My mother sets down a plate of salad in front of me, the cherry tomatoes from her garden an angry red among all the green. There is still a chance for me. I could expose Regina for what she is. Seth would see that I have his best interest at heart, that I am his true champion. He didn’t realize how much of a toll this lifestyle was taking on him: the angry outbursts were just one of the ways his stress was manifesting. It wouldn’t matter that I couldn’t give him children. I would leave Hannah to that. And besides, she would be preoccupied with their baby. Aren’t new mothers notorious for neglecting their men once they have a tiny person to take care of? I would step in where she failed.

My mind is made up. I know what I have to do. If I can’t beat Hannah, I will beat Regina. Take the nest from three to two.

Hi, Regina,

I love Tom Waits. Saw him in concert a few years ago. It was probably my favorite concert of all time. I’m sorry to hear about your marriage. My sister got a divorce last year and she’s still a mess about it. I’m glad you’re okay and ready to get back out there again! His loss is my gain. If you don’t mind me asking, what was the reason you decided to end things? Do you have any regrets about your marriage? As for me, I haven’t had a serious relationship in a while. I’ve thrown myself into my work these last few years. But I’m ready to settle down (I think). Will be visiting my sister in Montana this weekend—what are you doing?

Talk soon,

Will

   THIRTEEN

Pathetic. I can’t even get having a fight with my husband right.

I replay our conversation over in my head, the one we had after I left my parents’ house. I’d called Seth as soon as I pulled out of their driveway. I wanted to tell him how great our time had been together, how much I enjoyed being with him the other night, but he sent me to voice mail. He called back twenty minutes later when I was walking into the elevator of our building.

“Hey,” he’d said. “I was on the phone...” His voice had cut out and as I held the phone closer to my ear I heard the word “...parents...”

Seth’s parents: I’d never met them. Their lifestyle meant keeping to themselves most of the time, and they rarely traveled outside of Utah. As the elevator door opened and I spilled out, I had an idea. I’d suggested it to Seth.

“We should take our vacation to Utah! How long has it been since you’ve spent time with your family?” I’d expected him to love the idea, jump on the opportunity to use our time together to go home, but Seth’s reaction shocked me, his voice immediately going cold.

“No,” he’d said, followed by a deep sigh, like I was a child. Seth has been putting off a face-to-face meeting with his parents for the two years we’ve been together. “My family is fucked up,” he’d always said. “Busy people.” He says “busy” like I’m not busy, like I couldn’t possibly understand the demands of their life.

“You have half siblings!” I’d argued. “Surely they can spare some time. I’d like to meet them...”

Seth had shot down the idea somewhat aggressively, and we’d argued about it until I gave in. That’s what I do to avoid losing Seth’s favor—I give in. I will not be the nagging shrew. I will not be the difficult wife. I will be the favorite, the one who makes his life easier. Who volunteers to suck his cock to ease his bad day and moans like it’s her receiving the pleasure.

The truth is, I’m not even sure I want to meet his parents. They’re polygamists, for God’s sake. Not the kind we are, either. They all live together and wear odd clothes and raise children collectively like they’re some sort of rabbit-fucking hive. Imagine looking the other woman in the eye every day, washing her dishes and changing her children’s diapers, and knowing she was clawing your husband’s back in pleasure last night. It seems so twisted, but who am I to talk? The reason I haven’t told any of my friends or family the truth is because of how twisted it would sound to them.

Either way, they are his parents, and on principle, it feels right that I should meet them. I’ve earned that. A thought occurs to me that I’m not entirely comfortable with: What if they’ve already met Hannah? Would Seth even tell me if they had? After his reaction that left me bleeding, I’m too afraid to ask.

I pour myself a glass of wine, my second for the hour, and wander into the living room to watch some TV. The only thing I can find to watch are episodes of trash reality shows that I’ve already seen. Somehow, the messy lives of reality stars make me feel better about my own. There is something dull and vapid about the plastic-looking women on those shows, despite their fame and fortune—no matter if they deserve it or not. There is something hopeful about that for the rest of us. We’re all fucked up, every single one of us, I think.

But twenty minutes later, I can’t seem to focus. I turn off the TV and stare at a wall, my anger still festering. I go to the hall closet to retrieve the cards his parents have sent over the years, eight in total, and study the signatures at the bottom. The cards are generic, flowers or teddy bears on the front of them—all the same, never with anything personal aside from their hastily scratched names: Perry and Phyllis. That seems strange, doesn’t it? They might not know me, but they could at least express their desire to. Can’t wait to meet you! Hugs! Or maybe even, Seth says such wonderful things about you. I think about all the cards I’ve sent them, my eagerness spelled out in the notes I’ve written, telling them about our condo in Seattle and—before the miscarriage—the names we’d chosen for the baby. I feel silly about it now, sharing all of those details with them and them not caring enough to respond. I wish I could ask Hannah or Regina about them—what they thought, if they ever had any meaningful interaction.

I’ve not so much as emailed with his mother, though I’ve asked on several occasions for her email address. I figure that if we can make some sort of connection online, we’ve made progress. Seth always tells me he’ll send it over and never quite gets around to it.

The day before our wedding, his dad, Perry, had been rushed in for emergency gallbladder surgery and his mom hadn’t wanted to leave her husband’s side. I hadn’t seen the problem, since there were four other wives to tend to him, weren’t there?

“She’s his legal wife. She has to be there to oversee things in case something comes up,” Seth told me.

After they missed the wedding, they promised to come up for Christmas, but then his mother came down with pneumonia. For Easter it was strep throat, and the following Christmas it was something else. When I lost the baby, they sent flowers, which I’d thrown straight in the trash. I didn’t want any reminders of what had happened. They always send a card on my birthday, fifty dollars tucked inside.

I finish my glass of wine and pull up Regina’s Facebook profile. Maybe she has pictures with them somewhere. It’s a long shot but worth a try. Seth doesn’t have any pictures of them. He says they hate cameras and cell phones, and for legal reasons never take any photos together. Just as I thought, Regina’s profile yields no information. Neither does Hannah’s. I don’t know if I should feel relieved or more upset.