Таррин Фишер - The Wives

My eyes travel to his face, and for a moment, neither of us say a thing. It’s a staring match, one I’d rather not be in.

“What are you doing here?” I finally say.

His eyes look tired and dull, not the normally mischievous sparkle that is my Seth. My Seth! I almost laugh. I don’t know who that is anymore. Suddenly, I feel frightened.

He answers my question with another question. “Where have you been?”

Ah, a standoff. Who wants to answer first? I think.

I turn to the fridge, remembering my thirst, and grab a bottle of water from the shelf. I offer Seth one before closing the door, holding it out to him. He nods, that stony look still on his face. I toss him the bottle and lean back against the counter while I screw off the lid and drink.

“I saw a friend. I told you.”

“I know what you’re doing,” he says.

I notice his clothes for the first time, a pair of jeans and crewneck sweater that I’d laundered last week. Things that belong here at the condo.

“Have you been here since last night?” That thought hadn’t crossed my mind until I saw the clothes. Had he come here after his fight with Hannah only to find me gone?

“Yes,” he says.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know or I would have come home. Why didn’t you call?”

Seth glares at me and my stomach turns. He has strong squared shoulders, like a Lego man. Women get swoony over his shoulders, but right now they just scare me. How much would it hurt if he hit me? How hard had he hit Hannah? I picture her lithe body and milk skin—one hit, and she’d be bloody and mottled. The baby! I think in a panic. His eyes are searching my face but not in an imploring way; there’s a hardness to them that makes me shiver. This is his way: he prods without actually asking. It’s beneath him to ask questions. We are here for his pleasure.

I raise my chin at how bitter this makes me feel. Something has changed in me. Did it take days...? Weeks...? I cannot pinpoint when or how, but if the shift is noticeable to me, it’s definitely noticeable to my husband, who’s staring at me like I have Egyptian hieroglyphics tattooed on my face. That is male folly; they expect you to always be the same, reliable cow, but women spend their lives changing. Our change can swing for you or against you depending on how fairly we’ve been treated. I swing against, though I can feel the gravity of my love for him trying to pull me back down. He’s a good guy. There has to be an explanation for all of this...

“What have you done?” he says. His eyes, I notice, aren’t a sharp white. They are dingy pink, the shade you get after a long night of drinking.

I try to hide the trembling in my voice. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say.

“Yes, you do.”

I’m breathing through my mouth now. I don’t want him to see how scared I am. I don’t want him to have the upper hand.

The sink drips—it’s the only noise in the room. I hear myself swallow as the seconds tick by, my eyes still on his face.

“What happened to your hand?” I ask.

We both look at his hand. Seth registers the bandage like he’s seeing it for the first time. He splays his fingers, twisting his wrist from side to side, as he blinks at it. A piece of hair falls onto his forehead and it’s the first time I notice that his hair is wet from a shower. What are you trying to wash off?

If his knuckles look like that, what does Hannah look like?

“I hit something.” That’s all he says, like it’s a good enough explanation.

“Doing what?” My question seems to throw him off balance. He opens and closes his mouth.

“Seth,” I say. “What have you done?”

He lunges for me. It happens in slow motion, my brain desperately trying to catch up to reality. My. Husband. Is. Attacking. Me. I’m not prepared for it, and when his hands close around my upper arms, I scream. It’s a short, brittle sound—pathetic, really.

It’s cut off when Seth begins to shake me, his fingers digging viciously into my arms. My head snaps back and forth, back and forth, until he stops and then he’s just an inch from my face, breathing hard against my skin. I can smell liquor on his breath, and the mouthwash he tried to cover it up with. I try to break free, but he has me pinned, the lip of the marble counter digging into my back. His fingers pinch painfully into the skin of my arms and I whimper. He’s never touched me this way; it’s like I’m looking into the face of a stranger.

“You bitch,” he breathes. “Nothing is ever enough for you. I’ve risked everything...”

A fleck of spittle lands on my lip. I wrench my shoulders out of his grasp, pushing at his chest with my forearms, but instead of letting me go, his hands move to my wrists. I’m a prisoner. I can’t believe he’s saying that. I’m the one who’s risked everything. I’m the one who’s made the sacrifices.

I pant into his face, not daring to move. I couldn’t deny any of this now, her bruises, my shove . I’m awake! I think. There would be no going back. It feels like he’s going to snap the bones in my wrists, meager bones against strong hands. I’ve always liked that Seth is so much bigger than I am, but now as I cower under his strength, I curse myself. I’m in shock, trembling like a cornered animal.

He says it again, this time his words pronounced louder, more carefully, like I was too stupid to understand them the first time.

“Who. Were. You. With?”

“Hannah,” I say smoothly. “I was with Hannah.”

Both of our eyes make a choreographed move to his bandaged hand.

For a moment, his grip on me falters, his fingers go slack. I think he’s willing himself to have misheard me. I realize I’ve confirmed his fear and I need to get away from him.

I yank one arm free and shove at his chest to get him to move. If I could just get to my phone I could call somebody to help. But who? Who would believe me? What would I tell the police? My husband is yelling at me because he thinks I’ve cheated on him? Seth barely budges and now his eyes are narrowed, boring into me with intensity. I’ve never seen that look on his face before. It’s like I’m seeing a different man.

“Why?” His eyes flutter. “How? We had an arrangement. Why would you do that?”

“Yeah?” I seethe. “Or you had an arrangement. I’m sick of it. I wanted to know who she is. See her face. You get everything you want, three wives, and we’re just left to pine after you.”

“We had an agreement,” he says. “You wanted this.”

“I wanted it because it was the only way to have you. You’re hitting her. I saw the bruises.”

He shakes his head. “You’re crazy.” He looks aghast that I would accuse him of such an ugly thing.

He releases me, and all of the pressure that was pushing against me a minute ago is gone. I slump against the counter, massaging my wrists as Seth paces across the small kitchen.

His face is blanched white, causing the dark circles under his eyes to look even more pronounced. He looks sick. But I suppose you’d feel a little sick after hitting your pregnant wife, drinking all night and then being confronted by your barren wife. I feel my anger build as I watch him—the man I’d always thought so beautiful, a chiseled god. He looks a little melted, if I’m being honest—a discarded idol low on luster. I want to check my phone, see if Hannah called. What if he hurt her really badly? I move slightly toward the doorway; if I make a dash for it I can reach my handbag in the foyer. My phone is in the pocket, next to a half-eaten roll of Life Savers and my pill compact.

“Listen to me. You’re sick. It’s happening again...”