The Replacement Wife’s Vengeance

The phone rang at 3:17pm. I just stared at it for a second. I knew. You know how you just have that feeling that you're about to receive bad news? My stomach had been in knots all day. I picked it up. "Hello?" "Clara? It's Dr. Evans." He sounded weird. Too quiet. "Yeah. Hi." "We got your results back. You need to come in today. Can you do that?" My mouth was dry. "Can you just tell me? Please." A really long pause. I could hear him breathing. "Okay. It's lymphoma, Clara. We're looking at stage three." I didn't say anything. I looked out the window. There was a pigeon on the railing. "It's treatable," he said quickly, his voice speeding up. "Very treatable. The survival rate is good with the right protocol. We have options. Good options. There's a medicine that just arrived from Ita....." He kept talking but the words got blurry. Lymphoma. Cancer. I had cancer. "Clara? Are you there?" "Yeah. Thanks." I hung up. Putting the phone back in the cradle. The quiet in the apartment got really loud then. It’s always quiet here. Marcus likes it quiet. I looked around. All this white and gray furniture. Everything perfect. Nothing out of place. It looked like a magazine and felt like a hotel. My painting, the yellow sunflower one, looked stupid on the wall. Too bright, like a mistake. I should call Marcus. That’s what you do, right? You tell your husband you have cancer. But we haven’t really talked in months. Not about real things. He asks if the dry cleaning was picked up. I say yes. To us that’s a conversation. My phone buzzed from a text. Marcus: Bringing a guest home for dinner. Make it special. I read it. Then I read it again. Bringing a guest. No “hey” or “sorry for the late notice.” Just an order. The laugh that came out of me was a short, ugly sound. I had cancer. And my husband was bringing a guest for dinner. I texted back "Okay" . What else was I supposed to say? I went to the kitchen. Started pulling out stuff for coq au vin. It’s his favorite. I chopped onions and my eyes watered. Or maybe I was crying. At this point, it was hard to tell anymore. At exactly seven o’clock, the door opened. Marcus walked in first. He hung up his coat like normal. Then this woman walked in behind him. She was young. Really young. Maybe mid-twenties. She had blonde hair, all shiny and pretty. And she was pregnant. I mean, really showing. Her hand was on her stomach like she was holding it. My spoon fell out of my hand and hit the floor with a clang. Marcus glanced over. "Clara. This is Anya." He said it like he was introducing a new colleague. "She’s going to be staying with us for a while. The guest room upstairs." He walked to the bar and poured himself a drink. He didn’t offer me anything. Anya gave me a little smile. It didn’t reach her eyes. She was holding a small duffel bag. "Staying?" I asked. My voice sounded funny. "Indefinitely," Marcus said. He took a sip. "She’s had a difficult pregnancy. Needs a calm environment and good care." He looked right at me. "You’ll handle that. Consider it your new project." My new project. I looked at her stomach. Then at his face. He was completely serious. He’d brought his pregnant mistress home and wanted me to babysit. And he had no idea. No idea that I was sick. That I had just found out I had cancer. The whole thing was so horrible it circled back to being almost funny. I bit the inside of my cheek so hard that I tasted blood. "I only made enough for two," I said. A dumb thing to say. "Set another place," he said. He didn’t even look at me. "And she can’t have caffeine. Get some herbal tea tomorrow." I turned around and got another plate. The good china. It felt stupid. As I put it down, I looked at Anya. She was staring at the floor. She looked embarrassed. Scared, even. Dinner was awful. Marcus talked about some contract at work. Anya moved her food around. I ate a bite but I couldn’t taste it. Later, in the bedroom, I stood by the window. The city lights were blurry. Marcus came in. He took off his watch and put it on the dresser. "I don’t want this to be a big thing, Clara," he said. He wasn’t looking at me. "It’s a practical arrangement. You’ve been adrift. This gives you a focus. And it keeps everything contained." Adrift. That was the word he used. "Right," I said. "No big thing." He went into the bathroom and started the shower. I walked over to my nightstand. I opened the drawer. Under some old sketchbooks was a pair of scissors. Really sharp fabric scissors. I bought them when I thought I’d start sewing. I picked them up. They were heavy. The shower was running. I saw my reflection in the dark window. I looked tired and pale. I held the scissors tight in my hand. I wasn’t going to do anything with them. I just needed to hold something sharp. The bathroom door opened. Steam came out. Marcus stood there in a towel, his hair wet. He saw my hand. Saw the scissors. His eyes got narrow. "What is that, Clara? What are you holding?”