Page 42 of The Wives

“What?”

She is looking at me differently. It’s the way the doctors and nurses look at me, with cautious pity—this poor girl, this broken thing. I stand up and force myself to look her in the eyes.

“That is not my house. I don’t know what’s going on, but it’s not mine. I don’t even care if you don’t believe me. I’m not crazy.”

She holds up both hands as if to ward me off. “I didn’t say you were crazy. I’m just telling you what I found.”

I lick my lips as I back up. They don’t give you ChapStick in this place; they try to soothe your mind but let your body fall to pieces. Everyone here is either dry or oily; their hair plastered to their heads in stringy, wet-looking chunks, or decorated with tiny flakes of dandruff like they were just snowed on.

I’m trying not to do anything rash, like run off to my room without a goodbye, or yell—yelling would be bad. But it’s taking all of my self-control. The way people perceive you is the really mentally thwarting thing in life. If everyone is against you, you start to question things about yourself, like now.

“Thank you for coming.” I force the words out. “I appreciate you trying, anyway.” I hear her calling my name as I walk briskly away—not running, not even trotting—just a quick exit so she can’t see what I’m feeling.

In my room, I curl up on the thin mattress, my knees drawn to my chest, and press my cheek against the scratchy sheets. They smell of bleach and a little of vomit. Susan is staring at me from across the room; I glanced at her when I walked in the door, her lashless eyes alarmed, like she’d forgotten I live here, too.

I can feel her eyes boring into my back. This is usually the time when we’re both in the room, between our group therapy sessions and dinner. “A little downtime,” they call it. Most of us use our downtime to reflect on how down we really are. It’s a catch-22.

“How long have you been here, Susan?” My voice is muffled and I have to repeat my question when she squeaks back a mousy little response.

“A month,” she says.

I sit up, leaning my back against the wall and hugging my pillow to my chest.

“Have you ever been in a place like this before?”

She glances up at me and when she sees me watching her, she looks away again. “Only once...when I was much younger. My father died and I didn’t cope well.” I like the way Susan sums everything up so you don’t have to ask more questions. Her therapist must love her.

“And when did they decide you were ready to leave?”

Susan looks flustered. Two red spots appear on her cheeks and she begins knotting her fingers together.

“When I stopped being suicidal—or saying I was.”

True that. At least I know I’m on the right track. I’ve stopped talking about it, all of it.

“I hope things get better for you, Susan. He wasn’t deserving.” I mean it, too. My thoughts for the last few days have been about women like me, and Lo, and Susan—women who give everything to the men who break their trust.

She looks up at me then, and without the support of her eyebrows, I can’t tell if she’s surprised or sad. She appears to be somewhat pleased by the time my words sink in. Like she’s repeating them over and over in her head. He wasn’t deserving, he wasn’t deserving.

“Thank you,” she says softly. “He really wasn’t.”

I nod, but I think, Neither was Seth. Not deserving. Not of the women who bow and cow and do everything to please him, nor of the life he’s built on our backs. Why, he has a whole team behind him: legal, childbearing and money. I’ve never wanted to admit that part, that maybe he’s with me for my money, for my trust fund. It’s been a thing I don’t think about.

I’m the money. I’ve never seen myself that way, never thought it played a factor in our relationship. But I’m rich by any sense of the word. My father has made sure my sister and I are well taken care of. My sister snorted most of her trust and then married a wealthy country club man named Michael Sprouce, Jr. That had been her saving grace in my parents’ eyes. The money has never meant anything to me, only Seth has. And so I’ve always been generous...oblivious, even, handing over control to him.

But now...now everything feels different. Is different. He’s sequestered me away and that isn’t something you do to your wife, someone you love. It’s what you do to someone you’re trying to manage. But he’s been managing all three of us all along.

Susan and I sit facing each other, our eyes glued to the ceiling as we wait for dinnertime.

I make a list in my head of things I must do when I get out: check the bank account, talk to the wives, contact Seth’s parents and talk to his business partner, Alex, who doesn’t know I exist. They can’t keep me in here forever. I will get out, I will show everyone who he really is. He can’t do this to me. This time I’m going to fight back.

TWENTY-THREE

I am released two days later. I say goodbye to Susan, who is in group, by leaving my little square of soap, an apple I’d stolen from breakfast and the hospital-issued bottles of shampoo on her bed. We were always complaining about not enough shampoo, like this was a hotel and not a mental health facility. Some of the complaining was just to feel normal; if you thought a lot about shampoo, you didn’t think about anything important.

Seth is standing in the reception area, talking to one of the nurses, as the doctor walks me up with my paperwork.

“He’s called every day to check on your progress,” Dr. Steinbridge says softly. His breath smells like old man and onion bagel. “People deal with things differently, so don’t be too hard on him.”

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