The Almost Wife Read online

  Dedication

  For Iris and Jackie

  Epigraph

  If I gave you my life, you would drop it. Wouldn’t you?

  —Michael Ondaatje, The English Patient

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Gail Anderson-Dargatz

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  1

  I ran to forget. Here, in motion, I was only aware of the early morning light glinting off the water, the beat of my running shoes against asphalt, the rhythm of my breath. There was nothing ahead of me, and the past lagged far behind. I lost all sense of time and, blissfully, of self. There was no me. And there was nobody else, either—no Aaron, no Evie, no Nathan and no Madison. But then the buzz of the phone strapped to my arm yanked me out of the flow, and the low sun emerged from the clouds as if rousing from sleep.

  I slowed my pace as I removed my phone from the strap, nodding at a woman jogging toward me. A recreational runner, a young mom dressed in blue Lululemon crops and tee, trying to burn off pregnancy fat as she pushed her baby in a Thule jogging stroller. As she passed, her child mewed, and I immediately felt the tingle of letdown. Evie would want to breastfeed as soon as I got home. She was there with Aaron now; they had both been asleep when I left the house in the morning twilight. Evie’s eyelids had fluttered when I checked on her before leaving, her tiny hands grasping something in her dream. She had turned her face toward me when I kissed her cheek.

  My phone buzzed again, and I unlocked it, thinking Aaron had texted me, wondering where I was. He had, but so had Nathan.

  From Aaron: How long will you be?

  And from Nathan: Good time to call?

  The serenity I had felt moments ago rapidly disappeared, replaced by a sharp pang of guilt. My fiancé wanted me home. And my old boyfriend wanted to talk.

  And then a third message arrived. Madison. Again. She had rarely tried to contact me in the months since I moved in with Aaron, and then it had only been a handful of anxious texts wondering why Olive wasn’t replying to her during her weekend visits (Is Olive okay?). But since Olive had moved in with us a month ago, Madison’s worried messages had become much more frequent. I never answered. Then, in the last week, she had started to send texts not so much about Olive, but for me, wheedling attempts to get us to be friends. Can we just meet for a coffee? Or I think it would be good if we could talk.

  Kira, we really need to talk, she texted now.

  No chance. Aaron had warned me what she was like, how persistent she could be. How determined, once she got an idea about something. A real bulldozer of a personality, unlike my own. She probably thought she could convince me to change Aaron’s mind and get the custody arrangement reversed. I had no intention of putting myself in the middle of their latest battle.

  I looked up at the cars in the nearby parking lot in case Madison meant she wanted to talk to me here, now. Just the week before, on the last day of classes before summer break, she had ambushed Olive as she left the school. I had looked up from my phone to see Madison (dressed in a crisp black blouse, slacks and stiletto heels, always in heels) on the school steps, holding Olive’s arm as she tried to lead the girl to her Volkswagen Beetle, a convertible. Olive, confused, gestured toward my SUV. I left Evie in the car as I ran over to them, crying, “Hey, let go of her!”

  When Olive tried to shrug out of Madison’s grip, saying, “Ow! You’re hurting me!” Madison released her and I quickly wrapped a protective arm around Olive and steered her toward my car, even as she now complained to me: “Jeez, just give me a minute with Maddy, all right?”

  “No,” I said. “You know your dad doesn’t want you talking to her.” Or going anywhere with her, I thought, as Madison apparently hoped.

  “But she’s my mom,” Olive said. “Come on, Kira.”

  I didn’t stop. I knew what was at stake. I hustled Olive to my Mazda, where Evie clapped on seeing her through the window. Madison followed the whole way, saying she just wanted to talk to Olive, she needed to talk to Olive. Why were Aaron and I stopping her from seeing her own daughter?

  “Stepdaughter,” I corrected her. “And you know why.”

  Once we were inside the car, I locked the door. Madison knocked on my window, yelling repeatedly that she needed to explain some things to Olive, and to me, if I would only listen, that it was important.

  But I had heard quite enough of Madison’s “explanations,” through Aaron. And they were definitely not things Olive needed to hear, not now, not ever. I was determined to protect Olive in the way I wished someone had protected me as a child. Still, I hated conflict and my hands shook as I started the SUV and put it into gear. When I refused to roll down the glass, Madison grew increasingly agitated, banging on my window like a madwoman as I backed up and drove off. In the back seat, Evie fussed and whined.

  “Everybody was watching,” Olive said, crouching down in her seat.

  It was true. As it all came down, I saw students and parents gather in small groups to stare and point and whisper. One boy held up his phone to record Madison’s manic outburst beside my car. Weirdly, Madison had been Olive’s preschool teacher when she and Aaron first met. It was an occupation that seemed so at odds with her behavior now.

  Madison had turned up a second time on the weekend, hovering outside the Starbucks Olive and I frequented as we stood in line, waiting for us to leave so she could snag us. It was sad, really, to see her there. And more than a little frightening. Before Olive had a chance to spot Madison, I’d pulled her from the line, saying it was too long a wait. I handed Evie over to her to distract her, and we slipped out a side entrance into the alleyway. I turned back once to see Madison standing at the end of the alley, framed by dark brick walls on either side, her feet, in heels, planted wide apart like a gunslinger about to draw. The woman freaked me out.

  Was Madison here now, lurking along the bike path as I squeezed in my morning run? There were few cars in the nearby parking lot this morning, as it was still early. A figure sat in the driver’s seat of an older gray minivan, but the reflecting sunlight obscured my view of them. Madison would never drive anything as prosaic as a minivan anyway, but maybe she had borrowed or rented a vehicle so we wouldn’t recognize her when she drove by the house or followed us. I wouldn’t put it past her. As I eyed the van, the driver backed out and sped away. The back appeared crammed with gear, like the owner was on a road trip, or homeless; likely homeless, some guy camping out there for the night, spooked by my attention.
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br />   My phone buzzed again with another message from Madison. Please. It’s urgent. Pick up! Then she called. After I declined the call, she rang again. As I again declined, a jogger ran up from behind to bounce in place in front of me. “Mind if I run with you?” he asked. The guy was short, balding, thirty-something, dressed in navy Adidas sweats and neon-orange runners. He grinned winningly, revealing overly white teeth. It wasn’t the first time I’d been hit on by some guy on this path. I turned away from him as I typed on my phone, hoping he’d take the hint and keep going.

  Leave me alone, I texted Madison, regretting it as soon as I hit Send. I should have just blocked her.

  My phone vibrated again with another text, but from Aaron this time. Kira, I need you home now.

  Why? What’s up? I texted. Everything all right?

  Aaron took a beat too long to reply. I’ll explain when you get here.

  My heart skipped. Is Evie okay?

  She’s fine. Just hurry.

  On my way.

  As I turned to head home, I nearly bumped into the jogger, who still waited for me.

  “I’ve seen you at a few races,” he said. “You’re an elite, right? A pro?”

  Sub-elite, and not even that now. I was a long-distance runner, an endurance runner, who had often run near, but not at, the front of the pack. My mother had once dreamed I would go on to make the national team. But the number of long-distance runners who make it to that level is very small, and although I’d had my share of podium finishes in the past, in recent years I’d failed to achieve the times I had been aiming for. As my mother had told me (over and over), I hadn’t risen to my potential.

  I forced a smile. “I’m just a mom now,” I said, hoping that would discourage the guy from talking further.

  “You had a baby? But you’re looking fit.” The jogger’s glance lingered over my breasts, which had grown, oranges to grapefruits, from breastfeeding. “Isn’t having a baby an advantage for female athletes? Doesn’t it change your heart somehow? It gives you an oxygen boost, right?”

  Past his shoulder I saw a woman prancing awkwardly across the grass toward me in a pink power suit and stiletto heels that sank into the dirt. Shit. Madison.

  “Excuse me,” I said to the jogger and sprinted off down the pathway in the opposite direction, glancing back once to see Madison throw up her arms in frustration. The jogger followed me, gunning it, an athletic flirtation, but I easily outpaced him, and he gave up. At the light, I crossed the road, taking a shortcut through a park, figuring I would lose Madison there should she try to follow in her car. Aaron, or his lawyer, could deal with her. Whatever she was after, I wanted no part of it. I tried to put her out of my mind.

  As I ran the tree-lined residential streets back home, the brief encounter with the jogger on the pathway ate at me instead. I’m just a mom now, I’d told the guy. Was that really all I was? A mom? Who was I now that I’d given up racing? The jogger had brought up a point Aaron often made when encouraging me to get back into competition, that having a baby might be an advantage for some female athletes. The huge changes a woman’s body undergoes to accommodate a pregnancy may increase performance for some time after the baby’s birth. The thing is, following my mother’s death, I just wanted to leave competition behind.

  My mother died suddenly from a brain aneurysm just weeks before Evie was born. I wished, at the time, that I understood the mix of feelings I had after her death. Grief, yes. And something like terror. How would I make it on my own without her? But I also felt . . . relief. After the funeral, I went back to her small house, my pregnant belly snug against the only black dress I owned, and picked up a photo of my mother and me, taken shortly before my parents separated. That image had once been part of a larger photo of my mother, father and me sitting around the firepit behind our summer house on Manitoulin. Following the divorce, my mother had literally cut Dad out of the picture and put this image of just her and me into that small gilded frame. I lay the photo face down on the coffee table and stared at my mother’s brag wall, framed photos of us at various long-distance races where I had picked up a medal. In them, cheek pressed to mine, my mother held up the medals as if she had placed. I was sweaty in those photos, my hair damp and askew from running, but my mother was always impeccably dressed in white or red jackets with contrasting red or white scarves, broadcasting a national pride that she didn’t exhibit at home. Winning hearts and minds, she called it. Go, team Mom.

  As I looked at those images, the realization slapped me upside the head: I hadn’t reached the level of success I had aimed for because I had never raced for myself. I had been drawn into running, biking, swimming, cross-country skiing and kayaking by my father, who loved these outdoor sports as much as he loved hunting and fishing. But while I had inherited his natural athletic ability, I just didn’t have the competitive drive necessary to take running to the next level, to become a national or world-class athlete, and it showed. It was my mother who had pushed me to strive, to win, as she had enjoyed the status she gained through my modest success. Now that she was dead, I had no reason to continue. But if I stopped racing competitively, what else would I do? Who would I be then? Who was I without her?

  I wouldn’t, couldn’t, stop training. I knew that much. It was all I’d done since I was a kid. What else would I do with my days? Now, as I was doing this morning, I ran or cycled my Toronto routes alone or pushed Evie ahead of me in a stroller. When Aaron or Olive was able to take Evie for a few hours, I swam laps at the pool or weight-trained. I had to train. I needed to train.

  Because if I stopped—if I stopped running—the past had a way of hunting me down.

  2

  A van drove too slowly down the residential street behind me as I jogged the last block before our house, in a way that was always suspect in the rural outskirts of Sudbury, where I had grown up: thieves casing houses, looking for telltale signs that owners weren’t home. I faced the vehicle as it approached, thinking it would be Madison. But it was some other woman, driving a gray minivan like the one I’d seen earlier in the parking lot near the bike path, like thousands of others in the city. Through the window, I caught a glimpse of her worn, exhausted face and cloud of frizzy blond hair. She leaned forward, to look at our house number, I imagined, before driving slowly away, presumably checking other numbers along the street.

  I often caught people admiring or at least staring up at our house. It was one of those slick, modern homes with two levels of floor-to-ceiling windows hovering over a basement, a shiny box completely at odds with the squat brick bungalows that surrounded it. Living there, I sometimes felt on stage, as if I and my new family were putting on a show for those passing by. Aaron and Olive didn’t seem bothered by it. Olive often lounged in the seating area in front of the huge upstairs window, glued to her phone, as she took in the morning sun. But she wasn’t there now. School had just ended for the summer and she was sleeping in.

  I unlocked the door, tossed my keys in the marble bowl on the foyer table and kicked off my runners. Then, remembering, I retrieved my shoes and tucked them neatly into the giant closet where Aaron asked that we hide them. The closet had impractical shelves that went higher than any of us could reach, but when the doors were closed, it formed the base of a column that extended to the twelve-foot ceiling, giving the entrance a grand, Greek temple sort of vibe. Everything about the house was sleek, modern and grand. The white marble of the foyer floor was picked up again in the island and countertops of the kitchen, visible from the entrance. Evie and I spent most of our time downstairs at that island, which I covered with placemats for our informal family meals, because, as Aaron reminded me, marble is porous and can stain. Aaron liked evidence of domestic life buttoned away, as he often worked from a home office downstairs and entertained clients at the house on short notice. Even the oven, microwave and espresso machine were built into cupboards, with pocket doors to conceal them.

  The living room seating area was framed by an enormous window th
at faced the street. Light cascaded through it onto an expanse of clean maple floor, making this wide-open space seem even larger.

  “I’m home,” I called upstairs.

  Evie cried out at the sound of my voice, and I again felt my milk let down.

  There was a ping as something metallic hit the marble tiles on the bathroom floor, likely a cuff link, followed by Evie’s gurgles.

  “Make me coffee and I’ll bring Evie down,” Aaron said.

  “You got it.” I went over to the kitchen to open the cupboard door that hid the large espresso machine, an Italian-made commercial model. This was the one skill I had outside of athletics, as I had taken on jobs at Starbucks and other coffeehouses to make ends meet. I hadn’t gone to university, where I would have gotten more in the way of coaching support, as I didn’t have the money. Even elite long-distance runners made little in the way of income from sponsors or racing in this country. Without Aaron’s support, I doubt I would have been able to continue competing anyway, Evie or no Evie.

  “I thought you said you weren’t going for a run this morning,” Aaron said from upstairs. Sound bounced around these wide-open spaces like a rubber ball. We regularly carried on conversations between the first and second floor.

  “I’m sorry I took off without telling you,” I said. “I woke early, couldn’t sleep.” Thinking about what lay ahead on my trip up to Manitoulin Island later that day, the inevitable painful conversation I would have with Nathan (assuming, of course, I was right about the contents of the mail that awaited me there).

  “Evie woke early too, crying for you,” Aaron said.

  Which meant he had to get up and walk down the hall to pick her up. Evie never slept in the bed with us, as I would have preferred. Aaron didn’t like her snacking on me in the night, the milk stains on the Egyptian cotton sheets, the possibility that she might wet the bed. He wanted her to learn to sleep on her own. More importantly, he felt he and I needed a private space where, as he said, we could cultivate our young relationship, focus on just us for a change.