Page 45 of The Wives

She reaches into her purse and pulls out a tissue, which she dabs delicately to her nose while I look at my father, who is staring at me uncomfortably.

“I can see that,” I say.

I’m eager to be rid of them. I have things I need to do. I decide to get down to business.

“Did Seth ask you to come?”

My mother looks affronted. “Of course not,” she says. “Why would you think that?”

I open and close my mouth. I can’t very well accuse him of keeping me prisoner—that would make me sound crazy. I arrange some bullshit about him being worried about me on the tip of my tongue but then my father beats me to it, speaking first.

“Thursday...” The expression he’s wearing is the same one he used on my sister and me as children. I don’t know whether to buckle down for the talking-to of a lifetime or to be offended that he still thinks I’m twelve. “Enough with this Seth business.” He slices the air with his hand, palm down like he’s chopping the “Seth business” in half. “All of that needs to be put behind you. You need to move forward.”

“Definitely,” I say.

“You should join a gym,” my mother suggests.

“I will.” I nod.

“Well, then...” My father sits up. His job is done. He is free to go home and watch the news, and eat the meals my mother serves him.

“I’m really tired,” I offer.

My father looks relieved. “You go on to bed, then,” he says. “We love you.”

It’s a lie. I hate him.

I see them to the door, already formulating what I’m going to do as soon as the lock latches behind them. Call Hannah...pack a bag...leave. Call Hannah...pack a bag...leave. But I don’t even make it to the bedroom to look for my phone when Seth is walking through the door. He has that Honey, I’m home! look about him. Swooping in to rescue me from myself. I straighten up where I’m bent over the nightstand, silently cursing myself for not getting rid of my parents sooner.

“What are you up to?” It would be such a normal question if not for everything that’s transpired the last few weeks. Now his tone frightens me.

“Looking for my cortisone cream.” I smile. “I think the medication is giving me a rash.” I scratch at my arm absently.

“Wouldn’t it be in the medicine cabinet?”

“I had it next to the bed a few months ago, but maybe...” I look toward the bathroom, still scratching.

“I’ll get it for you.” His tone is bright but I see the barely perceptible shift in his eyes. He’s walking differently: his steps stiffer, his shoulders held at a rigid angle. What are you up to? My shiver is delayed as I watch him step toward the bathroom, flicking on the light. He comes back with the cream a few seconds later. I paste a smile onto my face, like I’m grateful...relieved. It’s a smile I would have worn months ago and meant it. I make a show of uncapping the tube and rubbing the cream on my arm. Seth leans in to examine the spot. I notice for the first time how much his hair is graying. The stress of three wives and the stress of keeping up with his lies must be taking a toll on him. He’s put on weight, too. “I don’t see anything,” he says.

“It’s itchy.” My words sound flat even to my own ears.

He straightens up and meets my eyes. “I didn’t say it wasn’t.”

We stand there like that for what seems like minutes but I know is only a few seconds, staring each other down.

“My mother—” I start to tell him that she was here with my father. Seth’s eyes are on my arm again.

“She said she’d be back tomorrow. She will stay with you then,” he says without looking up.

“I don’t need a babysitter,” I say. “I’m fine.”

He turns away for the first time. “We care about you, Thursday. Until you’re well again, someone will be here to stay with you.”

I have to get out of here. I have to go.

We go to bed at the same time—couple’s bedtime—but Seth doesn’t sleep in the bed with me. He sleeps on the sofa, the television playing all night. It’s the only time I’m alone and I’m grateful to have the bed to myself. It’s all too much, this pretending. When I go to the bathroom he knocks on the door and asks if I’m all right. On my fifth day home, Seth gives me my phone back—gives my phone back like I’m a child who needs permission. There are texts from my boss wishing me a speedy recovery and telling me that my shifts have been covered, texts from Lauren before she found out where I was and texts from Anna from four days prior asking when we could chat next. I send a quick text to Anna apologizing for being busy and tell her I’ll call soon.

When I look for the texts from Hannah, I find that they’ve been deleted, along with her number.

---