Page 47 of The Wives

She’s turning around, calling to someone inside. That’s when I notice then that her hair isn’t tied back in a low ponytail like I thought; rather, it’s cropped short—a pixie cut.

“Your hair,” I say. “Did you cut it recently?” I notice her belly, too, the flatness. I almost lift a hand to my own in confusion.

She looks afraid now, her eyes darting around for help. She lifts a hand to touch it, right at the nape of her neck.

“I hope you find who you’re looking for,” she says, and then shuts the door in my face. The smell of cinnamon is cut off and I’m left with the smell of damp earth and rotting leaves.

I stumble back, turning around halfway down the path and running across the street to my parked car. As I fumble with the door, I turn back to look at the house, and see a shift of the drapes on the second floor, like someone is peeking out. Her—Hannah. But why is she claiming not to know me? What is happening? I climb into the car and rest my forehead against the steering wheel, my breath hissing from my lips in soundless heaves. This is crazy, I feel crazy. The thought is so uncomfortable that I quickly turn the car on and drive away from the house. I’m afraid she will call the police. How would I explain?

After pulling up an address on my car’s GPS, I head for the freeway. Seth would check the larger hotels first—the hotels with robes and a minibar. He’d never consider anything else because he married a woman who prefers the finer things in life.

My head is aching and I realize I have nothing to ease it with; my travel tube of aspirin is in the purse Seth hid. For the first time in days my thoughts are sharp and clear—my headache is probably a result of my body coming down from the drugs I only pretended to take the last few days. I think of the orange bottles next to the kettle, the bitter taste of them as they melted to paste on my tongue. They were supposed to help, but they made me feel crazy, suffocating my thoughts, making me unsure of myself. Had that been what Seth wanted? To make me doubt myself and trust him instead?

Ten minutes later, the car’s GPS takes me down a long dirt road. It’s dark, but I know that to my left and through a heavy copse of trees is a lake. In the daytime, the lake is dotted with Jet Skis and paddleboarders—a weekend spot for college students and families. The road ends and I put the car in Park. The house in front of me is dark, large windows looming like hollow eyes. I grab my bag from the passenger seat and step out of the car. Please, God, let this work, I think as I head for the house. The house is two stories, surrounded by woods and down a long winding driveway. It’s a boxy design that was popular in the sixties. There is still construction equipment lying about and I have to sidestep a large metal pipe when I get out of the car. I make my way across the curved driveway, my shoes crunching on the gravel. The lockbox hangs from the front door and I kneel in front of it, wishing I’d thought to bring a flashlight. The code is the same for all of Seth’s houses; he’d told me that once when we were dating and he’d taken me to see a house he was building in Seattle. We’d wandered around the ten-thousand-square-foot mansion—me oohing and ahhing at everything inside—and then we’d had sex on the island in the kitchen.

I type the numbers into the lockbox, praying Seth hasn’t changed the code. It opens with a satisfying click and I shake the key into my hand. I slide it into the keyhole, the door opens and I step inside. I stare around, feeling a deep sense of accomplishment. I’m hiding in plain sight. The air smells like cigarettes and damp towels, so I breathe through my mouth as I walk slowly into the house, my eyes darting around. The Cottonmouth house: source of endless headaches. It’s on 66 Cottonmouth Road, which is why Seth nicknamed it the snake house. Four months ago, the owner of the house had a stroke and was hospitalized. His son, not knowing what the fate of his father would be and unwilling to foot the bill himself, put the project on hold indefinitely. Seth has been frustrated by the whole ordeal and has complained about it often, which is why I have all the details memorized. I open the drapes, letting dull yellow moonlight stream into the small entry space. The carpet is overworked, a once royal blue now faded to a patchy denim. It’s rolled up in places where the contractors had started work on the floors. I gaze out of the window and up at the night sky. If the sun were out, the sky would be a goose gray, the clouds oppressively heavy. Time—this place has had so much time to crack, curl and fade. I walk over to the tiny entryway bathroom and risk turning on the light. I squat as I pee, scrunching my nose at the stale smell coming from the drain. There are rust stains in the outdated sink and a grating noise when I turn the tap off. When I lift my eyes to the mirror, I see pale, washed-out skin, dark moons in the scoops beneath my eyes. No wonder Hannah had looked so alarmed when she opened the door.

I wander upstairs and find a bedroom. There is floral paper on the walls, peeling at the corners, and an old bed is pushed against a wall. I sit on the corner of the bed, the mattress sloping beneath me. What am I doing here? Was I wrong in coming? The way Hannah looked at me, like she didn’t know who I was. Had Seth warned her...? Threatened her...? Or... God. I run my hands through my hair, catch the snags and flinch at the pain it causes behind my eyes. Or—had she never seen me before? Could a person make an entire relationship up? In a different case, I’d call my doctor, ask him what he thinks, but I don’t trust my doctor, or my husband, or myself. Seth has gotten to all of us.

My head still aches. I lower myself backward and roll onto my side, pulling my knees up to my chest. Just a short nap. Until the headache subsides and I can think clearly.

When I wake up, it’s morning. I don’t know what time it is. Sleep has become a confusing thing in the last months—a mixture, I’m sure, of my changing locations and medications. I sit up and search the room for a clock, but the walls are bare except for the warped floral paper. Has Seth woken up yet? Has he started making calls to find me? I hadn’t thought about a tracker on my car, but that seems extreme. Seth wouldn’t...would he?

I take a shower in the master bathroom, listening to the clank of the pipes as they accommodate the lukewarm water that sprays through the showerhead. The towel I find is rough and scratchy, and I drop it before I’m fully dry and quickly pull my clothes over my damp skin. In my haste, I’d only brought jeans and a sweater. The once-clingy sweater now drapes loosely on me. Oh, well, it’ll have to do. I shrug the insecurity away, pulling on my Converse and snatching up my keys before heading for the door.

It’s time to talk to Regina.

TWENTY-SIX

Adele plays on the radio as I navigate through the early-morning traffic. I feel better today, more like myself. I turn up the volume and at the same time I slam on the breaks. The work truck I almost collided with surges forward another few feet and I follow more cautiously this time. Adele’s voice is so melancholy that I suddenly feel the full loneliness of my situation. What am I doing here? Maybe I am crazy. I pull into the parking lot abruptly, cutting Adele off as I kill the ignition. No, Seth is a liar and I have to find a way to prove it. What happened with Hannah has been replaying in my mind all morning. I get a knot in my stomach remembering the vacancy in her eyes when she looked at me. Something is wrong and I need to get to the bottom of it. Reaching out to Regina is the only option I can think of. I think about the dating profile I set up for Will Moffit. It’s been ages since I’ve checked it and I wonder if Regina thinks he’s blown her off.

The offices of Markel & Abel are located in a three-story white stone building that faces a small lake. They share the building with a title company and a pediatrician’s office. I peer into car windows as they drive by, heading into the underground garage beneath the building. One of them could be Regina. I consider cornering her in the garage, but that would accomplish little except making me appear unhinged. No, I need to do this the right way, the way I’ve planned. I tell myself this, but right before I get out of the car I start to cry. They’re mostly numb tears; I can’t pinpoint if I’m scared, or sad, or angry, but they won’t stop coming. I catch them on the back of my hand, drying it on my jeans.

Something feels wrong, but I don’t know what. I dry my eyes for the final time and swipe lip gloss over my lips, a poor attempt to look like a woman not falling apart. When I push open the doors of the building I can hear the squeal of a toddler and the pounding of little feet. A second later, a tiny blond human comes barreling around the corner, his exhausted-looking mother in fast pursuit.

“Sorry,” she says, scooping him up as he knocks into me. He cuddles into her arms, looking pleased with himself, and dips his head to her shoulder. A pang of something in my chest—but I push it away, smiling at her as she adjusts him on her hip and carries him back toward the doctor’s office.

I almost follow them just to see what will happen, then remember why I’m here. I climb the stairs to the second floor, slowing as I eye the glass doors. Behind them is a large sitting area flanked with brown leather couches, elegant and masculine. To the rear of the room, and directly in my line of sight, is the receptionist’s desk. A woman with a topknot and glasses has a phone pressed to her ear as she types something into a computer. I feel overly conscious about my too-big sweater and scruffy jeans. I wish I’d brought something more appropriate.

Pushing through the doors, I walk directly to reception and greet her with a smile just as her call ends.

“Welcome,” she says with practiced professionalism. “How can I help you?”

“I have an appointment,” I say. “With Regina Coele.” I pause, trying to recall the name I used when making the appointment. It feels like ages ago, not just weeks. “I’m Lauren Brian.” I clasp my hands at my waist and try to look bored. She briefly glances up at me before typing something into the computer.

“I see that you missed your appointment last week, Mrs. Brian.” She frowns. “We don’t have anything scheduled for you today.” She looks at me expectantly.

I lift a hand to my forehead and arrange my face into what I hope is a perplexed expression. “I... I...” I stutter. Tears fill my eyes as I lock my gaze with hers. I’d been locked away in Queen County, eating my Jell-O and staring at Susan’s lack of eyelashes on the day of my appointment. I don’t have to act flustered, since I already am. Lifting a hand to my face, I drop it abruptly.

“Things have just been so... I’m getting divorced,” I say. “I must have mixed things up...”

I see her soften.

“Give me a minute.” She stands and disappears down a corridor, presumably where the lawyers keep their offices. I look around the waiting area, still relatively empty this early in the day. An older woman sits in the far corner, a Starbucks cup in one hand and a copy of Good Housekeeping in the other. I perch on the edge of a chair closest to the reception desk, my fingers crossed and my leg bouncing in sync with my nerves.

She returns a few minutes later and slides into her seat. I can’t read her expression.

“Mrs. Brian, Ms. Coele has offered to skip her lunch if you’re willing to come back at twelve o’clock.”

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