The Replacement Wife: A Psychological Thriller Read online

  I do, and it’s all I can manage to contain myself. I have the need to pick up the towel and scrub the leftover sauce. But I don’t. Somehow it seemed to do so would make his spiel less effective.

  “Our society has lost its sense of standards. Just look at what’s happening in the world. Look how many people are either broke, obese, divorced, disease-ridden, or drug and alcohol addicted.”

  I take account although I already know. Me, I’m broke. The bottle owns my best friend. My neighbor eats every meal out of a sack even though he’s had two heart attacks.

  “We can fix this,” Mark assured me. “But it starts with us. I don’t know about you and June, but Beth and I want to surround ourselves with like-minded people. People who demand success of themselves and others. People who seek mastery in all areas of life. We want that for our children.”

  I think of my children, the source of the laughter coming from the living room.

  “Just think about it, Tom. What are we leaving for the next generation and the one after that? More of the same? The status quo?”

  He has a point. “I don’t know.”

  “Okay, fine. I’ll back off,” he said finally. “This is your call.”

  “I just—”

  “I get it. But just between you and I— we don’t really even follow the teachings of the Bible. Well, not the whole thing. Mainly, we focus on the important passages. You know, the ones that stand out.”

  “No,” I said. “I don’t know. I’m an atheist. ”

  “It’s like filler.”

  “That seems deceptive.”

  “Call it what you want. You’ve seen our numbers. We’re small—but we’re growing. People want change. Like you, they want more for themselves and for their families. They want to feel safe, and they’re desperate for something better.”

  I was in the process of thinking of a final way to say no thanks when June entered the kitchen with empty glasses. Beth followed her in, and I watched as the two of them stood next to one another, placing the dishes in the sink. It’s only then I got an accurate comparison. Beth may not have seemed that intelligent, but she’s aces in the looks department. Not a single hair out of place, immaculate appearance, fit and trim, even after children. She’s almost perfect. “I’ll talk it over with my wife,” I said, looking at June.

  Mark grinned. “That’s a very good call.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Melanie

  After circle time, Mrs. Elizabeth tucks her hand inside my elbow and tells me to come with her. “When is breakfast?” I ask, toying with small talk, but also, I’m hungry.

  “No breakfast for you, Mrs. Anderson,” she says. “You’re on a liquid diet.”

  I struggle to keep up with her. “When can I expect my liquid breakfast then?”

  She doesn’t answer me. Instead, she halts and looks down at her chart. I watch as her eyes scan the page. “A smoothie was left on your bedside table.” She points and looks to see if my eyes follow. “I see here it was reported as being empty…”

  Vanessa.

  “Mrs. Anderson?” She turns to me and places her hands on my shoulders. The clipboard rests against my back. I wonder how useful of a weapon it might be. I wonder if I could make it to the end of the hall and if I could, how I’d get out. She searches my eyes. Her face is a mix of serious and stern and something else I can’t read. “I asked you a question. Did you or did you not consume your smoothie?”

  I’m not thinking straight when I answer. My mind is occupied with the thought that if I hit her just right, I could knock her out, maybe kill her, and then I could bolt. “I did.”

  She carefully assesses my face. “Because we take theft very seriously around here.”

  “There was no theft,” I assure her. “I just thought there might be an actual breakfast is all,” I add afterward because when you lie it’s important to add a little substance. Lies should be simple. Never boring.

  She takes me by the elbow, and the next thing I know we are barreling down the long corridor once again. “Not on the weight loss plan there isn’t.”

  “The what?”

  Mrs. Elizabeth doesn’t answer. She walks until suddenly she stops and uses her badge to open a door. “Your advisor will explain all that,” she tells me, nudging me through the doorway. It feels like she’s poking a bruise, testing to see how much it hurts. She nods. “That’s her there.”

  I expect to see Beth on the other side of the desk but quickly learn that an advisor and a sponsor are not one and the same.

  The woman gestures toward a chair on the other side of her desk. “Have a seat.”

  I adjust my hospital gown, which has come loose in the back, before I decide modesty in a place like this is of no use. Bracing myself on the arms of the chair, I carefully lower down into it.

  As the woman writes whatever it is she writes on the notepad in front of her, I survey the small office. Behind her is a small window. The shade is down, which is disappointing since it feels like forever since I’ve seen the outdoors. She sits at a large wooden desk that is covered in files. There’s a computer on the desk and a single painting of a meadow hangs on the wall. There’s nothing personal, no artifacts from real life, which tells me she either doesn’t have a personal life, or she isn’t that important around here. Maybe both.

  “I can assure you there’s a method to the madness,” she mentions, clearly noticing my eyes on the file folders that are stacked on every available surface. They aren’t labeled in names, merely numbers. She isn’t looking at me when she says it. She’s staring at the file in front of her.

  I take the opportunity to take her in. People always give more away when they don’t think you’re looking. Red hair, green eyes. Mid to late forties, if I had to guess. She’s had work done on her face. What exactly, it’s hard to tell. What I know for sure is she’s strikingly beautiful, same as most of the women around here. Except for the old ones. They don’t seem to care.

  “Sit up straight, please.”

  I do as she asks. Something tells me I want to be compliant with this one. At least in the beginning. So I arch my back and bring my shoulder blades in until they touch one another.

  She leans forward and folds her hands. After a moment, she lays them on the file and then meets my eye. “Do you know why you’re here?”

  When she looks at me, I get the feeling I want to know everything there is to know about her. At the same time, I understand. She isn’t the kind of person one can ever really know. She’s familiar in that way.

  I shake my head slowly. The less you say the better.

  “I’m Mrs. Ann Banks. Your advisor.”

  “Mel.”

  Her forehead crinkles to the extent that it can. “I’m aware of who you are,” she tells me, sucking her bottom lip between her teeth. “And your name is Melanie.”

  “Only my mother calls me that.”

  “Well—from now on, everyone does.” She cocks her head slowly when she speaks. Her icy stare burns into me. I want to be her when I grow up.

  I glance around the office. This has to be some sort of joke. “Did my parents put you up to this?”

  “I don’t know your parents from Adam.”

  My eyes widen. “Adam?”

  She leans forward slightly and then pulls back. “It’s just an expression.”

  I study the painting. It’s the only thing somewhat cheery I’ve seen around this place. Everything else is clinical and bare. “It was a gift.”

  I think she expects me to say something in return, but I don’t, so she fills the silence.

  “I suppose you want to know why you’re here.”

  “Yes,” I reply. “And I’d like to go home.”

  Her fingers toy with the edge of the chart. “All in good time,” she tells me.

  “How much time are we talking?”

  “First, we’ve got to get you all recovered.” She glances at my waist. “I take it you’ve had a look?”

  My brow crea
ses. I really hate it when people make me second-guess my opinion.

  “Vaginal rejuvenation has about a week-long period where minimal activity is required. In six weeks you’ll be able to resume all activities.”

  “Six weeks? You can’t keep me here for six weeks.”

  Her mouth forms into a thin line. “It’s in the agreement you signed, Mrs. Anderson.”

  The words feel strange and foreign coming from her mouth. Few people call me that name. It feels personal.

  “I am fast at recovering,” I assure her.

  “Maybe,” she says. “But what matters is how efficient you are with reprogramming.”

  “Reprogramming?”

  She slides a book across the desk. “This contains a copy of the agreement.” We both stare at the cover. “I highly suggest you take a look at it.” She exhales. I think she is waiting for me to say something. “It will save us both a lot of time.”

  I take the book from the desk and turn it over in my hands.

  “You’ll want to memorize it,” she says. “Make sure you can recite it forward and backward, in your sleep. You’ll be tested before you’re released to go home.”

  I don’t know where home is.

  “Can I call my parents?”

  “The answer to that question is there in that book. You should know this. It too was in the agreement you signed when you agreed to marry Mr. Anderson. Which means I can only assume you never bothered to read it.”

  She would be correct in her assumption. Agreements are made to be broken. I don’t tell her this. Some things are worth keeping to yourself.

  Her face is almost sympathetic. “Having trouble cleaving can be normal in the beginning.”

  “I don’t know what that means.”

  “Leaving the nest, leaving your old life behind. It can be tough.”

  “Right.” I stare at my hands, and when that gets old I twist my wedding ring around my finger.

  “How are you feeling about the surgery?”

  “Fine,” I lie.

  She folds her hands and places them in her lap. “Is there anything else about yourself you’d like to change?”

  “So, it’s a choice then?” My tone turns bitter. “Because—”

  “It was a choice, yes. When you signed the agreement, you opted into this lifestyle.”

  “This lifestyle?”

  She gives me a look that showcases her exasperation. “Read the agreement Mrs. Anderson. Please.”

  “How about my husband. Can I call him?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  My stomach sinks. “Can I call anyone?” I don’t know who I’d call, even if she said yes.

  “You may write letters. In time.”

  I look on earnestly, too eagerly, as she makes a note of something on her notepad.

  “In the meantime, then what? How do I know I’m not going to just wake up with a new face? Or giant tits? You know, to go with my new vagina.”

  “Are you unhappy with any of those things?”

  “What?” I cock my head. “No.”

  She nods in understanding. But I’m not sure she believes me. “We’re here for you, Mrs. Anderson. To make your life better. The sooner you understand this, the easier things will be. And the sooner you get to go home.” I watch as her fingers drum on her desk.

  “How about lipo?” I change my mind. The drumming stops. I need to see how far this can go. “I’m not happy with my thighs. I really want that gap everyone is talking about.”

  “That’s why you’re on the weight loss program,” she tells me. Then she bites her lip and raises her brow, and I realize anything is possible. “First things first.”

  “Body sculpting?”

  “Maybe.”

  “What about my roots? Can I get a touch up?”

  “Once you’re settled, of course.” She shifts. “But let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

  “A facial?”

  She doesn’t answer. Instead, she opens her laptop and turns the screen to face me, pointing a web cam in my direction. “Before we get to any of that, I want you to tell me about the first time you can remember telling a lie.”

  I raise my brow.

  “I understand you lied to your husband about your past.”

  “Did he put me in here?”

  She shakes her head just a touch, so it’s not a flat-out denial. “You put yourself in here. It’s very important you take responsibility, Melanie. That’s the only way change can occur.”

  “Maybe I don’t want change.”

  “You just asked me for liposuction.”

  “That’s different.”

  “No,” she says. “That’s where you’re wrong.”

  “Bach?”

  She cocks her head. “Excuse me?”

  “On your desk,” I motion. “You were playing Bach.”

  Her eyes widen slightly. “Yes.”

  “A piano player?” I’m stalling, and I think she sees it. I recall years of forced lessons. Wonderful memories. All of them.

  She nods her head. “Once, a long time ago, yes.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Me too.”

  She isn’t one for nostalgia. I can tell by the way she redirects the conversation. “Your first lie, Mrs. Anderson. Can you remember?”

  I shrug and stare at myself on the screen. It’s scary how you always look different than you think. I really could use a touch up.

  “I need you to speak slowly and carefully,” she tells me. “Don’t rush. And don’t leave anything out.”

  “What if they don’t like me?” I asked my nanny. My Julia, with her wide hazel eyes and big round belly. Julia, with her caring hands, creaky knees, and soft heart.

  “They are going to love you, Miss Mel,” she said. I can still remember her eyes glistening as she called me by my pet name. Julia was probably the only person I’ve ever genuinely liked.

  “Look at you,” she remarked, slipping my backpack on my shoulders. “A big girl.”

  “I’m five. And when you’re five, you have to go to school,” I told her, repeating my mother’s words. Words I knew were supposed to mean something, but didn’t.

  “That’s right, baby girl.”

  I felt empty inside. “But I want to stay here with you. Like always.”

  “Nah,” she said, fanning the air. “You’ve got too many things to do yet, too many friends to make. “Here—” She held up a bottle of perfume. “How about a little something to keep us close?”

  My eyes lit up. I loved Julia’s magic spray. “This way you can think of me and know I’m right there with you,” she said, softly jabbing her finger into my heart.

  I giggled as she playfully spritzed some on my dress. For good measure, she dabbed a little behind my ears. Then she pulled me into her oversized chest and held me there. I couldn’t breathe. But I never minded too much. “Now, go. Your Mama’s waiting on you.”

  “I love you, Julia.”

  She smiled. “And I you.”

  “Jesus, Melanie,” my mother said in the car. She asked the driver to crack a window. “You smell like the help.”

  That reminded me. “I want to stay with Julia.”

  My mother ignored me the first two times I’d said it. On the third she told me that was enough, it was time for the silent game. Then she turned away.

  “How do I make friends?” I asked when we reached the parking lot.

  My mother shrugged. She had a lot of friends. I thought she would know. “Tell them about your pony. Tell them about your vacation to Italy last summer. Teach them some Italian. ”

  “I was four then. I forgotted it.”

  She had that sad look on her face she got whenever I was around. “I thought you were a smart girl.”

  I stared at the lines in the pavement, so I wouldn’t have to remember where the look she wore came from. “I don’t like school. I don’t want to be five.”

  “I don’t have time for this, Melanie,” she huffed. “I’m already missing hal
f of aerobics, and this is how you show your appreciation?”

  I don’t recall what happened next. All I know is during share time we were supposed to stand and tell everyone our name. “I’m Melanie,” I said. “I have a pony, and I went to Italy on vacation.” The rest I said in Italian. I wanted to make Mama proud.

  “Wow, Melanie,” the teacher smiled. “That is very impressive.”

  Later at recess, the other girls crowded around me. “Ponies are stupid,” a girl with red hair said. “Her dress is stupid,” another said. “You stink,” the redhead told me. She leaned in close to get a good whiff. “Hey,” she exclaimed, pulling one of the curls Julia had given me. I stood there while they circled like sharks. “I think we should call her Smelly Melly,” she chanted. “Smelly Melly!” Everyone joined in. Only one person was allowed to call me Melly. I didn’t care about the rest.

  At nap time, when the teacher wasn’t looking, I took my scissors and cut the redheaded girl’s hair. Her screams woke me from my nap.

  “Did you cut that girl’s hair, Melanie?” my mother demanded over dinner.

  “No,” I lied.

  “Well, someone did it,” my father said.

  I shrugged and stuffed my fork in my mouth.

  “It was probably that Goldsmith girl. Heaven knows her parents don’t teach her any manners. Remember—”

  “I’ll have a talk with the teacher,” my father said. “We don’t want people assuming it was Melanie.”

  “No,” my mother agreed. “We don’t.”

  That’s the first time I learned how to get away with your crimes. It was the first time I learned I liked to see people suffer. So long as no one could prove you did it, nothing bad could happen. You were untouchable.