David has a concussion, a broken nose, a broken rib, and severe swelling to his face. The media catches the story the day after it all goes down and the street in front of the hospital becomes the type of place where the paparazzi and the news break bread together. Celine and I sit side by side on her sofa, our knees pulled up to our chests, and watch the news in silence. My ribs are sore, and I have a raging headache, but it’s nothing compared to the injuries David sustained to protect me. When the news story ends, we open our computers and read what they have to say online. There are suspects. Police are in the process of questioning people as to their whereabouts. A source reports that when David Lisey’s fiancée, Petra Dilator, walked into his hospital room, she burst into tears and insisted that the man in the bed was not him. I can still see his bloody face in my mind. I sustained bruises to my body that can mostly be hidden by clothes. The ones to my mind are more severe. My hardness insisting that we all have demons that need to be conquered, cannot sleep, cannot eat. I replay what happened over and over in my mind, hating myself so fiercely I can’t look at myself in the mirror. Three days later I’m so sick with worry that Celine tells me to go to the hospital to see him.
“They won’t let me in,” I say. “That place is a media circus.”
She types media circus into her phone and nods when she reads the definition. “You’re still his wife,” she says. “They’ll have to let you in.”
I stand up as soon as the words are out of her mouth. That’s right. I am his wife. I have just as much right to be there as Petra, maybe more if I can justify things the right way in my mind. I march for the door, grabbing my bag. I’d text David to warn him I’m coming but I don’t have his phone number. What a shitty wife I am.
When I arrive at the hospital, I have to fight my way through the throng of people gathered outside. A few reporters look at me curiously, but I ignore them and walk for the doors.
“Purpose,” Celine told me before I left. “Look like you have purpose. Don’t falter…”
“But what if he doesn’t want to see me?” I asked.
She rolled her eyes and brushed me off.
But, it was there—that worry of rejection. That he’d turn me away. It’s funny that I’m the one who’s been turning him away for years, yet here I am sick with worry over it happening to me. We are such hypocrites, us humans. I sign in at the desk and present my ID to a girl who can’t be older than nineteen. Her hair is pulled up in a tight bun, and when I tell her who I’m here to see, she blinks rapidly.
“You’re not on the list,” she says to me in French.
She doesn’t look at me—she looks at the computer screen in front of her. I want to peer round and see who is on the list.
“Call his room,” I say. “I’m his wife.”
She looks unsure, but picks up the phone. She speaks in rapid French that I can’t follow. I wish I’d brought Celine along to help with this sort of thing. When she hangs up she holds a finger up.
Be quiet, we don’t understand each other, help is coming.
My mouth is open to speak, but I quickly shut it. Sometimes you just need to wait. A few minutes of awkward standing around go by and then an official looking man in a suit walks up and stands next to the girl. They’re ganging up on me, I realize. I lift my chin. When he speaks, his accent is American, but there’s something else too, like maybe he spent time everywhere like I did and picked up a little of this and that.
“I’m here to escort you from the premises,” he says.
Not what I was expecting. I thought they’d ask me to produce a marriage license, or perhaps call up to David’s room to get clearance. Instead they are getting me the fuck out of here.
“On whose order?” I ask. “David’s or Petra’s?”
“Mr. Lisey’s doctor and his fiancée have discussed the matter and have made a decision for his well-being. They both agree that he needs rest at this time.”
I nod. Of course. A rush of uncertainty hits me. It was wrong of me to come here. I had no right. I smile at the receptionist who is looking at the floor, and the muscle who looks like he’s ready to tackle me to the floor, and I walk out. I can’t blame Petra. Once upon a time I had been the one trying to keep her out of his line of vision. I thought that if he saw too much of her he’d realize I wasn’t enough.
I watch them for a while, deciding which one I like most. Four women and three men. Two of the women look like the type of career bitches who are willing to trample the weak underfoot just to have a better view. I dismiss them right away. The older guy with silver hair is out because he keeps looking at his reflection in a small mirror he keeps in his pocket. That leaves two women and two men. I choose the mousier of the women. In the five minutes I’ve been watching, she’s spilled coffee on her skirt and tripped over her own feet which resulted in a scrape to her ankle. She hasn’t even done anything about it, just let the blood drip into her shoe. The other reporters sniggered when they saw her fall. Typical human nature but it still irks me. She’s having a shit day, sort of like me. Perhaps even a shit life. She deserves a break.
I unbutton my blouse as I walk, just to get the tedious part out of the way. I like to get things done quickly, unless it’s sex, then I like to take my time. The story circulating the news was that David Lisey had been with an undisclosed woman when he was attacked. When I reach her, I pull off my shirt and stand in front of her in nothing but my black bra. She looks around alarmed, but then her face changes into something else. I turn so she can see the bruises on my back; they’ve already started yellowing.
“My name is Yara,” I say. “I am the woman David Lisey was in the bar with.” I pause as she watches me, her eyes growing larger as she decides if she believes me or not. I smile bitterly. “I am also his wife.”
In ten minutes the reporter, whose name is Lunya Louse, has me powdered and miked, standing in front of a heavy camera, which is balanced on a man’s shoulder. She’s eaten tuna for lunch. I can smell it on her breath. Lunya tells me to loosen up so I do, shaking my shoulders free of the tension. She hands me a tube of lipstick and tells me to put some on.
“The camera washes you out,” she says.
I realize Lunya isn’t as helpless as she looks. The red lipstick is a nice touch for an estranged wife. Adds that extra—where’s she been whoring around all these years—drama. I have to show her a photo of David and me on our wedding day. She holds my phone between her short stubby fingers and peers at the photo for a full minute before she hands it back.
“Until we can verify record of the marriage, I’ll have to say you’re claiming to be his wife.”
I nod. That is fine by me.
In the picture, which after all these years I still have saved in my phone, David has his arm around my waist, smiling toward the camera. His smile is so genuine it’s infectious. I see the corners of Lunya’s mouth turn upward and I don’t know if she’s smiling because she just fell into a juicy story or because David looks so happy. I suppose it could be a combination of both.
My side of the photo is a different story. I’m holding one side of my dress up, smiling close-lipped, a huge bouquet of red roses behind us. You can almost see the fear in my eyes. The picture itself brings on a great deal of pain. I don’t look at it often, but with each new cell phone I’ve had through the years, I always make sure it is there.
Lunya is briefing me, her English perfectly accented. She will ask me three questions in French, and I am to answer them in English. They will dub the video later. The other reporters have taken notice and are walking over, their eyes narrowed in anticipation. They stop and consult each other as Lunya ignores them. She will break this story. It’s a big one. A beloved and well-known musician has an estranged wife no one knows about, that’s media gold. Strangely enough my heart is not racing, I’m comforted by the fact that I’m not lying. This is my story to tell, my truth. I am relaying it as it happened. I am David Lisey’s legal wife and soon the whole world will know.