His Other Wife Read online

  “You’d let me do that?”

  “It would be good for you to talk to her.”

  “I…I don’t know what to say.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  “I —”

  “Tell her you’re glad to see her. Remind her of the fun things you do together. Hold her hand if you’d like. Tell her things that will make her want to fight to come back.”

  Emily followed Laura’s mom up the hall. When the heavy door swung open, Emily hung back, not knowing what to expect. Her eyes took several seconds to adjust to the darkened room. The small, draped figure on the bed didn’t look like anyone Emily knew. The shape might have been a mannequin onstage, a strange pale thing used for a prop, its head wrapped with dressings, skin as pale as wax. An array of hoses hung at the bedside, the clear tubes dangling from the IV station, delivering coma-inducing drugs. The plastic tubing that carried oxygen and the flex trach tube attached to the ventilator. The shape in the bed didn’t have hair; it must have been shaved. Laura’s hair had been long and thick, dark strands that just last week Emily had braided.

  Just when Emily thought she could pretend this person wasn’t anyone she knew at all, just when Emily thought that this must be some terrible error, this wasn’t Laura here at all, she recognized the feet poking out the end of the blanket. She saw the long second toe that Emily had always teased Laura over, the cracked nail that had happened when Laura had stubbed her toe. They’d been dancing to a Taylor Swift song.

  Emily couldn’t hold back another sob. Other than the chest rising and falling with the ventilator, her friend lay motionless. Emily lifted Laura’s hand and used her other hand to close Laura’s thumb over her own. “I’m here,” she whispered. “I’ve been here lots. Did you know that? Your mom said she told you.”

  No response. Emily glanced at Laura’s mom for reassurance.

  Abigail nodded. Go ahead, she mouthed.

  “You know how we planned to go shopping for our dorm rooms together?” Emily asked. “There’s a bedspread at Urban Outfitters I really like. I can’t wait to show it to you.”

  A long pause, then, “We can go to the thrift shop and find old chairs we can paint to match. I watched a TV show about how to refurbish old chairs.”

  Another pause. “I miss you. You’ve got to get better.” Here the tears started again while Abigail came up from behind to hug her. Emily had lost count of how many times she’d cried. “You’ve got so many stuffed animals and flowers and balloons in the waiting room. You should see it all.”

  Then, “You’ve got to keep fighting, okay? We just want you to get better.”

  Laura’s mom’s fingers tightened on Emily’s shoulder.

  After Emily left the hospital she tried once more to reach Seth. Hi, you’ve reached Seth’s phone. Leave a message. I’ll get back to you.

  Leave.

  She left a voice message when he didn’t pick up. She punched in a text message, which he didn’t return.

  She waited, but the screen stayed dark. Emily shoved the phone inside her purse as she climbed the steps to the L. She pitched her backpack onto the bench as the train lurched forward. Her body went boneless as she slumped onto the seat and buried her face in her hands.

  Hilary dropped the tangle of towels on the kitchen table and began to fold one, her hands smoothing the terry cloth into thirds. Across the room, she watched as Seth sat slumped on the sofa, his albatross arms draped across the entire width of the couch. Perched on his small knees, his feet tucked under, Ben had settled in beside Seth, his face upturned toward his stepbrother’s. The question, innocent and troubled, left Hilary’s throat knotted.

  “How come you don’t like the truck we gave you?”

  “Man.” Seth must not have realized his mom was anywhere within hearing distance. “You’re wrong about that. It’s the hottest truck ever.” Hilary stopped, gingerly laid the towel on top of the pile, raised her head.

  “Really?” Ben asked.

  “Of course. Are you kidding?”

  The boy’s eyes grew round, expectant. “Then why won’t you drive it?”

  Seth drew in a sharp breath. He untangled his long arms and rocked forward. He rubbed his thumb against the bridge of his nose as if trying to make a headache go away.

  “Why?” Ben asked again. “I don’t understand.”

  Hilary stood her ground that Eric and Pam should have talked to her before they showed up with a Ford F-150. It’s true they ought to have conferred with her as they’d kicked around the idea of a truck. But she’d let that woman bait her into returning hostility and bringing herself down to Pam’s own level. And because of that, Hilary had let Seth see beyond the poker face she ought to have been wearing and, like the day he’d tried to knock-knock-joke her back to sanity when he’d been eight, he’d gone and done what he thought he needed to do to make Hilary feel better.

  Which you were perfectly willing to let him do, she reminded herself. You were perfectly willing to walk away and let him carry the weight of all that, the way you’ve been willing to let him carry the weight ever since Eric left home.

  Seth said, “I guess some things are hard to explain.”

  Apparently Seth’s noncommittal answer was enough to satisfy Ben. The little boy shifted subjects with the same deft speed he used when he shifted to go after a rebound.

  “We’ve got pictures on our camera. You want to see pictures?”

  “Sure.”

  With their heads together like that, even with one dark and the other light, it was hard to see where one boy ended and the other began. Ben launched into a travelogue of the adventures of the Wynn-children-exploring-Chicago-with-their-mom, which he accompanied frame by slow frame from the viewfinder of the digital camera. They’d visited the Children’s Museum and spent a great deal of time in the schooner exhibit, he told Seth, with Lily checking out the fish and Ben scaling the schooner riggings. They bought a kite in the museum shop and Pam had to find an open spot so she could teach them to fly it.

  Then, just like that, Ben’s conversation changed course again. “Seth, if you ever drive your new truck, can Lily sit in your lap and hold the steering wheel? She really wants to.”

  “Of course she can.”

  Whatever the boys had been watching on television ended. Music played, then gave way to a toothpaste commercial. “Seth?” Ben asked.

  “Yeah.”

  And when Hilary heard his words, her heart felt too big for her chest. “You know what I’m going to do if you get put in jail, Seth? You don’t have to worry. I’ll come rescue you. I’ll figure something out. I’ll break you out of there.”

  John R. Mulligan, Esquire, was grateful for business. No matter that the economy had tanked on Wall Street, no matter that people were going hungry on Main Street, litigable conflicts didn’t go away.

  Sure, divorce numbers had fallen. Not as many folks could afford a breakup these days. But when it came to knife altercations between neighbors, brothers threatening each other over the selling of land, colleagues accusing each other of blackmail and conspiracy, the trade kept getting better and better. Let people call him idealistic if they wanted. He liked to think of himself as representing the poor, the injured, the ignored, the forgotten.

  If he liked civil cases, he liked pro bono criminal cases better. Still, he didn’t take a case unless he was sure he could win it. He’d told this to Hilary Myers, the former Hilary Wynn, the first time she’d appeared in his office. John was a modest attorney who had never lost a criminal case as either a prosecutor or a defense attorney. He was best known for his powerful courtroom victories. He hadn’t lost a civil case since 1983.

  He had his tricks; this was easier than it sounded. He kept the odds in his favor by declining cases he couldn’t win, no matter what he believed about the guilt or innocence of his client. He liked mounting wins without any intervening losses. Selective maneuvering. That’s what he called it.

  So why take a case that might blemish his record now?


  When Hilary Wynn had stepped into his office, when she had told him her husband had filed for divorce, Mulligan knew the moment he looked into her face that her world had been overturned. But she didn’t rant or cry when she’d told him the details. She sat in the chair across his desk with her hands folded and her chin raised. Her eyes, steel gray with determination, hadn’t wavered from his. “I know you’re the best,” she’d said. “I don’t trust my husband and I don’t trust myself through this. Can I trust you?”

  “There are others you could trust, Mrs. Wynn.” But something about her reminded him of himself — the resolution in her eyes, the way she’d asked for an appointment in person instead of relaying those first details over the phone. Until John saw Hilary, he hadn’t realized how much of himself had been carved away by his dead wife’s absence.

  Hearing Hilary’s story — ironically — brought back the physical symptoms of grief that he’d experienced after his own wife’s death, the speechless immobility, the shaking knees. After that, each small triumph in Hilary’s case had felt like a conquest for John, too. She’d given her case a boost by being present in it, bringing him new details in a measured voice that neither condemned her husband nor released him from his responsibility.

  During a lunch meeting she had leaned across the table and had told John how she admired the man she had married in spite of what he’d done to her. After that, in one brief phone call, she’d suggested a formula for sorting out their financial differences, something she’d come up with on her own, that John still used with other clients.

  Yes, they would think he had done it because of Hilary.

  Others would say he did it because he had a soft heart, because he understood the boy’s emotional upheaval. John knew what sort of damage could be done when a father exited his son’s life.

  But no matter how people speculated, they wouldn’t come up with the correct answer. Because John didn’t think anyone, not even Hilary, had noticed what he’d seen when he’d visited with Seth the day the entire senior class had an arraignment hearing. John had seen the bright surge of anger in Seth’s eyes.

  John R. Mulligan, Esquire, knew how to analyze potential clients. No matter what had happened to one girl climbing a rock, like the ice that coated limbs and power lines whenever bitter cold struck Chicago, John sensed the boy had been on the verge, ready to shatter to pieces.

  Who am I? I don’t know who I am, the boy might as well have been shouting. What have they done with Seth Wynn? The truth be told, John Mulligan had accepted this case because he’d made a snap judgment, and he would stick by it.

  Perhaps finding out what the boy wasn’t telling would be worth going down in defeat.

  Pam’s body had always revolted with pregnancy. It wasn’t fair how some women could carry a child with as much ease as they would attend a tea party while others, like Pam, felt overcome. She felt like she’d been attacked by a marauding intruder, like carrying a child was an affliction instead of a normal occurrence. How could one tiny living thing in your uterus make you sick enough to turn your stomach inside out? How could a normal biological function make you feel so tired and antisocial that you wanted to turn your face to the wall?

  Ben had made her run to the bathroom each morning for weeks, but she’d handled it, the same way she’d handled everything else going on in the marriage that her father had approved. At that point it had been hard but fine. She’d hoped having a baby would make things better between her and her then-husband; the nausea had been a relief, a sure signal of success.

  It had been the onslaught of Lily that had altered Pam’s world, the first tinge of queasiness that she’d thought was the flu, the morning she’d canceled a design appointment because she just didn’t have the energy to talk to anyone, the hours she’d spent perched on the edge of the bed trying to make her stomach settle so she could do anything.

  She’d waited a week to tell Eric, which she had known was too long, but she’d needed time to get used to the idea before she could announce the news without a question in her eyes. She had no idea how he would react. She and Eric hadn’t talked about this. She knew how to arrange rooms that pleased people, how to place paintings, rugs, and pillows to create focal points and balance, how to entice someone’s eye with form, texture, and color. If only her life with Eric could have been arranged with such ease! An affair could be an uncomfortable, messy thing. Even after such a wait, a ripple of terror had gone through her as she sat across the table from him. His face had been unreadable. “We’ll get this figured out,” he’d said.

  “I didn’t want this to be something we had to figure out,” she’d said. “I wanted this to be something we’d be excited about.”

  “Will it be hard for you to take time off from working?” This whole conversation had been like a labor pain, squeezing them, shooting them forward. Pam had shaken her head. No. It wouldn’t be hard. But it might not be easy.

  “It is something to be excited about, Pam. Something I’ve wanted a long time.”

  “But you have Seth.”

  “It’s something I’ve wanted with you.”

  Chapter 17

  Emily had discovered a secret about graduating from high school. You walked around your senior year and everybody thought you were the most important thing on earth. They envied you because you’d almost made it to the end. There was a whole big world out there and you were about to walk to the end of the high-diving board and jump off into it.

  But what people didn’t know was that no matter how boring high school could be, no matter how tired you got of seeing the same people, there was something comfortable there that you missed when it was gone.

  Gone. Finished.

  Every end was also a new beginning.

  That is, unless you died.

  If anyone had told her she would be sorry that school had ended, she would have called that person certifiably crazy.

  It was the routine she missed, mostly. Graduation always happened the third week of May. The other three classes stayed in school until finals the first week of June. During May, the underclassmen looked at you like you were royalty. They skittered away and gazed at you, starry-eyed, from afar. Emily would have given anything to rewind the clock to last week. She wanted a do-over.

  Today Emily had gone to say hi to her teachers. Three days after graduation and, instead of treating her like she belonged, they treated her like a guest. The principal had even made her backtrack to the front office and sign in to get a visitor’s pass.

  One blink, one breath. Like that, everything changes.

  Emily’s hands were shaking as she parked her car beside the curb at Seth’s house. Walking up Seth’s front steps, she felt like her feet were heavier than steel. She didn’t think Seth was her boyfriend anymore. He wouldn’t talk to her. He wasn’t returning her texts or her calls. Emily had heard about girls who got broken up with via text message or Facebook. You’d think Seth would at least talk to her long enough to break up with her!

  Emily paused at the front door. She wanted to turn and walk away. Instead she took a deep breath and steeled herself. She knocked on the door and waited. Knocking seemed so much less intrusive than ringing the doorbell.

  It was too late now. Emily could hear Seth’s stepsister, Lily, shouting, “There’s somebody at the door! Somebody get it!”

  No one must have heard her. Either that or they were all too busy thinking about their own problems. Everyone ignored the little girl.

  Emily knocked again. “Isn’t anybody going to get that?” Lily called.

  Just as Emily was about to give up and go back to the car, the door started to open. “Lily, are you sure there’s someone out here?” It was Seth’s mom. It took Seth’s mom a long moment of staring before she recognized her, which Emily thought was probably a bad sign. “Emily? Sweetie? Oh, honey. It’s you.”

  “I came to see Seth.” Her voice croaked. “Is he here?”

  “He’s here.” Seth’
s mom hesitated before she opened the door. “But I don’t know if he’ll talk to you.”

  Emily stood her ground. It was too late to retreat now. “Maybe it isn’t fair. But do you think you could convince him? Would you try?”

  Seth’s mother threw open the door. “Of course I can try, Emily. Honey, I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Thank you.” Emily stepped inside. “Thank you so much.”

  “Em,” his mom said. “If he’ll talk to anybody, I know it will be you.”

  Emily listened, her throat bone-dry, while his mom went down the hall and gave three light raps on Seth’s door. “Seth. There’s someone here to see you. You have a guest.”

  The mattress creaked, which meant he’d been stretched out on the bed staring at the ceiling. Seth’s mom nodded at Emily, as if they were making progress. A creaking mattress meant that he was sitting up, maybe considering it. When Emily had called the house, Seth’s mom had apologetically said the only people who’d been able to roust him out of his cave had been Lily and Ben. “Who? Who’s here?”

  “It’s Emily.”

  A beat. Then, “I don’t want to see anybody.”

  “Are you sure? She’s standing right here.”

  “We have nothing to talk about.”

  “She says she’s been texting you and you won’t answer.”

  “Well,” Seth growled through the door. “Tell her to get an idea. When a boy stops calling a girl…you know what that means. I have nothing to say.”

  “Seth.” Hilary leaned her forehead against the door. “There’s been a lot of hurt already. Is that a reason to cause more?”

  “It’s every reason.”

  “Seth.” His mom’s voice was starting to sound a little frantic. “You know me. You know I respect your privacy. You know I respect your opinions. I wouldn’t push you to do this. But I’m worried about you.”

  A sound came from Seth’s room that sounded like something between a chair thumping sideways and a sigh of regret. “Tell her to wait up. I’ll be out in a minute.”