Page 34 of The Wives

“I’m going to ask you some questions, just to rule out a concussion,” he says. “Can you tell me your name?”

“Thursday Ellington,” I answer easily. Second wife of Seth Arnold Ellington.

“And how old are you, Thursday?” he asks.

“Twenty-eight.”

“Who is the current president?”

I scrunch up my nose. “Trump.”

He chuckles a little at that one, and I relax.

“Okay, good, good. You’re doing great.”

He’s talking to me like I’m a child or slow of understanding. I’m irritated, but I try not to let on. I know how hospitals deal with uncooperative patients.

“Any nausea?” he continues.

I shake my head. “No, none.”

He seems pleased by my answer because he marks something off on his chart.

“Why can’t I remember coming here?” I ask. “Or what happened before?”

“It could be the hit your head took, or even stress,” he says. “When your brain is ready, it will impart those memories to you, but for now all you can do is rest up and wait.”

“But can you tell me what happened?” I plead. “Maybe it will trigger something...”

He twines his fingers, letting them drop to his waist as he stares up at the ceiling. He looks like a grandfather getting ready to recount a long-ago memory to a room full of grandkids instead of a doctor talking to a woman in a hospital bed.

“On Tuesday evening, you were in the kitchen. Do you remember?”

“Yes,” I say. “With Seth.”

He consults his chart. “Yes, that’s right. Seth.”

I keep my face even as I wait for him to say more. I won’t take the bait and prompt him, though I desperately want to know.

“You attacked him. Do you remember that?”

I do. It comes back to me, a wave crashing over my head. I remember the anger, flying across the kitchen toward him. The feeling of wanting to claw at his skin until he bled. The reason for my anger comes back, too, and I grip the sheets as I remember—first Hannah, and then his denial.

“Why did you attack him? Do you remember?”

“Yes. He hit his other wife. I confronted him about it and we fought.”

He cocks his head to the side. “His other wife?”

“My husband is a polygamist. He has three.” I expect him to react, to be shocked, but instead he writes something down on the notepad in front of him and then looks up at me expectantly.

“Did you see him hit his wife?”

“One of his wives,” I say, frustrated. “And no, but I saw the bruises on her arm and face.”

“Did she tell you that he hit her?”

I hesitate. “No—”

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