Таррин Фишер - The Wives

“I’m really freaked out.” Her voice quavers, and it sounds like she’s blowing her nose. “We had a fight. I don’t feel safe. I just... I—” Her voice cuts off like she lost reception in the middle of the call.

I hold the phone away from my face and see that the voice mail is still playing. Pressing it back to my ear, I strain to hear, in case she’s said anything else.

“Leave...alone...he’s—” It cuts out for the final time. Damn my shitty reception.

I lie there frozen for a few minutes, her words ricocheting around in my head. Seth. She had a fight with Seth and now she is scared. What did he do to scare her? I throw my arm over my eyes. I was scared, too, wasn’t I? Ever since...his outburst, he’d seemed more unpredictable. If I said the wrong thing, would he do it again? If I call Hannah back I’ll be irrevocably involved in this...this thing. I wouldn’t be able to make any more excuses for him. I’d have to admit that what he’d done to me was deliberate. I’d been the one to seek Hannah out, to keep the truth about who I am from her. Perhaps it’s time to tell her that Seth is my husband, too. I roll back over onto my stomach and bury my face in the pillow. I call Anna.

“What’s up,” she says when she answers the phone. I’m not deterred by the briskness of her greeting; it’s Anna’s way.

“Hi,” I say. “I need moral guidance.”

“Are you facedown in a pillow?”

Anna knows my ways, too. I shift my head so she can hear me better.

“Not anymore,” I say.

“Oh, boy, are you sure I’m the one you should be asking for moral guidance?”

“No, but I don’t have anyone else, so moral-up and give the type of advice Melonie would give you.” Melonie is Anna’s mother, a psychologist who spent most of our teenage years observing us like we were science projects and then dissecting everything we did. As teens we thought it was terrifying and thrilling at the same time. At that age, most adults aren’t interested in the details of your thoughts, unless it’s to tell you those thought are wrong. But Melonie had been different. She’d validated us by saying we were on our own adventure, exploring the world. She made self-destruction seem normal and so we’d destructed without guilt. Nowadays, I wonder how healthy that had been: an adult egging us on. And here I am as an adult, seeking the same type of assurance, asking my best friend to validate me like her mother had.

“Okay,” Anna breathes. “Hit me with it, I’m in Melonie mode.”

“I have a new friend—I know her through someone else,” I add, because I know Anna will ask. “I’ve seen some bruises on her before but didn’t think much of it, but then today, she leaves a message on my phone, saying she got into a fight with her husband and she’s scared. Two things you should know—she’s pregnant, and I know her husband fairly well and he doesn’t seem like the type of guy who’d toss his wife around, you know?”

Anna sighs. I can picture her seated at her kitchen table, a cup of her nasty instant coffee cooling in front of her—she likes it lukewarm rather that hot. When she’s frustrated, the ankle of her crossed leg swishes from side to side, the ankle bracelet she wears glinting against her olive skin.

“First off,” she begins, “I don’t give a flying fuck how innocent a man appears, if a woman has the tits to come forward and say she’s scared, something is going the fuck on to make her scared. You don’t need to get too involved, but you can get involved enough to give her the push to leave. We’re all just waiting for someone to stand behind us, aren’t we? Even if it’s just one person, it gives you strength.”

I bite my lip. Anna is right. I sit up in bed, pulling my knees to my chest and wrapping my arms around them. This is so fucked. I’m compartmentalizing without even realizing it.

“But what if she’s blowing things out of proportion? I mean, I know this guy. He’s a good man...”

“Don’t be dense. Parishioners think they know their priests, aunts think they know their husbands, and meanwhile they’re molesting little boys behind closed doors. Can we really know anyone?”

I think of myself and all of the things my best friend doesn’t know about me, and drop my head. Anna is spot-on, isn’t she? Maybe we’re all pretending everything is fine when it itsn’t. He pushed me , I think. I can try to rewrite that story, blame myself, excuse my husband, but he pushed me.

Anna and I chat for a few more minutes, and when there’s a break in the conversation, I thank her and say I have to go. She hesitates when she says goodbye, almost like she suspects I’m not telling her everything and she’s giving me the chance to ’fess up. She’s given me a lot to think about. I hang up quickly and head to the bathroom to take a shower.

I’m going to call Hannah back and tell her everything. Together we could... What? Leave Seth? Find Regina and ask if Seth had ever been aggressive with her? It doesn’t matter. We can approach the options together. Like a team. I plan what I’m going to say to her as I soap my hair and let the hot water ease some of the tension out of my shoulders.

Once I’m wrapped in my towel and sitting on the edge of the bed, I call her back. I’m nervous. I chew on my lip. It rings half a dozen times before I hear her voice. Hey, it’s Hannah. Leave a message!

“Hi, Hannah. It’s me. I’m worried about you so call me back as soon as you get this. I’ll be driving back to Seattle, so anytime in the next two hours and I can answer right away. Okay, bye.”

I move to get dressed and gather up my things, glancing at the phone every few minutes to see if I’ve missed her call, but my phone remains dark and silent. I call again and this time I’m sent straight to voice mail.

“Hannah, damn it! Call me back!” I make a noise of frustration as I pull the phone from my ear, and then realize I haven’t hung up the call yet. Great. I stuff my phone in my pocket and, snatching up my bag, I head for the lobby.

I drive past their house one more time, but neither of their cars are there. Not knowing what to do, I decide to head for home. I can turn around and come back if she needs me. But four hours later, I’m pulling into the garage under my building not having heard from her. Traffic was backed up for miles. Hungry and needing to use the restroom, I waited it out instead of losing my place in the never-ending line of brake lights. I drag my things up the elevator and into my condo, kicking the door shut behind me. I drop my purse near the door and race for the half bathroom.

I emerge hungry and thirsty, about to raid the fridge, when I see movement through the door to the bedroom. My heart seizes in a panic and I freeze. Where is my phone? In the foyer where I’d dropped my handbag?

I look around for signs of my mother, who usually leaves her things on the kitchen counter when she comes over, a pile of designer leather. But everything is just as I left it, right down to the scattering of bagel crumbs near the toaster. I hear movement, feet shuffling against carpet, and then suddenly Seth is standing in the kitchen doorway. I grab at my heart, which is pounding painfully in my chest, bending over slightly at the waist and laughing at myself.

“I thought someone broke in,” I say. “You scared me.”

It takes a minute for a few things to sink in: the first that today is not Thursday; the second, Seth is not smiling; and third—there is a bandage on the knuckles of his right hand. I lick my lips, my brain working frantically. He knows! I think. That’s why he must be here, to sort me out. I’m not the type to lie. Omissions, yes, but if he asks me point-blank about Hannah I’ll tell the truth.