The Other Woman

You know, I used to think that the worst thing a woman could do was steal someone’s husband. I lacked imagination back then. What is worse than someone sleeping next to the love of your life? Watching her take down your curtains.

Fifteen years of marriage, three kids, and a home we built together, and apparently, my greatest offense is my taste in window treatments. Perfectly sheer, steel blue curtains that softened the sunlight streaming through our floor-to-ceiling windows. And now, they are gone.

I spent three weeks picking out those damn things. Three weeks. My husband said they make the living room look like a dentist’s office, but what does he know? He thinks a recliner is a personality trait. 

I met Forest in college. Highly intelligent and the quintessential nice guy. I was smitten the moment we met and argued over whether Die Hard was considered a Christmas movie. We had it all: the wedding, the career, the home, the kids. We had a beautiful life together. I just didn’t realize how badly someone else wanted it.

Her name is Carli. Short for something more annoying, like Caroline, I’m sure. She is ambitious, I’ll give her that. She’s twenty-nine, highly organized, with a perfect smile. You know the type. The kind who seems to have more than twenty-four hours in a day. Apparently being someone’s assistant makes you qualified to be an excellent wife. 

The worst part? I’m the one who suggested she become my husband’s personal assistant. And now I get to watch her wear designer dresses and vacation in the South of France with my family. It’s the ordinary moments I miss the most. The ones I never thought twice about when they were mine. 

As the light fades, I see the shadows on his face. They accentuate the gray flecks in his beard and the fine lines around his eyes. I don’t know how it’s possible, but he’s actually gotten better looking with age. All those years we joked about men dyeing their beards and now he could be one of them. But, between you and me, I love it. Of course, I would never tell him that. 

He sits on the side of the lower bunk and launches into a bedtime story to our youngest. Our son begged us for a bunk bed, even though he’s the only one sleeping in that room. When it was assembled, he refused to sleep on the top bunk. 

How does Forest turn talking about a ham radio with frequencies and signals into an exciting bedtime thriller? Our son listens wide-eyed. His fingers stay busy working the satin on his blankie back and forth. He’s done that since he was a baby. Sometimes he’d stop and offer me a turn. I laugh at the memory. I’m convinced the world would be a better place if we could all just carry around a blankie.

When the story has ended, Forest leans over, kisses our son's forehead and whispers, “I’ll love you to the heavens and back.” Those were the last words of our wedding vows. And now he’s saying them. Without me. 

Suddenly, Carli comes in. “Light’s out, you two. It’s time for bed.” There’s an edge in her voice. She saunters forward and tucks our youngest’s blanket around his snuggly. Forest leaves the room. Our youngest reaches for another hug, but Carli has already turned towards the door. His little arms dangle in the air for a moment before he pulls his blankie up to his chin.

 I look away. I can’t bear to see the sadness creep across my son’s face. Oh God, I should be the one tucking him in at night. The one kissing his forehead and reminding him how much he’s loved. Instead, I’m standing here watching someone else do it. And she’s not even doing it right. 

Forest retreats to the bedroom, where Carli already has the TV on. He always despised a TV in the bedroom, but apparently that’s changed too. Every time I’ve seen that TV on, it’s been tuned to Dateline or Snapped. Personally, I prefer entertainment that doesn’t involve dismemberment before the commercial break.

There is something about her that I can’t place. Maybe it’s the way her smile fades when our kids enter the room. Or the way she turns the pop tab to the side when she drinks her Diet Coke. Or, maybe, I’m just bitter. I’ve been accused of much worse. 

At dinner that night, our oldest asks how Forest and I met. He laughs and starts in about how we were at a Christmas trivia night.

 Carli interrupts, “Speaking of Christmas, what does everyone want this year? I was thinking we could make sugar cookies. Maybe go Caroling around the neighborhood. Wouldn’t that be fun?” 

My oldest looks down, pushing a piece of food around her plate.

Forest looks at Carli puzzled and says, “It’s July. Don’t you think it’s a bit too soon to be asking for Christmas lists?” Forest glances at our daughter before looking back to Carli.

“Well, you can never be too prepared,” she says. 

Apparently, Christmas trivia night wasn’t a story worth finishing. 

After dinner, Forest hustles the kids to soccer practice. I see Carli settle on the couch with a generous pour of wine. A glass any bigger and it would be the kind that holds an entire bottle. She stands up, presumably to pour another glass. Her fingers grip the stem of her wine glass. For a few seconds, she doesn’t move. It takes me a moment before I realize she is staring at a photo of my family on vacation in Florida. I had begged Forest to take us all on a Disney Cruise and he surprised us one year for Christmas. It was taken on Disney Night. I’d insisted we all dress up as characters from Peter Pan, my favorite Disney movie. 

That’s funny. I could have sworn she’d packed that photograph away months ago. 

She stands perfectly still for a moment, as though she’s listening for something. Her face is unreadable as if she is contemplating something. 

But what? 

She hurriedly picks up the photograph and studies it for a moment. A slow, deliberate smile spreads across her face, as if she’d gotten exactly what she wanted. She opens the drawer and places the photograph facedown underneath a mountain of the kids’ artwork. 

“There. That’s better,” she says. 

Her hand lingers on the handle a bit longer than necessary. She returns to her glass of wine and swallows it down with three big gulps. 

Personally, I thought it was a lovely picture. Granted, my hair looks like a drowned rat, but the children were all looking at the camera, smiling, and Forest had both eyes open. Around my neck was the gold locket Forest gave me for our anniversary. I remember being annoyed because the clasp kept popping open the entire vacation. 

I nearly lost the damn thing. Twice.

Watching them has become some sort of an obsession of mine. You’d think I could have a normal obsession like a caffeine addiction or collecting Stanley cups. Some days disappear entirely. Others seem to stretch on forever. Lately, everything feels foggy. Like I’m walking around with a permanent hangover, minus the fun part. 

And the headaches. 

Oh my God, the headaches. 

I should really get that looked at, but for now I’m chalking it up to perimenopause.  

It’s late before Forest gets home. He’s been working longer hours than ever before. When I see his SUV pull into the garage, I figure this is my chance to confront him. Without her around. He’s been ignoring me for weeks, but surely he can’t do that forever.

“You’re home late,” I say, trying to sound cheerful. 

Forest climbs out of his SUV and pauses, his hand resting on the open door. For a second, I think that he’s going to say something. Instead, he sighs, shuts the door and walks past me into the house.

He walks right into our youngest’s room, and I hear him read his favorite bedtime story. He places the book on the nightstand, turns off the light, and closes the door. 

Forest disappears down the hallway. A few minutes later, their voices drift from the bedroom. I can’t quite make out all the words, but judging by the tone, there’s trouble in paradise. 

“I thought we moved past this,” Carli says.

“That doesn’t mean we pretended she never existed,” Forest replies.

Well, isn’t that a pleasant surprise. Forest actually grew a backbone. 

There’s a pause, then Carli replies again sharper, “How long are we going to keep living in the past?” 

Forest says something I can’t make out.

“I’m trying, Forest, but you make it impossible,” she snaps.

Silence.

I should feel good. Victorious, even. Forest finally stood up for me. But there’s something in her voice. For a moment, she sounds desperate.

Carli storms out of the bedroom and stops dead in her tracks. 

There, on the hallway floor, is the bedtime book. The book is lying face up with the inscription I had written in it the day our oldest was born:

I’ll love you to the heavens and back.

Love, Mommy

Her face reddens and her jaw tightens. 

She looks towards the kids' bedrooms. 

It’s silent. 

She picks up the book by the corner as though it’s some sort of contagious disease.

“Jenna, Jenna, Jenna, what do I have to do to finally get rid of you?” she said in a sing-song voice. 

Something about that voice sends a chill through me.

I’ve heard that before. 

But where?

She clutches the book so tightly her knuckles turn white.

Then she rips the page free and throws the book against the wall. 

She paces back and forth down the hallway, muttering under her breath. 

What’s going on? I’ve never seen her be this dramatic before. 

Someone should remind her she is arguing with a children’s book. And losing. 

I lean in closer and hear her whisper, “Even in death I can’t get rid of that bitch.”

Death? 

What the hell is she talking about? I’m right here. She would just love to erase me completely.

My thoughts begin to spiral. 

 When was the last time I ate? Slept? For that matter, when was the last time I spoke to Forest and actually got a response?

A sharp pain shoots through my skull. 

Then another. 

Something flickers in my mind. 

Red.

A red light. 

No, it’s an exit sign.

Cold. That’s the first thing I feel. Cold concrete pressed against my cheek. 

There’s a metallic taste in my mouth. 

Somewhere above me, a door slams. Footsteps. Slow. Deliberate. Each one is growing louder. 

I know this place. The polished concrete floor. The narrow staircase. The red glow spilling across the floor. Forest’s office building. 

The footsteps stop. 

A pair of heels comes into view. A tiny silver butterfly charm dangles from the ankle strap. I recognize those shoes. 

“Jenna, Jenna, Jenna, you really shouldn’t drink so much at Christmas parties.” Her voice is almost cheerful. “That’s how accidents happen.” I know that voice. Carli? No. That doesn’t make sense.

She steps into the red glow. 

For a moment, I think that she’s come to help me. I try to call out, but all that escapes is a strangled whisper. 

“Carli?”

She crouches beside me. Close enough that I can smell her sweet floral perfume. Expensive. Something I’d complimented her on earlier at the office Christmas party.

She looks down at me, her expression almost sympathetic. Almost. My stomach drops. 

“Please,” I whisper. 

Her eyes flick toward the staircase. Then back to me.

I try to push myself up, but I have no strength. My arms won’t cooperate.

And suddenly, I remember.

Her hands against my back. The stairs disappearing beneath my feet. The sickening crack as my head strikes the concrete.

She pushed me.

I open my mouth, but before anything more can come out, Carli reaches for something beside her.

Something heavy.

She raises it above her head.

A flash of pain.

The bunk bed. Forest laughing as we hang the curtains. Three little faces.

His voice.

I'll love you to the heavens and back.

Nothing.

And all this time, I couldn’t figure out what had happened between Forest and me. Forest didn’t leave me. He lost me. 

The days that followed come back in waves. 

Police officers standing in our kitchen. Someone telling Forest it was a tragic accident. The funeral. His hands trembling while holding our kids. Carli standing beside him, offering him a tissue. I remember watching her comfort him. Watching her slowly move into my life so effortlessly. It was all there. Every moment. Every memory. I’d been watching my life continue without me, and somehow, I’d convinced myself that I was still living it.

I’m dead. Dead. 

Everything I love has been taken from me. I will never hold Forest again. Never hug my children or kiss them goodnight. Never hear the pitter-patter of little feet running down the hallway. I’d give anything to feel that worn satin from the blankie between my fingers one more time.  

Do they know how much I love them? 

And then I feel something all too familiar. 

Fear. 

My children are asleep upstairs. Forest is down the hall. And the woman who killed me has a key to every door in this house.

I have to do something. Anything. 

Then, I remember the photograph. The one that Carli had packed away months ago. And the bedtime book, lying open in the hallway. 

How did they get there? 

I remember how badly I wanted the photograph back on the shelf. How I pictured it sitting there, exactly where it belonged. And the book. I wanted my children to find those words I had written for them. 

Wait a minute. Had I done that? The photograph. The book. Both exactly where I wanted them. I look toward the hallway, where Carli tore the page from the book. 

Well, I’ll be damned. 

Actually, I suppose I already am. 

I think about the gold locket Forest gave me on our tenth anniversary. The one with our children’s pictures tucked inside. I wore it every day. Even on the day I died. I wonder what happened to it.

 For the first time since realizing I’m dead, I force myself to concentrate. I picture the locket. Its familiar weight against my chest. The tiny clasp that never seemed to stay closed. 

And then I hear something.

 A soft metallic click. 

I feel it before I see it. Cool metal rests against my palm. I look down. The gold locket hangs between my fingers, its delicate chain swinging back and forth. 

Holy shit. 

Did I really just do that? Talk about manifestation. Where was that superpower when I was alive?

 I look down the hallway toward our bedroom. I glance down at the locket in my hand. 

Suddenly, I know what to do.

By the time the morning sunlight spills through the bedroom window, Forest is already gone. I sit quietly in the corner, watching. 

Waiting. 

Carli drags herself out of bed and settles on the stool in front of her vanity. She leans toward the mirror, carefully inspecting her reflection. 

 And then she sees it. 

The locket. Around her neck. 

A smile spreads across her face. Judging by that ridiculous smile, she thinks Forest surprised her with a gift.

She lifts the locket and turns it over, reading the inscription on the back.

I love you to the heavens and back. 

Her smile disappears. 

She reads it again. The locket slips from her fingers, catching on its chain. The tiny clasp springs open, revealing a photograph tucked inside.

 My family. 

Slowly, her hand raises up towards her throat. She fumbles with the chain, trying to undo it. Once. Twice. Her fingers are trembling now.

Finally, she stops. She rips the chain from her neck, leaving claw marks where it used to be. 

For a moment, she sits frozen, her eyes wide.

Her hand flies to her mouth. She looks toward the bedroom door, then slowly turns back towards the mirror. Then past her reflection, towards the corner of the bedroom. 

Towards me.

Poor thing. She looks like she’s seen a ghost.