The Ruined Wife: Psychological Thriller

by Marin Montgomery

  “Yeah, if you do your chores,” he responds, not missing a beat.

  “What chores?”

  “Kiddo, they’re hanging on the wall.” He puts the leftover plastic bags away. “You finish your show and then get started, and we can consider a pizza party.”

  “Can we talk?” I mutter under my breath.

  “Mommy and I are going to go into the office.” He walks over to Liv and tousles her hair. “Chores after, no more TV. If you need us, just knock.”

  I walk in taking a seat on the chaise lounge. He pops his head in. “I’m taking a leak, and then I’ll be in.”

  Before I can respond, I hear the bathroom door shut... and lock. I realize I left his email open. Shit, I think, I’ve got to exit out of that. Quickly, I hurry to his mouse pad and toggle it, typing in his password, closing his email. I wish I had time to erase the browser history, but it’s not like he doesn’t frequently check his email.

  The door opens, and he walks in. “What’re you doing?” I’m frozen, my hand on his mouse pad. I reach for the charging cord coming out of his organizer. “I just needed to charge my phone.” I shrug. “I forgot to plug it in last night since I couldn’t find it until this morning.” I move out from behind his desk and have a seat on the chaise lounge against the wall.

  He sinks into a chair, his mouth in a tight line. “I don’t know what to say to you, Alastair. I royally fucked up, it’ll never happen again, that I can promise.” He looks me straight in the eye as he says this. “But I need you to come clean with me about that photo.”

  “Who sent you that photo?” I’m curious.

  “I don’t know.”

  “What do you mean, you don’t know?”

  “No one sent it.” He’s exasperated, leaning back in his chair, cupping his head in his hands. “It came from your email.”

  “My email?”

  “You’re not the only one with secrets.”

  “My email?” I repeat again.

  “Saved in a folder.”

  “You’re lying.” I smirk.

  He takes a deep breath. “I’m not proud of it, but I went through your email.”

  “When?”

  “When I thought you were having an affair. And since then.”

  I grab a pillow next to me on the chaise lounge hugging it to my chest as if it can shield me. “You thought I was having an affair? When? And Why?”

  “When I took Liv to my parents over the summer. You got a bunch of new clothes.” At this, I raise my brows, we both know I love to shop. “But more so than usual. You typically come but made up excuses why you couldn’t, and you were acting off.”

  I stare down at my nail, picking at a nonexistent piece of skin. He continues, “You were glowing, happier than I’d seen you in a long time, something internal radiating outward.” Standing, he walks over to the door as he clicks the lock into place. I watch him with my eyes as he moves to stand in front of me.

  He kneels down on the hardwood. I swallow a gulp. His voice is husky. “You acted giddy like a teenage girl who’d just discovered sex for the first time. I watched you.” He reaches out a hand and lightly strokes my cheek.

  “I never fucked anyone,” I whisper.

  “I had to be sure.”

  “Did he send you that pic after? It wasn’t there before.”

  “No one sent me that photo.”

  I pull my face back out of his grip. “I don’t know the man.”

  “So, it just happened to be saved, and you just happen to be the woman in it?” He rocks back on his heels. “Jesus, Alastair, listen to yourself.”

  Slowly I speak, running the words on my tongue, careful how I proceed. “I didn’t cheat, not then, not ever. That’s my body in the photo, yes. That’s a picture of me. I’m saying I don’t know the man, and I wasn’t kissing him.”

  “How am I supposed to believe that?”

  “The same way I’m supposed to believe there was only one.”

  “What’s that mean, Alastair?” He’s frustrated, his hand brushing through his hair standing it on edge.

  I grit my teeth. “It looks photoshopped.”

  He changes topics. “What do we need to do to move forward?” He lays his palms out. “I love you.”

  “Yesterday you wanted me to ask for a divorce.”

  “Why would you send that email?”

  “I didn’t mean to. I thought I saved it. I must’ve hit send.” I lean forward, my head in my hands. “There’re so many lies.”

  “Lies?” Steven’s perplexed. “It was one time.”

  I purse my lips. I can’t hear it anymore, it’s almost like the air is sucked out of the room. I don’t want to talk about this, this thing anymore, my pounding head, the copious amounts of alcohol last night. Dizzy, I lean my head back. My thoughts drift back to the paper bag he had in his pocket. He went to the bathroom. Not even our bathroom but the hallway one. I have got to check and see if he stashed it somewhere.

  “Okay,” I agree. “Let’s move forward.”

  “I know this takes time, babe.” He’s contrite, his mouth drawn. “I don’t expect you to forgive me overnight.”

  I nod, bracing myself against his chest as he pulls me into a hug. He’s supposed to be my rock, the solid strength I draw from in life. Why does it feel at this moment that he’s doing nothing but sucking the life out of me, my lungs collapsing, my body trembling with fear?

  Taking a deep breath, the smell of his aftershave, his cologne, his deodorant, it makes me gag. I stand up suddenly, rush to the door, fumble with the lock, and run into the bathroom, heaving.

  He follows me, holding my hair as I lose the contents of breakfast over the toilet. Liv runs into the bathroom, the door ajar. “Mommy, Daddy, what’s going on?” She sees me bent over the cold porcelain. “Oh no, is this like when I have the flu?”

  I wipe my mouth and give her a weak smile, nodding. “Just like that, kiddo.” Steven looks at her. “Can you shut the door, and we’ll be out in a sec?” She pulls it closed, and he helps me stand. I rinse my mouth out with water. As I’m splashing some on my face, I see his eyes dart around, the mirror catching a nervous look on his face.

  “You okay?” I ask.

  “Me?”

  “Yeah, you seem preoccupied.”

  “I’m fine, just worried about you.” He hands me a towel. “Here, put some cool water on your face.” I rinse the washcloth and press the cold compress to my forehead. “Why don’t you go lie down and rest.”

  “I guess I can’t hold my alcohol anymore.” I give him a wan smile as I head out of the bathroom. He follows suit and shuts the bathroom door behind him. Liv hopping from one foot to the other outside. “Mommy, do you need me to tuck you in like you do for me?”

  “Sure, love bug.” I squeeze her hand.

  The three of us go into the master, Steven pulling back the covers, Liv trying to tuck them in around me. “Snug like a bug in a rug,” she coos.

  “Just sleep, baby,” Steven says, taking the washcloth out of my hand. “We’re going to go to the park or ride bikes.” I close my eyes, pressing them tight, waiting for them to leave the room after Liv plants a kiss on my forehead. All I can think about is finding out what the hell he hid in the other bathroom. I pray he doesn’t move it before I can search.

  I hear them talking, laughter from the living room, but I don’t dare get up. If they go to the park or ride bikes, it’s down the street, and they’ll be gone for a decent amount of time.

  I’m restless, unsure what’s louder, my chest pounding or the vibrations in my head.

  The bedroom door opens a few minutes later. I hear Steven’s footsteps on the hardwood floor. He’s trying to be quiet, but a couple of the boards squeak. I hear him in the closet, the thud of a hanger as he grabs what I assume is a jacket or sweatshirt.

  Pretending to be asleep, I keep my eyes closed imagining myself out on the ocean, the waves ebbing and flowing, pulling me in gently, the rock of the water as it hauls me out
covering and soothing my body.

  After the door closes, his footsteps recede, and I hear him and Liv’s voices as they head out the side door into the garage. I breathe a sigh of relief. I pause, giving them a minute, making sure Liv didn’t forget anything. Usually, it takes three more trips inside before we have everything.

  As I’m getting out of bed, I hear the door open. I pause. Footsteps are coming closer. Shit. I pull the covers over me and feign sleep just as Steven comes flying in. I hear a drawer open, then squeak shut. I feel his breath, his touch, as he pushes a piece of hair off my forehead. It’s all I can do not to shudder and fling his hand away.

  He closes the door behind him.

  I jump out of bed, struggling as I catch my foot in the sheet, almost nosediving onto the floor. Get it together, Aly, I hiss. In the hall bathroom, I flip on the light switch. This bathroom has a bathtub and double sinks, decorated in tan colors with two large square mirrors poised over each sink. The floor is covered in bamboo tiles, the pattern reminiscent of the forest, the dark brown covered in an ivory shade that looks like the outline of the stalks. A slate countertop is a lighter tan pebbled with variations of a natural hue. There’s a shelf over the toilet that I open, rifling through the towels and washcloths. I reach around, feeling nothing.

  Next, I rummage through the cabinets under the sink. This bathroom isn’t used much. Cleaning tools, disinfecting wipes, and a couple of bars of soap are housed in there. There’s a hair dryer and some old tubes of lipstick, a half-used can of hairspray, and a comb.

  I reach back into the corner, and my hand wraps around something plastic. I pull it out. It’s just an empty old plastic Walgreens bag. I sigh. The other side has an ant trap.

  Standing with my hands on my hips, I survey the contents of the bathroom. I pull the shower curtain back, nothing in the tub but soap, shampoo, body wash, and a loofah. There are a couple of hand towels hanging from the rack. I grab the back of the porcelain toilet and check around it, only a brush and some toilet bowl cleaner are housed next to it.

  I flip around and push the door closed behind. On the back, there’s a rack that’s fitted over the top of the door. It’s used for hanging towels or clothing. A towel and ratty old robe of mine hang on the hooks. It used to be white but has faded to a dingy gray, the fabric only softer with age, the reason I can’t part with it. It’s like an old comfortable shoe. It has front pockets to it.

  Biting my lip, I reach into the pockets. My hands clamp around plastic. I pull out a small bag, and a cardboard box slips out. My hands tremble as I realize what I’m holding. It’s a DNA test. I stare at the writing hoping I can reimagine it as a toothbrush or a tube of Neosporin. Why the hell would Steven have a DNA test?

  The letters blur in front of me, a Non-Invasive Prenatal Paternity. What does that even mean? A test to establish paternity before the baby is born according to the box.

  The baby’s not born? He got her pregnant? Is that that Veronica woman’s baby? Or what about the email that came today?

  One time? My body screams, one time? He didn’t wear a condom?

  I sink to the floor, my back against the wall, holding the thin box in my hands, rolling it back and forth. I can’t move, frozen to the spot, my body shaking. How could he have been so stupid? So reckless? A baby? We have a child. We had discussed having a second one, but I’d miscarried. Life took over. My career took off. We tried to have another baby, but it was never in the cards. We talked about it, agreed we were okay with one. It wasn’t like we tried not to, we just didn’t make a big deal out of the fact we’d only had one. I wasn’t on the pill, he didn’t use condoms. We just never had conceived again.

  Steven’s a good father, a great father, but him as a dad to someone else’s child? My heart feels like it’s sinking into the floor beneath me, my breathing labored. I can barely catch a breath the way my heart races. How can I stay with a man that impregnated someone else? The affair is bad enough, a mark, permanent like a scar, it will fade with time but never go away.

  A baby? A baby will grow into an adult, and there will be questions. He’ll want to be involved with the child. And the mother? She’ll be a part of our lives forever. Liv. She’ll have a half-sibling. What would we tell her? I cringe thinking of the questions, trying to explain to everyone that our nine-year-old has a new sibling on the way... but surprise… it’s not mine.

  It’s his.

  If I hadn’t thrown up earlier, I would have lost everything by now, dry heaving as I’m forced to face the truth about my husband.

  This wasn’t a one-night stand in a hotel room that ended up in the backseat of her car.

  It’s still going on.

  The urge to pack up his shit, throw it in the yard, and change the locks crosses my mind. I want to rip up every piece of clothing, smash his chemistry set, his telescope, and bash his truck windows out with a golf club.

  Get a hold of yourself, Aly. I shut my eyes willing my breathing to slow. I count to ten, then backward. Ten, nine, eight, seven…

  Sitting there, it takes me a while to collect my bearings, the energy of standing seems like a lot of work, and for what reason? So I can go back to bed and pretend my life hasn’t been infinitely changed? I hear what sounds like the garage door and then a door being opened and slammed.

  Fuck.

  I hear their voices, Liv’s more of a sing-song, his deeper, as I use the counter to pull myself up. I shove the cardboard carton back into the plastic bag and stuff it in the front pocket of my robe. Quickly, I flip the light switch off, slowly opening the bathroom door. Scanning the hallway, I dart back into the master shutting the door with a click and laying back down into the bed. I want to throw a pillow over my head, suffocating out the sounds of him and another woman.

  My phone buzzes. I reach for it.

  It’s Mara.

  Mara: Did you want the contact info for my single friend?

  I grab it and respond.

  Aly: Yes.

  Mara: Sara Preston 480-111-1111

  Aly: Okay thanks.

  Mara: She’s blonde and gorge. Hal’s a doll, brunch was amazing, we’re out for a spin.

  Aly: Ha! Enjoy.

  Before I lose my nerve, I shoot a quick text to Sara.

  Aly: Hi Sara, it’s Alastair, Mara’s friend. Do you have time to chat Monday?

  I hear a chime.

  Sara: Hey, Alastair. Mara told me you might be reaching out. Sure. Monday works. I waitress downtown so I can stop by your office? I work but not until three.

  Aly: Yes, anytime after eleven. Just text when you’re on your way.

  Sara: Perfect. Have a good rest of your weekend.

  Aly: You, too.

  I don’t want Steven glancing at my phone and seeing the texts. He doesn’t know what we’re chatting about. For all he knows, I could be interviewing her for a job.

  A knock at the door a few minutes later, and he sticks his head in. “How you doing, baby?” He looks worried. I want to smack the air of concern off of his face.

  “I’m okay, just trying to get rid of this devil of a headache.”

  “You want some more Ibuprofen?

  I shake my head no.

  “Liv and I went to the park. She made a new friend, a girl a couple of streets away.”

  “Did she ditch her daddy?” I ask.

  “Nah, but you can tell she’s starting to test the limits. She wants her freedom.” Don’t we all? I think to myself bitterly. Bet you didn’t think freedom meant having another child.

  “I’m going to grade some science labs, catch up on some emails, do some reading.” He looks at his watch. “You think you’ll feel up to family night?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “I’m going to get up and see if Liv wants to have a tea party.”

  The rest of the afternoon I spend with my daughter, dressing up dolls, drinking tea that’s nothing more than water, and eating fake cucumber sandwiches while we speak in fake British accents. Steven’s in his office, the door shut. At
one point, I think I hear him on the phone, speaking in hushed tones. I don’t want to walk in on him, my stomach already twisted into knots, my eyes darting nervously to the door of Liv’s room as I wait for him to appear. Is he talking to her? About the baby? Do I get a say in this, I wonder? Is he going to come clean to me? Ask me what I want? Or is he going to make his decision with her, no consideration for his wife and daughter’s feelings?

  That night, we have pizza, see a movie, and act as a family. Steven seems preoccupied. His phone’s put away during dinner—a family rule—but his hand is in his pocket like it’s going to jump out and bite him. When we hang out, it’s usually left in the truck, an afterthought, his focus on Liv and me. Because we don’t get much downtime, he’s always made it a priority to be present in the moment with us.

  I’m quiet, not saying much, the idea of a movie a welcome relief. My head’s still throbbing, my mind turning over every conversation as of late and Steven’s whereabouts. I had always trusted he was where he said he was.

  As we’re getting ready for bed that night, he stops me, gently me pulling me toward him.

  “What’s going on in that head of yours?” he asks.

  I tilt my head. “Hmm?”

  His brown eyes linger on mine. “You’re pensive.”

  “Just tired. We had a long night last night.” I fake a half-hearted smile.

  “Ahh… I was there, remember?”

  I want to scream at him, confront him about the test, ask him about Veronica, but I stay silent. I have to be calculated. It will all reveal itself in due time.

  I say nothing. Taking a deep breath, I turn away. As I stare in the mirror and wash my face, tears mix in with the warm water, my eyes glazed, vacuous, just empty sockets staring back at me.

  Sunday passed uneventfully. I gave Steven space, and we maintained our distance. Liv came with me to run errands and grab a new leotard for tumbling practice. I focused on doing everything in my power to drown out the voices and sneaking suspicions that kept creeping in whispering that my husband has more secrets hidden beneath his personable façade and plaid shirts.