Privilege- Chapter Four: Our Cozy Place Together

Ease never came to Addy’s marriage.

She had expected it to arrive eventually. Perhaps after the honeymoon. Perhaps after the first year. Surely there would come some morning when she and Emmet would cease behaving like two strangers contractually obligated to occupy the same photograph.

It never happened.

For the first few years, Emmet kept her largely indoors, alone and dressed like a sex doll.

Addy hated the clothes.

She was embarrassed to be seen in them, yet whenever she dressed herself according to her own tastes, guilt followed close behind. Emmet had an extraordinary ability to make disobedience feel like vulgarity. A sweater became an insult. Flats became evidence of laziness. A modest dress meant she was letting herself go.

So Addy wore what he selected.

The result was its own punishment.

Women her age looked at her strangely. Older women looked at her worse. The outfits that pleased Emmet made Addy appear less like the wife of a prominent physician than something he had purchased and accessorized.

It made friendship difficult.

Loneliness eventually accomplished something affection never had.

It drove Addy toward Frances.

Frances had completed her undergraduate degree and moved into a master’s program, an accomplishment Addy found irritating enough that she tried not to think about it. She was proud of Frances in theory. In practice, she resented her.

Frances was progressing.

Addy was not.

Whenever Addy mentioned returning to school, Emmet dismissed the idea. Employment received an even colder response. His wife did not need to work. More importantly, Addy was expected to remain available whenever he needed her.

The absurdity was that he almost never did.

Days disappeared.

Then weeks.

Emmet worked. Emmet traveled. Emmet slept at the condo. Emmet attended dinners and meetings Addy knew nothing about.

Addy waited.

With nothing else to occupy her mind, she developed a fixation.

Shannon Taylor.

Née Hauser.

Emmet’s first wife.

The woman had become almost mythological in Addy’s imagination.

She searched where she could without appearing to search. She casually questioned members of the household staff. She attempted conversations with employees at Emmet’s clinic. She listened carefully whenever older acquaintances mentioned his past.

Nothing.

The clinic staff were too loyal or too frightened.

The household employees were too new.

And Emmet himself became cold whenever Shannon’s name entered a conversation.

The dead ends only made Addy more curious.

Then she began accompanying Emmet to his private club.

The women there laughed at her.

Not openly.

They were too well-bred for that.

They whispered behind glasses and smiled into one another’s shoulders.

Addy knew what they saw.

She was no longer the fresh-faced sorority girl Emmet had first pursued. He had remade her into something harsher: dark lipstick, exaggerated heels, tight dresses, theatrical makeup.

She looked like an over-costumed woman in a cheap music video.

And everyone seemed to understand this except the man who required it.

Addy developed a routine.

Emmet would bring her inside.

He would greet acquaintances.

Then he would disappear with the men.

Addy sat alone and drank.

She knew better than to leave.

The one time she had gone home without him, Emmet spent the following day lecturing her about how “abnormal” her behavior had been.

So she waited until he returned to collect her.

Often, he was drunk.

Then he drove.

Addy remembered one night particularly well.

The Maserati drifted across the center line.

“Emmet.”

No response.

“Emmet, you're swerving.”

“I know how to drive.”

Another car passed in the opposite direction.

Addy flinched.

“Please let me drive.”

She reached toward the wheel.

Emmet shoved her.

Hard.

Addy fell sideways against the interior as the Maserati veered toward the shoulder.

For several seconds there was nothing but headlights, tires, and the violent correction of the steering wheel.

Her chest struck the console.

By morning, a bruise had begun spreading beneath her skin.

Emmet blamed her.

“You could have killed us.”

“You were drunk.”

“I was driving perfectly well until you grabbed the wheel.”

“I was trying to—”

“If you ever pull a stunt like that again, I'll have you medicated.”

Addy went silent.

Emmet stared at her.

“You understand?”

She nodded.

After that, whenever he drove drunk, Addy sat very still.

She watched the road.

Sometimes she imagined the impact before it happened.

Metal folding.

Glass breaking.

Her own body thrown forward.

There was a strange peace in accepting that possibility.

She could not stop him.

She could not take the keys.

She could not leave without being accused of behaving irrationally.

Emmet had begun referring to her as his “unbalanced wife.”

The phrase frightened her more than his temper.

He was a physician.

A respected one.

People listened when he spoke.

If Dr. Emmet Taylor said his young wife was unstable, Addy knew exactly whom people would believe.

By then she understood something she had refused to understand before.

She could not leave the marriage simply because she wanted to.

Not until Emmet was finished with her.

Until then, getting out of line merely gave him another reason to punish her.

Life seemed to drain from Addy by degrees.

She sometimes imagined herself as a shadow moving through the margins of Emmet’s existence, watching other people work, laugh, argue, travel, make plans.

Live.

She watched them live.

In desperation, she continued seeing Frances.

Whenever Frances was in town, they sometimes met at the club.

Emmet had begun the cosmetic work he had promised her, and something about the revised Frances bothered Addy.

It wasn't that the work was bad.

Quite the opposite.

Emmet was an excellent surgeon.

But as the procedures accumulated, Frances’s face seemed increasingly familiar.

Addy could never determine why.

She would catch a particular angle of her nose or the curve of her cheek and experience a fleeting sensation that she had seen that face somewhere before.

Then Frances would turn her head and the resemblance vanished.

Conversation with her remained maddening.

“How's school?”

“Good.”

“Are you enjoying the program?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Are you seeing anyone?”

Frances would shrug.

Or:

“I know, right?”

Sometimes the phrase did not even answer the question.

Addy began wondering whether Frances rehearsed her responses before they met.

There was something mechanical about them.

Guarded.

Addy couldn't decide whether Frances was a complete idiot, hiding something, or somehow managing to accomplish both.

Every meeting ended with Addy swearing she would never subject herself to another one.

Then several weeks would pass.

The house would become unbearable.

Emmet would disappear.

The telephone would remain silent.

And Addy would call Frances again.

Misery had lowered her standards for companionship considerably.

One sunny afternoon, the two women sat beside the club’s pool.

Frances had spent nearly half an hour contributing almost nothing to the conversation when she finally excused herself.

Addy watched her waddle away.

Behind her, an elderly woman muttered:

“Oh, God. I thought she'd never leave.”

Addy turned.

She wasn't certain whether she was supposed to acknowledge the remark.

Instead, she glanced sideways at the woman as though accidentally looking at something indecent.

The woman held out her hand.

“Mary Weber-Reyes.”

Addy accepted it automatically.

Mary waited.

Addy smiled.

Mary continued waiting.

“Well?” she finally asked.

Addy blinked.

“What?”

“What is your name, dear?”

“Oh.”

Addy composed herself.

“So good to meet you. I'm Adeline Taylor. Dr. Taylor's wife.”

Mary looked her up and down.

Slowly.

Addy felt herself shrinking beneath the inspection.

“Is he the one who dresses you like an inflatable toy,” Mary asked, “or do you do that to yourself?”

Addy froze.

There were insults so outrageous that proper manners offered no prepared response.

She settled for a small smile.

“Well, it was nice meeting—”

“Oh, don't run away.”

Mary waved dismissively.

“I'm sorry. I meant no offense. I'm terribly blunt. All my ex-husbands said so.”

Addy remained where she was.

“I thought you were his mistress.”

Addy's face warmed.

Mary glanced at her ring.

“But apparently you married the old bastard.”

Addy almost laughed.

Instead, she looked around to make certain no one had heard.

There were nearly forty years between herself and Emmet. She disliked being reminded of the arithmetic.

Then an opportunity occurred to her.

“Did you know his previous wife?”

Mary's expression changed.

“Shannon?”

Addy leaned closer.

“Yes.”

Mary glanced over her shoulder.

“Not terribly well.”

“Oh.”

“But well enough.”

Addy waited.

Mary lowered her voice.

“You two couldn't be more different.”

“How?”

Mary smiled.

“Shannon would yell at that man from breakfast until dinner.”

Addy stared at her.

“Emmet?”

“Who else?”

“But—”

“I think she made him cry once.”

Addy almost laughed at the absurdity.

Emmet?

Crying?

Because of Shannon Hauser?

From what little Addy had learned, Shannon had been a short, heavyset accountant. The

idea of that woman reducing Emmet to tears seemed impossible.

Mary was mistaken.

She had to be.

“They belonged here ages ago,” Mary continued. “I'd nearly forgotten about them until I saw you two together.”

Addy hesitated.

“What happened to her?”

Mary stopped smiling.

For one second, Addy thought she had finally asked the right question.

Then Mary tilted her head.

“You don't know?”

Addy's stomach tightened.

Mary studied her.

“You're saying you don't know what happened to Shannon?”

There was too much interest in her voice.

Addy suddenly imagined the conversation traveling across the club.

Then across a dinner table.

Then to Emmet.

She stood too quickly.

“I should find my sister.”

Mary's mischievous smile returned.

“Of course you should.”

“It was lovely meeting you.”

“I'm sure.”

Addy hurried away.

Behind her, Mary raised one hand in farewell.

Addy could feel the woman's eyes following her.

Over the next several weeks, Emmet changed.

He became almost pleasant.

Addy distrusted it immediately.

He invited her along during tee times. He ate dinner at home more frequently. The condo apparently required him fewer nights each week.

Once, he touched the small of Addy’s back as he passed behind her.

She nearly jumped.

Affection had become so foreign between them that even an ordinary gesture felt suspicious.

Still, she welcomed it.

Starvation made crumbs feel extravagant.

One evening over dinner, the subject of Thanksgiving arose.

Emmet frowned.

Addy assumed he didn't want to host.

His mother was ninety and suffering from dementia in an expensive care facility. Addy's parents were far away, and Emmet had never disguised his contempt for the possibility of the Madisons lingering around his property.

Instead, he said:

“We're not doing Thanksgiving here.”

Addy pushed food around her plate.

“I hate the holidays,” he continued. “Do you have any idea how much of the rest of the year

I spend suctioning fat out of people because they gorge themselves for two months?”

Addy said nothing.

She expected him to announce another absence.

Instead:

“That's why I bought a lodge in Canada.”

Her fork stopped.

“What?”

“For us.”

Addy looked up.

“We'll go away.”

“Together?”

Emmet smiled faintly.

“I have a few projects, so I'll have to travel back and forth for work.”

Of course.

“But Frances can keep you company.”

Addy stared at him.

She could not decide whether the proposal pleased or frightened her.

She had grown to hate the house.

Once, she had considered it a palace.

Now it felt like a holding cell decorated by an architect.

The possibility of escaping it—even temporarily—should have delighted her.

But a remote lodge she had never seen did not feel entirely like escape.

She smiled anyway.

She knew what objections produced.

Concern became ingratitude.

Fear became instability.

Self-preservation became evidence of mental illness.

Emmet possessed medical terminology for every emotion Addy experienced that inconvenienced him.

So she smiled.

A wife of Dr. Taylor's social standing did not complain about being taken to a private

Canadian lodge for the holidays.

Only an irrational woman would object to something so generous.

At least that was how Emmet would explain it.

And Addy was becoming tired of having sanity defined for her.

After the main course, Addy tried something else.

She had been considering the subject for months.

“Emmet?”

He glanced at her.

“Do you think it's too soon to talk about children?”

She attempted to make the question sound casual.

Almost hypothetical.

Emmet laughed.

Not warmly.

“Sweetie.”

Addy's stomach sank at the word.

“Every woman I've ever worked on who had children destroyed her body.”

She frowned.

“That's not true.”

His eyebrows lifted.

“There are pictures on your website. Before-and-afters. Some of those women look gorgeous.”

Emmet dropped his napkin onto his plate.

“Those are Photoshopped models.”

Addy stared at him.

“What?”

“They were never pregnant.”

“But the website says—”

“It's advertising.”

“You say they're patients.”

“It's a daydream for old women who want false hope.”

Addy continued staring.

Emmet chuckled.

“Adeline, really. You're far too gullible.”

She sank slightly into her chair.

There was something unsettling about how casually he admitted it.

Not merely that the photographs were false.

That he seemed amused she had believed them.

Emmet leaned back.

“Besides, I'm chief surgeon. I administer the building. I have the hospital. I barely have time for you. When exactly would I have time for a child?”

Addy looked down at her plate.

“I thought maybe someday.”

“If I wanted children, I would have had them decades ago.”

There it was.

Finished.

Emmet resumed eating.

Addy understood that the conversation was over.

She sat quietly.

For years she had imagined that children might eventually fill the emptiness of the house.

Someone to wake up for.

Someone who needed her.

Someone who belonged there as much as she did.

Now that imaginary future disappeared as casually as everything else had.

Perhaps it was for the best.

Addy thought of what Jocko might have said.

Who would want to deal with a miniature Emmet?

The thought almost made her smile.

Almost.

Then she looked across the table at her husband.

Emmet was eating as though nothing of consequence had been discussed.

Addy watched him for several seconds.

A strange thought entered her mind.

Shannon had never had children either.

She wondered whether Shannon had once sat across from him at another table and asked the same question.

For the first time, Addy wondered whether the most important question about Emmet's first marriage wasn't why Shannon had left him.

It was whether she had been allowed to leave at all.