Таррин Фишер: The Wives

Glancing at my watch, I see that it’s lunchtime. I decide to drive over to the Nordstrom in the city and grab some lunch while I’m there. Portland is more low-key than Seattle, which is a crisscross of one-way streets and fast-limbed pedestrians. I have little trouble navigating the tight lanes of the city and parking in a garage a block away from the department store. I find a black lace bra and panty duo and pick out a sheer robe to wear over it, and carry the items to the register.

“Anything else I can get for you today?” the saleslady asks, walking around the register to hand me my purchase.

“Yes,” I hear myself say. “Can you tell me how far Galatia Lane is? I’m not from around here.”

“Oh,” she says. “It’s just on the outskirts of the city. About four miles. Cute little street, has those beautiful restored Victorian houses.”

“Hmm,” I say, pressing my lips together in a smile. “Thank you.”

I drive there straightaway, then pull over, the tires grating along the curb. I dip my head to eye the houses, my hands still gripping the steering wheel. It isn’t too late to leave. It is as simple as shifting the car into Drive and not looking back. I tap a finger as I decide, my eyes darting from house to house. I’m already here—what is the damage in having a look around? Even if Hannah Ovark isn’t Monday, this neighborhood is beautiful. Leaving my Nordstrom bag in the front seat, I step out of the car and walk along the shaded pavement, eyeing the houses in wonder. They look like gingerbread houses: broad turrets, window boxes, white picket fencing, each one painted the color of a childhood fantasy. A soft pink, a Tiffany blue—there’s even a house that is the color of mint chocolate chip ice cream, the shutters a rich brown. I remember the feel of the frozen chips of chocolate wedged between teeth, the way you’d suck at a tooth to loosen their hold. A neighborhood of nostalgia. How perfectly annoying that Monday would live here. I think of my condo downtown, stacked on top of a dozen others, people living vertically in little spaces in the sky. No magic, no mint chocolate chip paint, just long elevator rides and city views. I wonder what life would be like living in a place like this. I’m so lost in my thoughts that I walk right past number 324 and have to backtrack.

Hannah’s house is cream-colored with a matte black door. There are green shutters on the windows and flower boxes that hold tiny evergreens. The garden is chock-full of plants—not flowers, but carefully tended greens. I have a new appreciation for her, a woman who tends evergreens over flowers, things that live. I spend five minutes staring, admiring it all, when a voice makes me jump.

“Shit,” I say, holding a hand over my heart. When I turn around, she’s staring up at the house, too, a blond with wispy pieces of hair framing her face. She has her head tilted to the side like she’s really studying it.

“Lovely, isn’t it?”

My thoughts arrange themselves around her face. It’s a delayed response, recognizing someone in public who you’ve only known online. You have to match the features, the airbrushed skin to the real skin.

Hannah. My heart almost leaps out of my chest as I stare at her. I’ve broken a rule, breached a contract. I’ve always wondered about deer, why they don’t run when they see a car barreling toward them. But here I am, frozen in place, heart whirring in my ears.

“It is,” I agree, for lack of anything better to say. I add, “Is it yours?”

“Yes,” she says brightly. “My husband owned it before we got married. After the wedding we did a remodel. So. Much. Work,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Luckily, it’s what my husband does for a living, so he handled everything.”

I love you all the same , wasn’t that what he always said? The same! Yet here she is with a house right out of Design and Home while I wilt away in a high-rise. Clearly, she is the type you buy a house for and I am the type who gets a card. She is wearing a flowered kimono, a tank top and jeans. A sliver of her stomach is visible above the waistband of her jeans, smooth and taut. No wonder Seth doesn’t want us near each other—I’d die of insecurity.

“Would you like to come in and see it?” she asks suddenly. “People often knock on the door and want a tour. I never knew that owning a house could make me so popular.”

When she laughs, it’s throaty, and I wonder if she’s a smoker. Not anymore , I tell myself, eyeing her belly. It’s too flat to contain life, too hollow. Thoughts of her pregnancy rouse images in my mind—of her long legs wrapped around Seth, him pushing relentlessly into her.

“Yes, I’d love to.” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop myself. Yes, I’d love to. I could smack myself. But instead, I follow her up the path and to the front door, where she pulls out a key. A tiny plastic sandal dangles from the ring. Most of the word has been rubbed away but I can still make out the M-e-c-o of Mexico. There is an immediate tightening in my belly. Had she gone there with Seth? My God, all the things I don’t know. Hannah is struggling with the key. I hear her swear under her breath.

“Damn thing always sticks,” she says when it finally turns.

I shuffle behind her, glancing over my shoulder every few seconds to make sure no one is coming. This isn’t your neighborhood , I think. What difference does it make if someone sees you? Hannah is even more beautiful than in her photos, and on top of that, she’s nice, too. Nice enough to open her home for a private tour to a complete, gawking stranger. Not such a stranger , I think as I follow her inside. We share the same penis, after all.

I’m on the verge of maniacal laughter when my breath gets caught in my throat. I make a little eh-ehm sound to clear it while Hannah deposits her keys on an ornate hook and swings around to smile at me. The house creaks around us, gently asserting its age. The hardwood floors are gleaming and spotless, the type of rustic mahogany I’d wanted to put in the condo. Seth had vetoed my choice—he wanted something more modern, so we went with a slate gray instead. I stand at the foot of a curving staircase, unsure of whether or not I’m expected to remove my shoes. I have the eerie feeling that I’ve been here before, even though I know that’s not possible. Hannah doesn’t make a move to direct me either way, so I step out of them, leaving them near the stairs. Two bright pink flats in the midst of all this cream. A distressed table sits to my right; brightly colored bougainvillea spills from a vase on top of it. There are no family pictures hanging anywhere that I can see, and for that, I’m grateful. What would it be like to see your husband in family photos with another woman? Everything is tasteful and perfect. Hannah has an eye for decor.

“It’s so lovely,” I breathe, my eyes hungry to take everything in.

Hannah, who has removed her own shoes and slipped her feet into silk slippers, smiles at me, her Nordic cheekbones sharp and rosy. Seth’s face is hard angles, too, a square jaw and a long, straight nose. I wonder what godlike creature these two have created together, and my stomach cramps at the thought of their baby. Their baby. Their trip to Mexico. Their house.

“I’m Hannah, by the way,” she says as she leads me up the staircase. And then she’s telling me about the man who built the house for his new wife a hundred years ago, and I think about how Seth’s new, upgraded wife was living in it. It was just a year ago when I agreed to it all—our plans thwarted, but our love still there. I had wanted to please him, much like Tuesday, I imagine, when she agreed to me.