Таррин Фишер - The Wives

To access Regina’s full profile, I have to sign up for an account. I decide to be Will Moffit, a website owner who recently moved to Portland from California. When I’m asked for photos to upload, I use pictures of my cousin Andrew, who is currently in prison for identity theft. Ironic. I feel guilty about it, but not enough to stop me. It doesn’t really matter, anyway. Once I have the information I need, I’m going to delete the account. No harm caused. I just need to take a quick peek. I fill out the information, my fingers gliding easily over the keys of my MacBook, filling line after line with perfect nonsense. Will’s favorite movie is Gladiator . He runs marathons and has a horde of nieces and nephews whom he loves very much, but he has no children of his own. I type faster and faster. I am lost in the information I am creating. And suddenly this man, Will Moffit, feels very real. That’s good. It’s perfect actually. Regina will think him real, too. I want the information that will condemn my husband’s first wife. Paint me in a favorable, faithful light. Look what I have found, my love! She doesn’t love you like I do!

And then the information is there in front of me. Compiled on a website with a hopeful green banner that reads Your soulmate is just a few clicks away! I click on Regina’s profile with one hand while the other bounces on my knee. I am lucky there is no one in the room to witness my exposure of nerves. Seth always says my body language is a dead giveaway to whatever I’m feeling.

She’s listed as a thirty-three-year-old divorcee from Utah. Her interests include hiking, sushi, reading autobiographies and watching documentaries. What a bore , I think, cracking my knuckles. I’ve never known Seth to watch a documentary in the years we’ve been together. I picture them on the couch together, holding hands underneath a blanket, her leg tossed casually over his. It doesn’t seem right. But maybe I know a different Seth than Regina. That is something I haven’t considered before now. Could a man be a different person with each of his wives? Could he like different things? Is he gentle when he has sex with them or does he like it rough? And perhaps that is why Regina is on a dating website in the first place. Because they have nothing in common and she is looking for someone to share her life with, someone with the same interests.

I click through her photos, recognizing some of the places in her pictures: the Arlene Schnitzer Concert Hall—Seth took me there to see the Pixies two years ago. Regina is standing in front of a poster of Tom Petty, hands perched on her hips, wearing a broad smile. In another photo she sits in a kayak, a Mariners cap shading most of her face as she holds an oar above her head in triumph. I reach the last photo and it’s then that I see her. I have to blink a few times to clear my vision. How long have I been looking at the computer screen? Is my brain playing tricks on me?

Standing up, I set my MacBook on the coffee table and walk over to the bar to make myself a real drink. No orange juice to cushion the taste of the liquor this time. I pour myself two fingers of bourbon and carry it back to the sofa. I’m not sure of what I saw and maybe I didn’t see anything, but the only way to know for sure is to walk back to my laptop and look at what spooked me in the first place. I bend over and hit the space bar. The screen lights up, and Regina’s photo is still there. I stare at it for a moment, my eyes narrowing before I turn away. I can’t be sure, there isn’t enough to be sure. The picture is of Regina standing in front of a restaurant, her arm casually thrown around a friend’s shoulders. She’s cropped the photo to show only herself, but there next to her is the slight profile of a much taller, much blonder woman. A woman who looks shockingly like Hannah Ovark. I click the icon that says Send Message and begin typing.

When I drive to work the following afternoon, I’m so distracted by thoughts of the wives that I miss my turn into the hospital and it takes me twenty minutes to loop back around in traffic. Swearing, I jerk my car in a spot in the employee garage and take the steps two at a time instead of waiting for the elevator. I’d spent my afternoon composing a message to Regina from Will. I kept it short: Hey! I’m new to the area. You’re an attorney. Badass. You showed up in my matches so I thought I’d reach out. This is me reaching out...awkwardly. No one said I was good at this dating thing. I ended the message with a smiley face and hit Send. It was just enough self-deprecating charm to catch a woman’s attention. Will screamed: I’m honest and not threatened by your success —or at least I thought so. On the off chance that Regina messages him back I’ll have an “in” to getting to know her.

“You’re late.” Lauren, one of the nurses, frowns at me as I walk through the doors. Why do people always feel the need to tell you you’re late like you don’t already know it yourself? My jaw clenches. I hate Lauren. I hate her always-on-time perfectness, the easy way she handles difficult patients like it’s her absolute pleasure to do so. She loves to take command; a perfectly pretty, blond general.

I relax my face in an attempt to look apologetic and mutter something about traffic as I try to squeeze past her. She pushes her chair away from the computer, blocking my way and staring me down.

“You look like shit,” she says. “What’s up?”

The last thing I want to do is explain myself to know-it-all Lauren Haller. I stare right through her as I consider what to say.

“Didn’t sleep well. This schedule sometimes fucks with me, you know?” I look longingly toward the break room, wishing she’d let me pass.

Lauren studies me for a moment like she’s deciding whether or not she believes me, then finally nods. “You’ll get used to it. I was like that my first year, didn’t know my ass from my elbow, I was so tired.”

I restrain the eye roll and smile. It isn’t my first year. And technically she’s only been here a year longer than I have, but she brandishes the seniority around like a cheerleader in uniform. Rah rah, I’m better than you!

“Yeah? Thanks, Lo, I’m sure it’ll get better.” I head for the break room, head down, to stash my stuff in my locker.

“Have a glass of wine,” she calls after me. “Before you go to bed. That’s what I do.”

I lift a hand to signify I’ve heard her and duck out of sight. The last thing I want to do is absolutely anything Lauren does. I’d rather be sober for the rest of my life than imitate her bedtime behaviors.

The break room is mercifully empty when I slip inside. I breathe easy and eye the lockers like I do every day. Same ol’, same ol’. People have decorated the front sides of their lockers with photos of husbands, children and grandchildren in various shades of happiness. There are anniversary cards, vacation magnets and the occasional dried flower—all taped up with pride. I kick aside a green balloon, which dangles limply in front of my own locker, the remnants of someone’s birthday. Happy 40th! it declares in primary colors. There is a smudge of white frosting on the top of it, a slip of a sticky finger. The front side of my locker is empty, save for the remains of a Sub Pop sticker its last occupant crookedly slapped on the metal. When maintenance tried to remove it, it left behind gray fuzz that stubbornly lingers despite how many times I’ve tried to scratch it off. I really should put something up, a picture of Seth and me, maybe.

The thought depresses me. I suppose that’s why I haven’t done it. I don’t feel like he is all mine, and the knowledge that somewhere out there, that two other women may have a picture of Seth on their desks or taped to a locker, makes me sick to my stomach. I reach up absently to touch the sore spot on my ear and think of Hannah’s bruises. An accident, she’d said. Same as what happened last night. An accident.