Page 2 of His Loving Wife

The doorknob moved again. This time the whole door shook. The attempt to enter the room was angry, impatient.

“Get away from the door,” Andrew said, fumbling with the chargers beside their bed. He was trying to find his phone—the one he always turned off at night because his colleague said the radiation was slowly killing him over time. Kate tried to calculate how long it would take for him to find the phone, unplug it, hold down the power button for it to turn on, dial the number… Each task seemed to take off another year or so of her life.

“What about the kids?” she asked. Now her mind was filled, again, with those familiar images. With whoever was on the other side of this door walking down the hallway, watching Willow sleep in her bed surrounded by posters. Seeing Noah dozing beneath his balcony of stuffed animals.

“The kids,” Andrew stammered, as though in just this moment he’d remembered them. His fingers were pecking at the phone, pressing too many buttons to do anything productive.

She didn’t have a choice, she realized. Whoever was standing there, jangling the lock, in the dark, in the middle of the night, was not a figment of her imagination. This was not a dream. Whatever it was, was too big a threat to keep out there even a second longer. What if one of the children had heard the same commotion, had stumbled out of their beds to see…

She slung open the bedroom door.

The man was tall, his shoulders disproportionately wide in comparison to the rest of his narrow frame. It was hard to tell really, as he was wearing all black. His face was covered by a mask, slits at his eyes and mouth. His mouth was open beneath the fabric, she could tell. He seemed shocked she had opened the door so abruptly.

Kate screamed.

Chapter 2

Now

We need a break. From the world. From the children. From the dark thoughts rumbling around in our minds.

I look admiringly at how the pink skies swirl above the cerulean waters. I think,I never want to leave this place. I close my eyes, inhale deeply. The salt from the sea and the passing wind refreshes me. My hair blows back, off my shoulders, dancing in the air. And it’s quiet here. Secluded. Like we’re the only ones in the world. It never feels that way back home. It never feels peaceful or complete. Ever since that night, we’ve been struggling to feel whole again. But not here. This vacation has brought us closer to the family we were before our lives were ripped apart.

I’m afraid once we return, we’ll lose everything we’ve worked so hard to repair.

“Kate?”

I open my eyes and look behind me.

Andrew is cruising the planked walkway leading from our rental house to the beach where I sit. He is wearing khaki pants and a button-down shirt. In his hands are a bottle of tequila and two shot glasses.

“Want a drink?”

“Yes.” I turn back to the sea, watching as another wave crashes onto the shore. “But it’s the last night. I’ve not even started packing.”

“It’s still your vacation. One drink won’t hurt,” he says, with an almost forced cheeriness.

Out of habit, my eyes scan the beach first. I have to make sure both my children are safe. Noah is standing at the water’s edge, his pants rolled up to his knees. He’s trying to catch sand crabs before they burrow away into the earth. Willow is sprawled out on her beach towel, where she has spent most of the day. She holds her phone above her body, two white cords snaking down to her ears.

I look back at Andrew. He’s smiling, holding out the bottle for me to take.

“Fine. You win,” I say, an attempt to keep him happy.

He sits beside me, setting the glasses in the sand before he pours two shots. He hands one over, making his own cursory check of the kids before he speaks.

“To vacation,” he says, clinking his glass against mine.

“Vacation.”

Andrew sips his drink, but I swallow mine whole. The taste is bitter, and I quickly lick the salt lining the rim to help mellow my palate. I’m still grimacing when I look back at Andrew and laugh.

“Look at us,” he says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “It’s like we’re two college kids all over again.”

“Almost,” I say, clearing my throat, trying to dislodge the stinging aftertaste. We’re at least pretending there aren’t any problems between us. “Except we have two children in tow. One of whom is a teenager now.”

“Don’t say that. It makes me feel old.”

“We are old,” I say, leaning my head on his shoulder. The sudden burst of tequila has left me dizzy.

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