The Replacement Wife: A Psychological Thriller Page 17

  “But Tom doesn’t drink,” I remind her.

  She laughed. “No one needs to know that.”

  “They don’t?”

  “This is about creating a fantasy, Melanie. This is about making your life better. You have to be more interesting, more fun, and more beautiful. You have to outdo the average girl your age who is sitting behind some screen in her two-day-old pajamas, with her unwashed hair, wishing she had half the life you have. All the while, she’s wondering: will the boy call? Maybe if I had this or that, maybe if I was a member of that church, maybe if I was more like Melanie. She’ll think of you when it comes to getting what she wants because—you— you have it all. And she’s going to want to know what you’re doing. That’s where New Hope comes in.”

  I press my lips together like I’m shocked. I really want to be. I do.

  Beth shook her head and tossed up her hands. “Fake it till you make it, right?”

  “No, I get it,” I said, making my eyes light up. “I have to live a top shelf life.”

  She pressed her palms together and brought them into the praying position. “Exactly.”

  When I was eight, my wrist snapped in two during a soccer game. I kept playing; I ran the ball all the way down the field and straight into our opponent’s goal. This was a pretty easy thing to do, given the other players. Everyone stopped and took a knee. They looked on as I gloriously ran toward the goal, my wrist flapping like a flag on a windy day. It hung proudly from my arm like jelly. All the while I felt nothing.

  Early on, I learned to mimic social cues on my parents’ faces in regard to what I should be feeling. I would fall down, and their faces would be wide-eyed and cautious, and this showed me the correct emotion in which to draw upon. This time I was too distracted. That’s how I was found out.

  Not long after, I was finally diagnosed with congenital analgesia. Basically, that’s a fancy term to say I have an inability to feel pain. It’s a rare disorder but I wasn’t surprised. I had always been rougher than other kids. Braver. More audacious. The sort of things that don’t earn you a ton of friends. No one likes to be reminded of their inadequacies. No matter that I was the one with the faulty genetics.

  It’s not your genes, Melanie, my mother liked to say. It’s just no one likes a show-off.

  I didn’t know what she meant. I was missing any markers on what I should feel. There was no reference to show me how far I could take things, and so I went all the way.

  This didn’t last long. My peers ended up hurt as they tried to keep up until I was left with few kids willing to play with me. Slowly, but surely, parents pulled their kids away, as if I was doing the hurting on purpose. It’s tough to have empathy for other people’s pain when you have no personal reference.

  It was okay. I was dead on the inside, too.

  Eventually, this was proven when the NPD diagnosis arrived. Narcissistic Personality Disorder. Who’s to say what came first. The chicken or the egg. Maybe it was cause and effect. It’s easier to push people away as opposed to watching them leave on their own accord. All I know is at some point it became a game. Win people over. Hurt them slowly.

  Tom says I look stunning when he sees me in the new gown. I assume this means he won’t pick apart the price. Accountants. Man. I guess because they spend so much time around numbers they have a hard time seeing them for what they are. Fake. Just like my new life, there’s really nothing tangible to back all those zeros up. It’s not like we’re on the gold standard anymore. So who cares?

  My husband, obviously. He’s been working overtime, he explains, trying to make all the numbers fit. I tried to help by explaining that money is infinite. You can literally create it from nothing. Banks do it all the time. He said, I am not a bank.

  At any rate, absence apparently does make the heart grow fonder. He’s happy tonight. At least as happy as a man like Tom can get.

  It’s okay. With a little salt, he’ll go down easier. And, if that doesn’t work, I’ll try a chaser.

  I’m not that surprised when we arrive at the charity fling or whatever it’s called, only to find it’s like all the other charity functions my parents dragged me to over the years. Actually, I thought of inviting them, just to show off. Look, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. But then I came to my senses when I realized I’m not ready for that level of personal involvement yet. So I made it a point to send my mother an invite to Instalook. This way she can see all the photos of my new life.

  I know it’ll make her and my father proud. There’s only one problem. One I’ve just realized. I only have eight hundred and two followers. It doesn’t matter that I haven’t a clue who these people are. I need more. When I remember Beth said some people have millions, I set out to find her. It isn’t hard. She’s positioned herself by the door, the best way to be seen.

  I mosey up to her, and in a hushed tone, I say to her, “I have a huge problem.”

  “I’m in the middle of something right now, Melanie,” she replies in her usual pissy, shrill tone. “Can you give me a moment?”

  “No,” I inform her. “It can’t wait.” I want to remind her that we’re besties, and besties are there for one another. I don’t think she’d either get or appreciate my sarcasm. Most people don’t.

  “Excuse me,” she motions to the couple. I can’t help but notice she doesn’t use that tone with them. Then I see their nametags, the label ‘donor’ proudly displayed. She smiles neatly. “I’ll be right back.”

  Beth takes me by the elbow. “Melanie,” she chides. “We don’t have problems. Not in public. It’s unbecoming.” She gives me the side eye. “Jesus. Who raised you?”

  “But I do have a problem.” I hold up my phone. “I only have eight hundred and two followers. I need to have more.”

  “Have you been posting?”

  I show her my feed. I feel a wicked rage for recognition building.

  She studies my photos and then says, “You probably need to reconsider your filters. Remember I said sunny and bright?”

  “But how do I get followers?”

  “My God,” she huffs. She crosses the ballroom. I follow on her heel. “Give me the phone.”

  I hand it to her and watch as her fingers work their magic. “Here,” she says. “I just bought you ten thousand.”

  “That’s it? Ten thousand? You said some people have millions.”

  Beth looks at me softly, and this is how I know I’ve learned her love language. This is how I know I’m in. “Yes,” she says. “But you’ll want to take things slowly. You don’t want too much too soon. People will notice.”

  It’s like she’s speaking directly to my heart.

  “Right,” I murmur. We stand there watching the number of followers as it ticks upwards. “Are these even real people?”

  “Some of them.”

  My face breaks out into a grin. It feels good to be liked. “When can I buy more?”

  “Give it a few days. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to our guests.”

  I nod, and I can’t wait to tell Tom about this. He’ll be amused to know followers are the same as those numbers he’s been poring over. Unsubstantial. And yet they offer the promise of so much.

  I stand in the corner, checking out the profiles of some of my new followers. It’s amazing what you can learn about people. If Tom doesn’t shape up, this seems like a totally viable way to meet a second husband. How great will it be not to have to wait to find out what they’re worth? What a time saver this is. It’s right there at my fingertips.

  At one point, Beth comes over and reminds me I’m supposed to be mingling. I really have no idea how I’m supposed to fulfill the obligations of my new online life and the real one. I don’t know how she expects me to get followers and likes if I’m not online. And I found out the hard way that people in real life really do not appreciate it if they’re trying to have a conversation with you, and you’re staring at your phone. I feel like I can’t win. Talk about a rock and a hard place.r />
  Anyway, it’s not like I’m missing much. In real life, there’s a band and dancing and lots of boring people. I haven’t had enough to drink to feel like partaking in either. But on Instalook, Beth is right. I do need to change my filters up. Everything is bright and beautiful.

  Eventually, my battery dies, and this seems like as good a sign as any to go and find that husband of mine. I come up behind him and palm his backside. “We should sneak away,” I whisper in his ear.

  “Melanie, there you are,” he says, which makes no sense because he moves away from me. This is probably because he’s standing with Adam, another church leader. Adam is not a fan of mine. I blame his wife. She’s always giving me dirty looks. In fact, she’s wearing one now.

  “Why would we do that?” Tom asks out in the open.

  “Why do you think?” I say. “There’s nothing so intimate as a large party.” I smile sweetly and sidle up close to him. Tom hates to be touched outside of the bedroom. But he’s good at pretending. “Fitzgerald said that.”

  This is probably why Cheryl hates me. She seems like the kind of person who dislikes anything intimate. I can tell by the way her husband gawks at me. He’s practically salivating. She takes an awful lot of care not to notice.

  “Excuse me,” Tom tells our company. “I think my lady wants to dance.”

  “Horizontally,” I confess. Then I lean in close to Adam and Cheryl, and just so there’s no confusion, I say, “the tango.”

  Tom frowns in my direction. He really hates it when I embarrass him in front of his highbrow friends.

  On my way out of the ladies room, someone grabs me by my forearm. “Mel?” I turn to see it’s Vanessa. I stare for a moment. I hardly recognize her. She looks completely different.

  “Vanessa?”

  “It’s me.” She smiles excitedly as though there’s no bad blood between us. As though she didn’t stick a knife in my back.

  “Wow—” I say. “Your hair—and your—”

  “I know. My husband wanted a redhead.” She points to her face. “With freckles.”

  “Wait, you have fake freckles?” I’d just been reading about those on Instalook. I want to ask if it hurts. But then, what do I care?

  Vanessa cocks her head. “It’s amazing the ways in which one can change.”

  This feels really deep. Like Beth said. Too much, too soon.

  “I saw you’re on Instalook now…” she tells me. “That’s how I knew you’d be here.”

  “And you? You live in Austin?”

  “No. Not yet.” She shakes her head. “Well, not permanently. But we’ll see.”

  I don’t know what to say to that, so I say nothing.

  “Sean is positioning himself for leadership,” she continues. “We’re in a rental now.” She crosses her fingers and holds them up. “But hopefully soon, we’ll find something a little more permanent.”

  I take a step back and take her in. She’s just so completely different. Everything about her. She seems to read my mind.

  “About what happened. I figure you must hate me.” Please say yes. Please let this be the case. Vanessa seems like the type to cling. She has nothing to offer me, and for the entire forty-five seconds we’ve been standing here she’s only talked about herself. Newsflash, I want to tell her. No one wants to stand around and listen to your life story. These days people go online for that.

  But she surprises me when she says, “No. Exactly the opposite. I know you just wanted better for me. I should have wanted it for myself.”

  “Oh,” I say. I never felt more disappointed in my life.

  Her face lights up. “These days I spend most of my time caring for Daniel. It’s nice to want a little something for myself.”

  I assume Daniel is her son. I have no idea what she’s talking about. But then I remember Beth said I’m due for a coffee post tomorrow, and I don’t have a partner. I think I’m supposed to have a partner.

  Vanessa drones on. “Especially with everything else…you know…the cooking and cleaning…it’s never-ending…the things us women manage.”

  She’s wrong. I don’t know. I don’t say this. I offer a smile instead. This is like permission for her to never shut up. “I have to get back.”

  She practically blocks me in. “But I also spend a lot of time up at the church. Cleaning and straightening things. Making sure everything is in order.”

  “I remember you hated cleaning.”

  “Yeah, well…” She glances away. “All that’s changed. I realize I’m meant to serve. It brings me joy.”

  When she says she spends a lot of time at the church, something in me stirs. I could use eyes there. And Vanessa is very open. A great combination. “Maybe we can meet for spin class. Or coffee…”

  “Gee, I wish I could,” she tells me. “But I have so much to do at home.”

  God, shoot me now. “Yoga? Brunch?” I purposely list things on Beth’s agenda. I have not yet determined that Vanessa is the kind of person I actually want to spend my free time with. But if she has information I need, then I guess I can maybe suck it up.

  “I really wish I could.” She sighs heavily. “But there’s vacuuming and waxing, and I really need to take down the drapes this week.”

  I give my best what the fuck face. I have to recover quickly when a man who I assume is her husband walks up.

  “I’ve been looking all over for you,” he says, planting a kiss on her cheek.

  Vanessa smiles and leans into him.

  My mouth hangs open, and I have to force myself to shut it. This guy could legitimately be her grandpa.

  “I’m Sean.” He extends his hand.

  “I’m sorry,” Vanessa says. “How rude of me.”

  “Mel,” I say, sizing him up. It makes sense why he wants her barefoot and in the kitchen. He hails from the Ice Age.

  “I know who you are,” he tells me, and the way he says it, and the way his eyes look right through me, set off alarm bells. “Tom’s wife.”

  I exhale and he smiles. It’s so icy my stomach turns.

  I need a photo for Instalook, and I’m part bored and part curious, so I decide on the fly to pay Vanessa a visit. When she opens the door, surprise registers on her face. There’s a toddler on her hip.

  “I’m sorry to just show up,” I tell her. “I was in the neighborhood.” It’s not even a good lie. Most everyone from the church lives here.

  Vanessa comes out from behind the door. She steps outside and closes the door. “I hate to seem rude. But Sean isn’t golfing today. And I was in the process of mopping.”

  “Dressed like that?” She’s wearing Dior. I know because I tried that very top on myself. I decided it made me look too matronly. On her, it just fits.

  She shrugs. The baby pulls at her earrings. He’s drooling. He looks like an alien with his enlarged head and huge eyes. “This is Daniel,” she says when she notices me looking.

  He drops his toy. I lean down to pick it up and notice her Manolo’s. “Those are terrible shoes for mopping.”

  She offers a pleasant smile. But she does not acknowledge her lie. Which means she’s either smarter than I thought or she’s hiding something really interesting. Maybe both. She half-turns to open the door. “Thanks for stopping by…but I gotta get this little guy down for his nap.”

  Her body is different. Everything about her is different.

  “And get back to mopping,” I say.

  “That too. Plus, it’s Wednesday, and Wednesdays are for dusting.”

  I don’t know if she’s fucking with me or if this is for real, but I don’t like to be blown off. “You should get Grandpa—I mean Sean—to get you a cleaning lady.”

  “No, I love it.” She adjusts the kid higher on her hip. “It’s a great workout. Means I get to skip leg day. And Sean appreciates it when he’s home. Having someone take care of him.”

  “Right.” At first I think she’s talking about the kid. Then I realize she’s referring to her husband. I turn to go. I don�
��t know what kind of fetish thing these two have going on, but who am I to interrupt it?

  “I’ve been following you on Instalook,” she says, watching me go. Her voice is so low, I have to really pick the words apart in my mind to decipher them. “You’ve taken to things very well.”

  I turn back to her. “Have I?”

  “I was like you once,” she says nostalgically. “But then I had Daniel…” She motions toward the baby or toddler or whatever you call children these days and she smiles. “And well, then life changed, as life has a way of doing.”

  “Do you ever visit that park?” I ask. I point. “The one I passed on my way in.”

  “Every day at three o’clock.”

  “Great,” I say as I fish for my key. And then, I let her get back to it.

  The following afternoon at three o’clock sharp I find myself seated on a park bench, two coffees beside me. I hate coffee. When Vanessa comes down the street pushing one of those baby things, she is surprised to see me and it shows.

  “Fancy running into you here,” she says. She shifts as though she’s voice-activated.

  “Here,” I say, handing her a coffee. “Maybe this will help with all the cleaning.”

  She doesn’t get the joke. Suddenly, I resent her meek face.

  “Actually, I don’t drink coffee anymore. But thanks.”

  She’s dressed to the nines. “Do you always come to the park in Prada?” It’s not even fancy yoga clothes the mom’s all wear these days.

  She narrows her eyes. “Where else would I wear it?”

  Her kid lets out a squeal, so she lifts him from the stroller.

  “Would you mind?” she asks, handing him to me.

  I’m allergic to children, so immediately I set him down. I don’t know for sure, but he looks old enough to walk.

  I watch as he takes a handful of dirt and shoves it in his mouth. Shit.

  Vanessa is digging through a bag. It looks like she’s packed for an overnighter. I know I should brush the dirt away from the kid’s mouth but he’s really got it in there. I’d have to dig, and yeah, no thank you. Hopefully, he swallows before she turns around.