Читать книгу The Wives - Tarryn Fisher - Страница 13

I wake up disoriented and groggy. The sun sits high outside of the window, but hadn’t it been early evening when I fell asleep? I reach for my alarm clock to check the time and see that I’ve been asleep for thirteen hours. I hop out of bed too quickly and the room spins around me.

“Shit, shit, shit.” I grab on to the wall to steady myself and stay there until I feel sturdy on my feet. My phone sits facedown on the dresser, the battery almost depleted. I have seven missed calls from Seth, and three voice messages. I call him back without listening to the messages, a sense of dread growing with each ring.

“Are you all right?” is the first thing he says to me when he picks up. His voice is strained and I immediately feel guilty for making him worry.

“Yes, I’m fine,” I tell him. “I took a sleeping pill and must have conked out for the night. I’m sorry, I feel like such a jerk.”

“I was worried,” he says, his voice sounding less tense than it did a moment ago. “I almost called the hospital to see when you left.”

“I’m truly sorry,” I say. “Is everything all right on that side?”

It’s not. I can already tell by the sound of his voice. He couldn’t possibly know that I’d found Hannah, could he? I wrap a strand of hair around and around my finger while I wait for him to speak.

“Just some trouble at work,” he says. “Unreliable contractors. I can’t talk about it right now. I just wanted to hear your voice.”

I thrill that it’s my voice he wanted to hear. Not the others’. Mine.

“I wish I could see you,” I say.

“You could take a few days off of work. Drive down and spend a couple of days in Portland with me...”

I almost drop the phone in my excitement. “Really? You would...want that?” I’m staring at myself in the dresser mirror as I speak. My hair is longer than I’ve ever grown it; it needs professional attention. I touch a limp strand and wonder if my stylist can fit me in before I leave. A little getaway seems like a good reason for some grooming.

“Of course,” he says. “Come tomorrow. You have all of that vacation time you haven’t used.”

My eyes rove over the bedroom furniture, the whitewashed woods, and rustic baskets. Maybe a change of scenery is exactly what I need. I haven’t felt myself lately.

“But where will I stay?”

“Hold on a sec...” His voice is muffled as I hear someone on his end say something to him, then he comes back on the line.

“I have to go. I’ll book a room at the Dossier. See you tomorrow?”

I want to ask him about Monday and Tuesday, if he plans on ditching them for me, but he’s in a rush.

“I’m so excited,” I say. “Tomorrow. Love you.”

“Love you, too, baby.” And then he hangs up.

I call work straightaway and arrange to have three of my shifts covered, and then I call my stylist, who says she’s had a cancellation and can see me in an hour. Two hours later, I am home with a fresh color and cut, and heading to my closet to pack. I don’t remember the paper I found or Hannah Ovark until I go looking for my MacBook, which I plan on taking with me. I slump onto the sofa and stare at the screen, at the evidence of my stalking. My main screen is still open to Facebook, her smiling face staring up at me. It feels different to be doing this in the light of day, more deliberate and sneaky. I hesitate, my mouse hovering over her profile. Once I have information about her I can’t go back; it will be there imprinted in my mind forever. I click on her profile, holding my breath, but when the screen loads, I see she has everything set to private. Frowning, I close the browser and shut down my computer.

Hannah is more of a supermodel than a laid-back surfer. Her lips are full and perfect and she has the type of cheekbones you only see on Scandinavian models.

The next morning I wake up still thinking about Hannah. I try to clear my mind of her face as I carry my overnight bag down to the carport. But at the last moment, I take the elevator back upstairs and retrieve the paper from my nightstand, tucking it into the deepest, most hidden pocket of my wallet. Just in case I need her address. But why would you need it? I ask myself as I buckle my seat belt and pull out of the carport.

Just in case... Just in case I want to see what she looks like in real life. Just in case I want to have a conversation with her. That type of just in case. It is my right, isn’t it? To know who I am sharing my husband with? Perhaps I am tired of wondering.

The drive to Portland is around two hours if the traffic gods are feeling generous. I roll my window all the way down and turn up the music. When my hair is a tangled mess, I decide to give the music a break and phone my best friend, Anna, instead. Anna moved to Venice Beach a few months ago for a guy she met online.

“That’s great that you’re going to see him,” she says. “Did you buy some new lingerie?”

“I didn’t!” I say. “But good thinking. I can stop downtown and pick something up. Should I go with sexy trashy, or sexy beautiful?”

“Definitely trashy. Men like to think they’re fucking a slut.”

I laugh at how crass she is.

“Hey,” she says when there’s a lull in the conversation. “How have you been since—”

“Fine,” I snap. I cut her off before she can say any more. I don’t want to go there today. Today Seth and I are having a sexy getaway. “Listen, I have to go. Just pulling into the hotel now. Call you next week?”

“Sure,” she responds, but she doesn’t sound so sure. That’s Anna, always worrying. We went to high school together and were roommates in college. When I first introduced her to Seth, she loved him, but then gradually something changed between them, her attitude turning distinctly sour. Like everyone else in my life, I chose to keep our true lives a secret from her, so Anna has no idea about the others. I figured he lost his glamour once she got to know him, and she changed her mind. Anna and I have very different tastes in men, and I hardly ever like her boyfriends, so how could I blame her for not liking my husband?

I park my car myself, avoiding the valet so I can slip out before Seth arrives and grab something sexy from one of the department stores. Hannah’s photo looms in my mind. It’s no wonder Seth didn’t want me to know anything about her. Once I’ve checked into the hotel room, I study my face in the mirror, wondering what it is that Seth sees in me. I’ve always thought myself to be mildly attractive, sort of in the girl-next-door kind of way. But if you had a woman like Hannah, why would you go for a woman with boring brown hair and a smattering of freckles across her nose? I have a nice figure—my chest has been a focal point for men since I was sixteen—but I’m not tall, or slender, or graceful by any means. My hips are round and so is my rear. Seth, a self-proclaimed ass man, always reaches around to grope my backside when we hug. He always makes me feel sexy and beautiful—until I saw Hannah, that is. He’s either a man of diverse taste or he’s just gathering wives for the heck of it. Seeing Hannah’s picture makes me curious about Tuesday, but there’s no way Seth would tell me her name. He’d be angry enough knowing I snooped on his pregnant Portland wife.

Glancing at my watch, I see that it’s lunchtime. I decide to drive over to the Nordstrom in the city and grab some lunch while I’m there. Portland is more low-key than Seattle, which is a crisscross of one-way streets and fast-limbed pedestrians. I have little trouble navigating the tight lanes of the city and parking in a garage a block away from the department store. I find a black lace bra and panty duo and pick out a sheer robe to wear over it, and carry the items to the register.

“Anything else I can get for you today?” the saleslady asks, walking around the register to hand me my purchase.

“Yes,” I hear myself say. “Can you tell me how far Galatia Lane is? I’m not from around here.”

“Oh,” she says. “It’s just on the outskirts of the city. About four miles. Cute little street, has those beautiful restored Victorian houses.”

“Hmm,” I say, pressing my lips together in a smile. “Thank you.”

I drive there straightaway, then pull over, the tires grating along the curb. I dip my head to eye the houses, my hands still gripping the steering wheel. It isn’t too late to leave. It is as simple as shifting the car into Drive and not looking back. I tap a finger as I decide, my eyes darting from house to house. I’m already here—what is the damage in having a look around? Even if Hannah Ovark isn’t Monday, this neighborhood is beautiful. Leaving my Nordstrom bag in the front seat, I step out of the car and walk along the shaded pavement, eyeing the houses in wonder. They look like gingerbread houses: broad turrets, window boxes, white picket fencing, each one painted the color of a childhood fantasy. A soft pink, a Tiffany blue—there’s even a house that is the color of mint chocolate chip ice cream, the shutters a rich brown. I remember the feel of the frozen chips of chocolate wedged between teeth, the way you’d suck at a tooth to loosen their hold. A neighborhood of nostalgia. How perfectly annoying that Monday would live here. I think of my condo downtown, stacked on top of a dozen others, people living vertically in little spaces in the sky. No magic, no mint chocolate chip paint, just long elevator rides and city views. I wonder what life would be like living in a place like this. I’m so lost in my thoughts that I walk right past number 324 and have to backtrack.

Hannah’s house is cream-colored with a matte black door. There are green shutters on the windows and flower boxes that hold tiny evergreens. The garden is chock-full of plants—not flowers, but carefully tended greens. I have a new appreciation for her, a woman who tends evergreens over flowers, things that live. I spend five minutes staring, admiring it all, when a voice makes me jump.

“Shit,” I say, holding a hand over my heart. When I turn around, she’s staring up at the house, too, a blond with wispy pieces of hair framing her face. She has her head tilted to the side like she’s really studying it.

“Lovely, isn’t it?”

My thoughts arrange themselves around her face. It’s a delayed response, recognizing someone in public who you’ve only known online. You have to match the features, the airbrushed skin to the real skin.

Hannah. My heart almost leaps out of my chest as I stare at her. I’ve broken a rule, breached a contract. I’ve always wondered about deer, why they don’t run when they see a car barreling toward them. But here I am, frozen in place, heart whirring in my ears.

“It is,” I agree, for lack of anything better to say. I add, “Is it yours?”

“Yes,” she says brightly. “My husband owned it before we got married. After the wedding we did a remodel. So. Much. Work,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Luckily, it’s what my husband does for a living, so he handled everything.”

I love you all the same, wasn’t that what he always said? The same! Yet here she is with a house right out of Design and Home while I wilt away in a high-rise. Clearly, she is the type you buy a house for and I am the type who gets a card. She is wearing a flowered kimono, a tank top and jeans. A sliver of her stomach is visible above the waistband of her jeans, smooth and taut. No wonder Seth doesn’t want us near each other—I’d die of insecurity.

“Would you like to come in and see it?” she asks suddenly. “People often knock on the door and want a tour. I never knew that owning a house could make me so popular.”

When she laughs, it’s throaty, and I wonder if she’s a smoker. Not anymore, I tell myself, eyeing her belly. It’s too flat to contain life, too hollow. Thoughts of her pregnancy rouse images in my mind—of her long legs wrapped around Seth, him pushing relentlessly into her.

“Yes, I’d love to.” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop myself. Yes, I’d love to. I could smack myself. But instead, I follow her up the path and to the front door, where she pulls out a key. A tiny plastic sandal dangles from the ring. Most of the word has been rubbed away but I can still make out the M-e-c-o of Mexico. There is an immediate tightening in my belly. Had she gone there with Seth? My God, all the things I don’t know. Hannah is struggling with the key. I hear her swear under her breath.

“Damn thing always sticks,” she says when it finally turns.

I shuffle behind her, glancing over my shoulder every few seconds to make sure no one is coming. This isn’t your neighborhood, I think. What difference does it make if someone sees you? Hannah is even more beautiful than in her photos, and on top of that, she’s nice, too. Nice enough to open her home for a private tour to a complete, gawking stranger. Not such a stranger, I think as I follow her inside. We share the same penis, after all.

I’m on the verge of maniacal laughter when my breath gets caught in my throat. I make a little eh-ehm sound to clear it while Hannah deposits her keys on an ornate hook and swings around to smile at me. The house creaks around us, gently asserting its age. The hardwood floors are gleaming and spotless, the type of rustic mahogany I’d wanted to put in the condo. Seth had vetoed my choice—he wanted something more modern, so we went with a slate gray instead. I stand at the foot of a curving staircase, unsure of whether or not I’m expected to remove my shoes. I have the eerie feeling that I’ve been here before, even though I know that’s not possible. Hannah doesn’t make a move to direct me either way, so I step out of them, leaving them near the stairs. Two bright pink flats in the midst of all this cream. A distressed table sits to my right; brightly colored bougainvillea spills from a vase on top of it. There are no family pictures hanging anywhere that I can see, and for that, I’m grateful. What would it be like to see your husband in family photos with another woman? Everything is tasteful and perfect. Hannah has an eye for decor.

“It’s so lovely,” I breathe, my eyes hungry to take everything in.

Hannah, who has removed her own shoes and slipped her feet into silk slippers, smiles at me, her Nordic cheekbones sharp and rosy. Seth’s face is hard angles, too, a square jaw and a long, straight nose. I wonder what godlike creature these two have created together, and my stomach cramps at the thought of their baby. Their baby. Their trip to Mexico. Their house.

“I’m Hannah, by the way,” she says as she leads me up the staircase. And then she’s telling me about the man who built the house for his new wife a hundred years ago, and I think about how Seth’s new, upgraded wife was living in it. It was just a year ago when I agreed to it all—our plans thwarted, but our love still there. I had wanted to please him, much like Tuesday, I imagine, when she agreed to me.

She leads me through several bedrooms and two restored bathrooms. I look for photos, but there are none. Then she takes me downstairs to see the sitting room and kitchen. I fall in love with the kitchen immediately. Three times the size of the tiny kitchen in my condo, there is enough space to cook several feasts all at once. Seeing the look on my face, Hannah grins.

“It wasn’t always this grand. I gave up the second sitting room to expand the kitchen. We like to entertain.”

“It’s lovely,” I say.

“It used to have yellow cabinets and a black-and-white checkered floor.” Her nose is curled like she finds the whole idea distasteful. I can picture it, the ancient kitchen with buttery cabinets, probably hand-painted by the first owner.

“We hated it. I know you’re supposed to appreciate that old charm, but I couldn’t wait to change it.”

We. Another shock. My Seth does not like to entertain. I try to picture him standing underneath the exposed beams of this ceiling, chopping onions at the marble island while Hannah pulls something from the double oven. It’s all too much and suddenly I feel dizzy. I lift a hand to my head and reach for a chair to steady myself.

“Are you all right?” There is concern in Hannah’s voice. She pulls a stool out from the island and I sit.

“Let me get you some water,” she says.

She returns with a tall glass of water and I drink it, wondering when was the last time I had anything to drink. There was tea at lunch, and a glass of rosé. I’m probably dehydrated.

“Listen, Hannah, you invited a stranger into your house. I could be a serial killer or something. And now you’re giving me water,” I say, shaking my head. “You can’t do things like that.”

Her face looks impish when she grins, her eyes brightly mischievous. She’s significantly younger than I am, but there’s also something regal and old about her. I doubt she ever drank too many Mike’s Hard Lemonades and retched into a toilet all night like I had in my teens. No, this woman is too put together, too responsible and too well-spoken. I could see what Seth saw, the elegance. The perfect mother to the perfect child.

“Well, now’s the right time to make a snack,” she says playfully. “I haven’t eaten.” She goes to the fridge and then the pantry, humming as she pulls things out. And when she comes back, there is an assortment of cheese, crackers and fruit on a wooden board, all arranged in a very artistic and grown-up way. I feel a kinship with her, her willingness to feed a stranger. I would have done the same. I eat a few pieces of cheese and immediately feel better.

As we eat, she tells me that she’s a freelance photographer. I ask if the framed prints in the hallway are hers. She lights up when she tells me yes. And again, I wonder why there aren’t any family photos around. You’d think a photographer would have a slew of pictures in their home.

“What do you do?” she asks me, and I tell her that I’m a nurse.

“Here at Regional?” she asks, interested.

“No, no. I’m here with my husband for the weekend. I live in Seattle.” I don’t expound on any of that. I’m scared to give myself away. We chat for a while longer about hospitals and the restoration of Hannah’s beautiful home before I stand.

“I’ve taken enough of your time,” I say, smiling at her warmly. “Look, this was so nice of you. Can I take you out to lunch next time I’m in town?”

“I’d love that,” she says eagerly. “I’m not from Oregon. I moved here to be with my husband, so I haven’t made many friends.”

“Oh, where are you from?” I tilt my head to the side, trying to recall if Seth had told me where she was from.

“Utah.”

My skin prickles. Seth is from Utah. Had he known Hannah when he lived there? No, that isn’t possible. Tuesday is his first wife; he’d been with her in Utah. There is an age difference between Seth and Hannah, so it isn’t likely they went to school together. Hannah pulls her phone from her back pocket and I tell her my number so she can program it in.

I head for the foyer and put on my shoes. I’m suddenly desperate to get out of here. What was I thinking, anyway? Seth could stop home during his lunch break and find me with Hannah. What would he say if he found two of his wives together? I make for the door and bend down to lift the lip of my shoe from where it’s folded against my heel. It’s then that I see the shards of glass on the floor near the window—two inches long and jagged. I pick it up and hold it in my palm. There is an empty hook on the wall where a picture once hung. I turn around to show the glass to Hannah.

“It was on the floor,” I say. “Don’t want you to slice your foot open...”

She takes it, thanking me, but I notice the blush that has crept up her neck. “Must have been the photo I had hanging there. There was an accident and it fell off the wall.”

I nod. These things happen. But then, as she pulls her hand away, the glass held gingerly between her fingers, I notice a sizable cluster of bruises on her forearm. They’re just turning purple. I avert my eyes quickly, so she won’t catch me staring, and open the door.

“Goodbye, then,” I say.

She waves before shutting the door.

I think about her bruises all the way back to my car. Had they looked like finger marks? No, I tell myself. You’re seeing things.