Page 10 of Such a Good Wife

“You’re feeling pretty generous today, huh?” Collin asks lightheartedly. I redden.

“I guess. I’m not sure why I said that. I just hate seeing her down on herself... I don’t know.”

“I think I know why you said it,” he says. The blood in my face drains.

“Sorry?” I ask.

“I think this writing group stuff has really boosted your confidence—made you—I don’t know...happier. You need the time away, you know, just to have something that’s just yours. I think it’s great. You seem different.”

“I do?”

“In like a really good way.”

“Oh.” I smile at him, and then look down, picking at the paper corners of Rachel’s list on the table. Ben saves me from having to respond. The tower of wadded up wrappers he’s constructed on top of the trash can was knocked down by some asshole kid, and Collin leaps into dad mode, distracting him, showing him the elaborate ice cream cakes in the display case. I gather up our things quickly and meet them near the front door so there is no danger of resuming our conversation. I can’t stop thinking about Luke Ellison, and I’m afraid that it’s showing—that my behavior seems off—even though it’s just an innocent fantasy.

When we get home, I tiptoe into Claire’s room. The canned laughter from her sitcom underscores her snoring. She’s fallen asleep in her wheelchair with her head back, mouth agape. I remember a Mother’s Day, years ago, when Collin took the two mothers in his life to Woodhaven Country Club. Claire and I sat sipping Brandy Alexanders in sundresses while Collin swam in the pool with the kids.

Claire had held a long white Marlboro in her thin fingers, and through threads of exhaled smoke, she spoke about her work at the university. She taught anthropology, and was explaining all of her exciting research and her upcoming trip to Uganda. She was lovely. I aspired to be like her. Whenever she visited us from Santa Fe, I doted on her. I was captivated by her stories, her worldliness. She was charming, sophisticated. And not the big house, ugly charm bracelet, married into fortune, fake sort of sophisticated I’m often surrounded by. She’d earned it.

Now, when I take off her soiled diaper, I try not to think about that woman who jetted around the world and told dirty stories we laughed and shrieked over on the deck at night, pinot grigios in hand. I clean the mess and shift her into her bed. When her eyes are closed, I slip a surgical mask over my mouth, for the smell. No matter how much disinfectant one can use, dying is a smell that just refuses to be cleaned. I hate to offend her, so I only cover my nose when she is fast asleep.

When I place a clean sheet over her and turn off the television, I notice it’s faintly dark now. The kids must be in their rooms because the only sound is ESPN on in the living room and Collin on another call about the hospital that’s too close to the goddamn train track.

I slip out onto the deck for the fresh air. The light over the door attracts masses of insects. Thick beetles drop onto the thin concrete stoop and collect themselves. The temperate dusk air is dense with mosquitoes and the chatter of crickets sound from the tall prairie grass and the jungle of weeds in the wooded area just beyond my view. It’s peaceful.

I sit at the edge of the pool, looking ahead, past the rusted-through jungle gym set, focusing on a dilapidated pool table in one of the storage sheds along the long, fenced yard. Boxes of Christmas ornaments, a calcified fish aquarium, and last autumn’s garbage bags of leaves with pumpkin faces are all piled up on a worktable, brittle with neglect.

I try to understand the reason for this finger of pain pressing against my throat. I’m not the only one to have felt this. I’m sure this sort of thing happens all the time. “Get it together,” I say softly to myself, and then go inside to start Ben’s bedtime routine.

***

5

WRITE ABOUT YOUR OWN LIFE. That’s what one of the bullet points in Jonathan’s handout said, so throughout the week, I have stolen pockets of time, here and there, to try to get my thoughts down on paper. I’m using my notebook to jot things down as they come. I have no time to sit in front of a computer right now: by the time the laptop booted up, I would inevitably be interrupted, so I’m...outlining. It’s...a start.

I write about Claire and the life that was robbed from her, about how I secretly lay a damp towel beneath her door at night so the smell of decay doesn’t spill into the hall and reach the children. I write about how I married the kindest man in the world, only to find that I almost never see him and how my whole world revolves around behaviors, de-escalations, meltdowns, doctors, medicines. It’s raw and honest and I’m nervous to put it out into the world, even though it’s just a few people at a bookstore.

I stand in the full-length mirror in our bedroom. It’s so strange for the house to feel quiet. Collin is really committed to taking the load on Thursdays for me. He took Ben with him to pick up Rachel from dance practice, and then took both of them out to dinner. I pull a couple of dresses I haven’t worn in a while out of the closet and hold them in front of me as I look in the mirror, scrutinizing each for a different reason. A dress to writing group? It’s humid outside, I tell myself. Nothing wrong with a summer dress. I choose a yellow sundress with a wisp of a sleeve. I slip on sandals, the fancy sort that have straps winding up the ankle. And then I apply mascara and look at myself a moment.

Collin said that the reason he’d told the bartender to buy me and all my friends a round at that college bar all those years ago was because of my long, chestnut hair. He said he hadn’t even seen my face yet, just the back of my head from across the bar, and he’d known. The kids love that story, but I tell him he’s full of crap and I saw him looking over all night. My hair is still long, but I haven’t seen it out of a messy bun on the top of my head in ages. And not the sexy, trendy, messy bun. The exhausted, droopy mom sort. Not flattering.

I release my hair from its knot. While I hold a flat iron to it, I wonder if Luke Ellison was flirting, which surely he was not, but if he were—what would he see in me? Constant stress has kept me thin, I’ll give myself that. I’m pushing forty, but as I examine myself in a fitted dress with my hair down around my shoulders, I feel almost sexy for the first time in... I could not begin to guess how long. Or maybe not sexy exactly, but slightly less thrown together and frazzled. I’ll take it. I realize I need a massive amount of cover-up under my eyes to match the rest of my face. My age and fatigue are evident in the circles beneath them, but nothing some industrial-strength concealer can’t fix.

I run my fingers through my hair, smooth my dress with my hands and smile at myself in the mirror. I have a notebook with something resembling a story, and I have been excited for this all week. When I get in my car though, the ignition doesn’t turn over.

“Shit.” I hit the steering wheel with the palm of my hand a few times, willing it to work. We’ve only had to replace so much as the windshield wipers since we got this thing. It’s never broken down. I feel like the universe is conspiring against me for the hedonistic thoughts I’ve allowed myself to have. I try a few more times, but it just makes a clacking noise. When I smell gas, I know I’ve flooded it, trying too many times. Sonofabitch.

I call Collin, even though there’s nothing he can do. Maybe if they haven’t gotten to a restaurant yet, they can grab takeout and come back so I can use his car. He promised them “restaurant Thursday” while Mom is at her group, and changing a promise on Ben does not go over well. I decide not to ask him.

“Do you know how long you’ll be?” I say, and I can hear a group of waiters singing happy birthday to some poor sap at another table in the background. Rachel must have chosen the place this time. It’s clearly Barney’s Burger Barn.

“We just sat down, but we could probably get it to go, hon,” he suggests. He’s so sweet.

“No. No, no. That’s okay.”

“I hate for you to miss it. Take an Uber.”

“Really?” I hadn’t even thought of that. It’s not a flight I’m late for. It’s just a writing group. An Uber seems kind of...desperate. It should be easy to say that it’s not a big deal, and that I could use a little quiet time anyway, but I don’t. I find that, instead, I actually switch him to speaker so I can simultaneously open my Uber app while we’re talking.

---