The Wives. Tarryn Fisher

part of me wanted to hear what he had to say. And how was there anything to say? How could a man justify something like that?

      “I know how it sounds, trust me.” He’d taken an extralong swig of wine before continuing. “It’s not about sex. I don’t have an addiction, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

      It was exactly what I was thinking actually. I’d folded my arms across my chest and waited. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw our server lingering nearby. I wondered if he was waiting for us to make another run out of the restaurant and abandon the check.

      “My father...” he started. I rolled my eyes. Half the known world could start an excuse with “my father.” Nevertheless, I waited for him to continue. I was a woman of my word.

      The words glided over me: “My parents...polygamists...four mothers.”

      I stared at him in shock. It was like being halfway down a guy’s pants when he told you he was really a woman. At first I thought he was lying, making a bad joke, but I’d seen something in his eyes. He’d given me a tender spot of information and he was waiting to be judged. I didn’t know what to say. What response was appropriate? You saw that sort of thing on television, but in real life...?

      “I grew up in Utah,” he continued. “I left as soon as I turned eighteen. I swore I was against everything they believed in.”

      “I don’t understand,” I said. And I didn’t. I was tense, my hands clenched under the table, nails digging into my palms.

      He’d run a hand across his face, suddenly looking ten years older.

      “My wife doesn’t want children,” he told me. “I’m not that guy, the one who pressures a woman to be something she’s not.”

      I’d seen him with a different set of eyes then—a dad with one kid on his shoulders and another at his feet. Ice cream sundaes and T-ball games. He had the same dreams that I did, that most of us did.

      “So, where do I come in? You’re looking for a breeder and I fit your type?” I was being antagonistic, but it was an easy stab. Why had he chosen me, and who said I even wanted children?

      He looked stung by my accusation, but I didn’t feel bad about saying it. Men like him made me sick. But I had come back to the table to hear him out, and I would. At the time, it was the most absurd thing I’d ever heard. He had a wife, but wanted a new one. To start a family. Who the hell did he think he was? It was sick and I told him so.

      “I understand,” he’d said, downtrodden. “I completely understand.” After that, he paid the bill and we went our separate ways, me giving him a chilly goodbye. He told me later that he’d never expected to hear from me again, but I’d gone home and tossed and turned in bed all night, unable to sleep.

      But I liked him. I really, really liked him. There was something about him—a charisma, maybe, or a perceptiveness. Either way, he never made me feel less when I was with him. Not like the boys I’d dated in college, who looked at their own reflection in your eyes, and considered you a “right now” relationship. When I was with Seth, I felt like the only one. I’d shoved all of those feelings aside to grieve the end of what I had thought was the promising start of a new relationship. I’d even gone on a few dates, one with a fireman from Bellevue and another with a small-business owner in Seattle. Both dates ended miserably for me, as I only compared the men to Seth. And then, about a month later, after grieving more deeply than I should for a man I barely knew, I worked up the nerve to call him.

      “I miss you,” I said as soon as he picked up. “I don’t want to miss you but I do.”

      And then I’d asked if his wife knew if he was looking for someone new to have his babies. There was a long pause on Seth’s end, longer than I would have liked. I was about to tell him to forget I even asked when he replied with a breathy, “Yes.”

      “Wait,” I said, pressing the phone closer to my ear. “Did you say yes?”

      “We agreed on this together,” he said with more confidence. “That I needed to be with someone who wanted the same things as I do.”

      “You told her?” I asked again.

      “After our first date, I thought we had something and I told her that. I knew it was a risk, but we had something. A connection.”

      “And she was just okay with it?”

      “No... Yes. I mean, it’s hard. She said it was time to look at our options. That she loved me but understood.”

      I was quiet on my end of the phone, digesting everything he was saying.

      “Can I see you?” he’d asked. “Just for a drink or a coffee. Something simple.”

      I wanted to say no, to be the type of strong, resolved woman who didn’t budge. But instead, I found myself making plans to meet him at a local coffee shop the following week. When I hung up, I had to remind myself that I’d been the one to call him and he hadn’t manipulated me into anything. You’re in control, I told myself. You’ll be his legal wife. I was so, so wrong.

       THREE

      I arrive home Saturday morning after my shift and immediately fall into bed. It had been a long night, the kind that stretches you into mental and emotional exhaustion. There was a ten-car pileup on 5 that brought a dozen people into the emergency room, and then a domestic disturbance sent a husband into the ER with three gunshot wounds in his abdomen. His wife had run in ten minutes later with a toddler on her hip, blood soaking through her yellow shirt. She was screaming that it was all a mistake. Every night in the ER was a horror movie: open wounds, crying, pain. By the end of the night, the floors were sticky with blood, slicked over with vomit. I wear black scrubs so the mess doesn’t show.

      I’m just dozing off when I hear the front door open and close, followed by the sound of a train whistle. The whistle part of our security system notifies me every time the front door opens. I bolt upright in bed, my eyes wide. Did I dream that or did it just happen? Seth is in Portland; he texted me last night and never mentioned coming home. I wait, completely still, ears pricked—ready to shoot out of bed and—

      My head swivels left and right as I look for a weapon, my heart pounding. The gun my father gave me for my twenty-first birthday is stashed somewhere in my closet. I try to recall where but I’m trembling from fear. Another weapon, then... My bedroom is a collection of soft, feminine things; there are no weapons on hand. I throw off blankets, struggling to my feet. I’m a stupid, defenseless girl who has a gun and doesn’t know where it is or how to use it. Did I forget to lock the door? I’d been half-asleep when I got home, stumbling around, kicking off shoes... And then I hear my mother’s voice from the foyer, calling my name. My panic recedes, but my heart is still pounding. I hold a hand over it, closing my eyes. A jingle—when my mother moves, she jingles. I relax, my shoulders slumping into a normal, relaxed position. That’s right. She was coming over today to have lunch. How had I forgotten? You’re tired, you need to sleep, I tell myself. I straighten my hair in the dresser mirror and scrub the sleep from my eyes before stepping out of the bedroom and into the hall. I arrange my face into something cheerful.

      “Mom, hi,” I say, stepping forward to give her a quick hug. “I just got home. Sorry, I haven’t had time to shower.”

      My mother steps out of my embrace to look me over; her perfectly coiffed hair catches the light from the window and I see she has fresh highlights.

      “You look fantastic,” I say. It’s what I’m supposed to say, but she really does.

      “You look tired,” she tsks. “Why don’t you shower and I’ll make lunch for us here instead of going out.” Just like that, I’m dismissed in my own home. It’s uncanny how she can still make me feel like a teenager.

      I nod, feeling a rush of gratitude, despite