our last visitors, his parents. Locking the door, I lay down on the unkempt mattress closing my eyes.

  I don’t want Liv to know I’m in here, waking up to two parents scattered in separate rooms wondering what happened. We’ve always been able to avoid any huge blow-outs in front of her, our biggest argument about who parked the car wrong in the driveway, nothing significant.

  Longing for that type of simplicity, a fight that erupted out of nothing, pointless, two tired parents needing something from their spouse they weren’t getting, validation.

  My arms reach out for a blanket shivering underneath my robe. I try and sleep, but it won’t come. There’s a light knock on the door and Steven’s voice. I don’t answer.

  In the morning, another tap on the door from him, Liv’s hum echoes from the kitchen.

  Shutting my eyes tight, I ignore him. Can I ignore him for the rest of our lifetimes?

  I picture the other woman, most likely another teacher, maybe a principal at his school? Did she dress in GAP clothing and wear sweater sets but secretly harbor a desire to have her hair pulled in a J.Crew dressing room?

  After I hear them leave for school, I sit up trembling. Gagging, I rush to the toilet where the contents of last night’s dinner—a protein shake and wine—erupt out of my stomach, a violent volcano of evidence that the hot tub and conversation did happen.

  Sinking down, the tears come as the husband I thought I knew and trusted is now a cheating philanderer with a secret life.