Таррин Фишер - The Wives

I can see the tension building in his shoulders; he’s lost control of the situation. Seth doesn’t like to lose control; he’s not used to anyone else getting their way. Why haven’t I realized this before? Why am I just seeing it now?

Seth glances at me once more before nodding.

“All right. I’ll be back later.” He announces this to the room, not to me. He doesn’t look at me before he strides out the door.

When they’re all gone, I take a deep, shuddering breath before turning on my side and staring out the small slat of window. The sky outside is a murky gray, its tears a fine mist of rain. I can just see the tips of some trees from my angle and I focus on those. I think of the window in our— my —condo. The one that overlooks the park, how hard I’d fought for that unit when Seth wanted the one with the view of the Sound. I’d needed that view into the lives of strangers; it was an escape from my own life.

I doze off and wake up to Sarah carrying in my lunch—or is it dinner? I don’t even know what time it is. As soon as I smell the food, my body remembers it’s hungry. It doesn’t even matter that the meat loaf is gray, or that the mashed potatoes are instant. I shovel food into my mouth at an alarming rate. When I’m finished, I settle back against the pillows with a stomachache. My eyes are closed and I’m dozing off again when I hear Seth’s voice. I consider not opening my eyes, pretending to be asleep, in hopes that he leaves.

“I know you’re awake, Thursday,” he says. “We need to talk.”

“Then talk,” I say, without opening my eyes. I hear the rustling of a paper bag and the smell of food reaches my nose. When I open my eyes, Seth has laid out containers between us—five of them. Despite the heaviness of the hospital food sitting in my stomach, my mouth begins to water.

“Your favorite takeout,” he says, one side of his mouth lifting in a smile. It’s his most charming smile, the one he used on me that day in the coffee shop. He glances up at me, his head still ducked, and for a moment he looks like a little boy—vulnerable and eager to please.

“I’ve already had delicious hospital meat loaf,” I say, eyeing the container of mushroom risotto.

Seth shrugs and his smile turns sheepish. I almost feel sorry for him, but then I remember where I am and why I’m here.

“Seth...” I stare at him hard and he stares back. Neither of us quite knows what to do with the other, but we’re preparing for some sort of emotional warfare—I can see it in his eyes.

“Why won’t you tell the truth?” I say finally. That’s really the bottom line, isn’t it? If he told the truth, I could get out of here.

But if he told the truth, things could...things could never go back to normal. That’s when I understand it, the steely look in his eyes. It all comes to me. Not only do I know who Hannah is, I know that he’s been physical with her—hit her—and things between us can never be the same. Initially, my hopes were that he’d want to be with me, only me. But that will never happen, and I don’t even want it to happen anymore. I don’t know who my husband really is. I don’t know anything at all. What he says next is not what I expect.

“The truth is that you’re very sick, Thursday. You need help. I tried to pretend it wasn’t happening, I played your games...” He stands up and the containers of food wobble precariously on the bed.

I’m so angry I could toss them at him. He walks to the window, stares out before he turns back to me. His face has changed from one instant to the next; there’s a grim determination written across it now, like he has something awful to say to me.

“You changed,” he says slowly, cautiously. “After the baby...”

“Don’t,” I say quickly. “Don’t bring the baby into this.”

“You won’t talk about it, and we have to. You can’t just move past something like that,” he says. There’s more conviction on Seth’s face than I’ve ever seen. His fists are balled at his sides and my mind flashes to last night in the kitchen. He looks just as angry, but also sad.

He’s right. I’ve always refused to talk about what happened. It was too painful. I haven’t wanted to relive those feelings, drag over them again and again in some shrink’s office. My hurt is a living thing—sick and swollen, still festering under the surface of my calm. It’s personal; I don’t want to show anyone else. I nurture it on my own, keep it alive. Because as long as my hurt is still there, the memory of my son is, as well. They have to coexist.

“Thursday!” he says. “Thursday, are you listening to me?”

The smell—even the sight—of the food makes me sick. I begin pushing the containers off the bed, one by one.

The sound of them hitting the floor with wet thuds diverts Seth’s attention. He races for the bed, which is just five steps away, and grabs my wrists before I can get to the pea soup. I lift my knee under the white sheet and try to topple it off. That’s the one I’ve been looking forward to most—seeing it spread across the hospital tile like sludge.

“Our baby died, Thursday. It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t anyone’s fault!”

I writhe, throwing myself back against the pillows and then rearing up again. My wrists ache where Seth holds them and I bare my teeth at him. That isn’t true and we both know it. It isn’t true.

“You have to stop this,” he pleads. “All the lies you tell yourself. They won’t let you out of here until you tell the truth...”

An alarm goes off, high and ear-piercing. I wonder if it’s because of what I’ve done. Sarah races into the room, her braid flying comically behind her. She’s followed by a man and another woman—all flashes of blue scrubs and determined faces.

The alarm is here, in this room, I realize. Seth must have set it off. But no...it’s not an alarm...it’s me. I’m screaming. I can feel the burn as the noise churns through my throat and out of my open mouth.

One of the nurses slips, and she goes down hard into the smear of food across the floor. The male nurse helps her up, and then they’re on me, pushing Seth aside to hold me down. He backs away, against the wall, watching.

I expect his eyes to be wide with fear, or his face distorted with worry—but he looks quite peaceful. I feel something cold slide into my veins and my eyes flutter back. I force them open; I want to see Seth. He blurs for a minute, but he’s still there, watching. The drugs tug at my eyelids, pulling me down. What was that look on his face? What did it mean?

When I come to, I am cold. I don’t remember where I am, and it takes a few minutes for the events of the last few days to settle over me. Scratchy memories—they don’t feel good. The smell of antiseptic fills my nostrils and I struggle to push sheets aside and sit up in bed.

A hospital... Seth... Food on the floor.

I rub my forehead, which is throbbing painfully, and peer over the side of the bed; there’s no trace of the collage of color I left behind before they cocktailed me out. Why did I do that? It’s a stupid question because I know. Because Seth thinks food fights are wasteful and stupid. I hadn’t thrown anything at him, but throwing it on the floor had felt like enough—a childish display of acting out.

Practical, dry, somewhat stern Seth—that’s not how I would have described him a few weeks ago. What changed?

Hannah! That name hits me harder than the rest. Because it’s been how many days since I last heard from her? Three...four? I remember the look on Seth’s face before the drugs pulled me under... I couldn’t make out his expression; it was a mix of things I hadn’t seen on his face before. Isn’t that something? Being married to a man for years and seeing an expression for the first time.