Page 26 of The Wives

I’m lying on the couch listening to sad music: The 1975, The Neighborhood, Jule Vera. My eyes are closed; my hangover has seized my head and my stomach. I shift onto my side, keeping my eyes closed. Amazing how once you open a door for something, there’s no going back. All you can do is brace yourself as you get sucked in, deeper and deeper. Regina and Hannah, Regina and Hannah—they’re all I can think about. I stack myself against what I know about them, I measure our flaws, sieve through them. I texted Hannah this morning, just to check on her, but she hasn’t answered. She is my ally without knowing it. My fate feels tied to hers. I wonder if she ever wishes she could get rid of Regina.

Regina is more successful than I will ever be, more confident. Hannah is younger, prettier. I am somewhere in the middle of both of them, a medium to balance out the extremes. Seth has texted me more than usual this week—he’s trying.

I heave myself from the couch around noon and head for the bathroom. When I get out of the shower, I look at myself naked in the bathroom mirror and try to imagine what Seth sees when he looks at me. I’m short, without the petiteness of Regina, my hips wide and my thighs full and muscular. My breasts spill over whatever shirt I’m wearing; out of a bra they hang loose and full. All three of us are completely different body types, and yet the same man desires us. It doesn’t add up. Men have a type, don’t they? Especially one as particular as Seth. Seth, who likes Mary-Kate Olsen but not Ashley—definitely not Ashley, he says.

His type would have to be Regina, since she’s who Seth married first. But weren’t we still finding ourselves in our twenties? Perhaps he discovered his type is me. That’s wishful thinking, when you’re one of three. He once told me that he was drawn to everything about Regina at that party, enough so that he approached her on the off chance that she’d shoot him down. He’d been attracted to me, too—the way he’d flirted with me, his eyes always filled with what I considered lust. I don’t know how he met Hannah, and I need to know. The photo of Regina flashes in my mind, the taller, younger blond standing next to her—is it Hannah? Did they know each other? I can wait until I go to Portland for my appointment with Regina, or I can find out now.

Yes, that’s a good idea—a little sleuth work to distract me. I text Hannah again, and before she replies, I’m already throwing things in a small overnight bag. If she’s busy, I could always go snoop around on my own. To my relief, she texts back, delighted that I’m coming. She suggests dinner and a movie. I must be mad, truly, going to dinner and a movie with my husband’s other wife. Some might call me a stalker, some might say I was off my rocker—but what did it matter? Love certainly makes people crazy, I think, zipping up my bag. I imagine she’ll opt for a romantic comedy—something light and sexy. Women her age still have such a rosy outlook on life. But instead, she asks me if I like horror films. I’m a little taken aback. I don’t, of course, but I say I do. I want to see what she has in mind, the type of things that amuse her. Her charming historical house and perfectly put-together meat and cheese board didn’t exactly scream slasher film fanatic. She tells me there’s a psychological thriller she wants to see; it has Jennifer Lawrence in it. I ask if her favorite movie is The Sixth Sense, and she texts back that she hasn’t seen it. I’ve just pulled out of the parking garage. I’m not really paying attention and someone honks at me. It’s The Sixth Sense; who hasn’t seen The Sixth Sense, especially a horror movie fan? She’s that young.

I leave Seattle just a little after noon with a fresh coffee in the cup-holder, cheerful music playing through the speakers. Oh, how things change from hour to hour. I’m upbeat, the radio station is playing eighties music and I sing along. If I drive fast, I’ll have just enough time to check into the hotel and freshen up before meeting Hannah for dinner. I feel a fizz of excitement in my belly, not just at the prospect of garnering information about our husband, but at doing something other than sitting at home waiting for Seth. Waiting, waiting—my life is all about waiting.

Traffic to the neighboring city is thankfully light and I make good time. Seth would have called me a speed-demon; he would pump an imaginary brake in the passenger seat when I made him nervous. When I get to the hotel, I toss my things on the bed and take a quick shower. I only brought two outfits: one for the drive back tomorrow and one for tonight. Now, as I stare down at the brown cardigan, cream silk top and jeans, I wish I’d chosen something with more color, something eye-catching. I’ll look plain and drab next to Hannah’s gazelle-like figure, my large breasts making me look plumper than I really am. I rub the fabric between my fingers and stress. Eventually, I’ve stressed too long and I don’t have time to dry my hair. The air curdles it into messy waves. I do my best to tame them a little, but in the end I have to go.

Portland’s weather is in a better mood than Seattle’s. There is no mist in the air, just the smell of exhaust fumes and pot. Hannah opens the door on my first knock, a bright smile on her face. Too bright. I give her a quick hug and that’s when I see it—a dark, brooding bruise skims the underside of her cheekbone, a sickly green color, like pea soup. She’s made an attempt to cover it with makeup, but on her fair skin, the color blooms with alarming vibrancy.

“I just need to grab my coat,” she tells me. “Come in for a second.”

I step into the foyer, not sure if I should mention the bruise or pretend she’s done an excellent job with her makeup like she’s probably hoping. I look around the foyer, checking for the missing photo that was once hanging next to the door—or so she said. In its place is a framed print of a pressed poppy. It depresses me. Pressed flowers are an attempt to hold on to something that was once alive. They’re desperate and lonely.

“Do you like it?” she asks, coming down the stairs. “I found it at a flea market. I’ve always wanted to be able to do it myself but never had the time.”

“I do,” I lie. “Didn’t you say you had a family photo there before?”

Hannah seems to flush under my gaze. “Yes,” she says, and then quickly turns away.

I think of my empty locker at work and realize she’s playing the same game I play. Hide the husband; avoid the questions. But bruises? I’ve never had to hide bruises. I think of my ear and absently lift a finger to trace the spot. Beneath my relaxed exterior, my heart beats hard against my ribs. Before the night he pushed me, I never would have been able to imagine Seth doing something to hurt a woman. And even after the night he shoved me I made excuses, blamed myself. But there’s no denying Hannah’s bruise. I press my questions down my throat until it feels like I’m choking on them.

“Hey, let’s drive separately so you don’t have to come all the way back here after the movie,” she suggests. I nod, wondering if there’s another reason. Tonight is her night with Seth; he’d arrive late after leaving Regina’s. Perhaps she didn’t want him knowing she’d made a friend. A friend would ask about her bruises, a friend would direct her eyes at the husband.

I follow behind her SUV, gripping the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles turn white. We pass through downtown, the square of food trucks, the shops, the people bundled up, all whizzing past. I barely see it. I’m too busy thinking.

We’ve just pulled up to the restaurant when I get a text from Seth.

Hi. Where are you?

I stare at his text, puzzled.

It’s six o’clock. Which means Seth should still be with Regina. It’s an unspoken rule that when you’re with one wife, you don’t text the others.

Dinner with a friend, I text back.

Nice. Which friend? The hair on my arms prickles. Seth’s not in the habit of quizzing me. In fact, he’s never asked about my friends, except to caution me not to tell them about us.

Where are you? If he’s being nosy, I have the right to be, too.

Home.

That’s an interesting answer, I think. Especially when he has three homes.

Hannah is walking toward my car, having already parked. I shove my phone deep into my purse and step out of the car to meet her.

Seth will have to wait. It’ll be a nice change, since I’m always on the waiting end. It’s funny how I care about him less when I’m with Hannah.

“Ready?” Hannah grins. The restaurant she chose reminds me a little of the Italian place Seth took me to the first time he told me about his wife. As soon as we walk in the doors, she’s approached by who I suppose is the manager. He rushes over to say hi, fussing over her as he leads us to a table. Hannah thanks him and he runs to the kitchen to get us a specialty appetizer.

“How do they know you?” I ask after a server waves at her.

“Oh, we come here a lot.” By we I assume she means her and Seth.

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