Noah’s Wife

There’s a champagne buzzer in the middle of the table with a gold circle outlining it, and in case that didn’t make its existence apparent enough, the words ‘CHAMPAGNE SERVICE’ are printed in bold black letters on a small card adjacent to the buzzer. My finger hovers several inches above the button and then jams down on it twice before Noah reaches out and grasps my fingers, pulling my hand into his lap. I glare at him and use my free hand to reach out and press the button once more.

Tugging my fingers from his grasp, I sarcastically retort, “It’s not every year we get to attend the Golden Globes.”

Kristen purses her bright red lips from across the table and glances from me to Noah. Tonight Kristen is vying for the best actress award for her performance in a romance blockbuster. Yay for her. She’s also quite possibly banging my husband. I feel a little less enthusiastic about that. She’s a tiny bit of a thing with blonde hair and long eyelashes, but the tight green dress she’s wearing makes her look like a slug. 

Noah leaves the table as Kristen begins twisting the enormous diamond ring on her finger. 

I gesture toward her ensemble. “Nice dress. Where’s your husband tonight?” 

She looks down at her dress and slowly back up, as if the very action of surveying her outfit has made her weary. “At home, Emily. He’s at home.”

The nasty tone she uses to say my name makes me want to reach over and slap her pretty face. Part of me still wants to hold on to my husband but this twit isn’t helping.

She quits fiddling with her ring, giving me the pleasure of her full attention. “Noah won best actor last year.”

I grimace. “I know. I’m his wife.”

“He graduated from Harvard, is a bobsleigh Olympian, a poker world champion, fluent in fifteen languages—”

I resist the urge to kick her swiftly under the table, instead mouthing the words, “SHUT UP.”

“He possesses more magic than anyone alive and you have none. I mean, the guy is ten times more capable than the average man. Why is he with you?”

“Because I met him before all that,” I reply, drawing out each word. I honestly don’t know what her malfunction is. Last I checked, she wasn’t magical herself.

Noah’s green eyes fixate on Kristen when he returns. He winks at her when he thinks I’m not looking; his short curly hair bobbing in place. I tap him on the knee, diverting his attention from Kristen while swallowing the hurt. 

A man in a suit vest and tie delivers three bottles of champagne on a silver tray and uncorks them one by one. My lips curl up into a smile, “Pass those my way, would you?”

The waiter hands me a bottle, then I motion for another. Hesitantly he slides it over. I move both bottles in front of me, grab a champagne flute off his tray, and fill it to the rim. 

Noah’s face flashes on the large screen up front. He’s in an action hero movie where he does all his own stunts. His on screen girlfriend dies in the beginning and he cries like a baby. In the last three minutes, he discovers she’s actually alive and waiting for him in South America. Queue sequel.

Noah was a cashier when we met, and I was a theater major. I loved him endlessly when we got married, but his capabilities changed him. He once was awkward and uneasy and excelled at nothing except loving me. Now I think he’s an arrogant, curly headed troll. Nevertheless, the last of my love has not died out, and I've decided when it comes to him and Kristen, ignorance is bliss.

I pour another glass of champagne and look at the stage just in time to witness a D-list actor make a political joke, then get heckled and booed. 

When Noah’s name is announced for best actor, I jump up and down and brush away invisible tears as he thanks me in his too long acceptance speech. ‘Noah’s wife’ appears on the screen when the camera cuts to me.

The evening drags on. Picking clumps of brown hair oversaturated in hairspray from my updo, I stifle a yawn.

“Stop it,” Noah hisses in my ear.

I smile politely, on the off chance that the camera focuses on us for a split second, then excuse myself. Exiting the building, I call our limo driver to come get me, then fall asleep waiting for Noah.

It's morning when Kristen roughly shakes my shoulder. “We’re going to catch a flight. Wake up.”

“A flight?” I mumble.

“The pilot is meeting us at the airport in less than an hour. Get ready.”

I fling myself upright. As far as adulteresses go, I already thought Kristen was awful, but these demands have me feeling more than a bit miffed. “I have no intention of getting on a plane with you.”

Blue eyes cut through me as the nice girl expression vacates her face. “I know that you know about me and Noah.”

Her flippant admission makes me want to hurl. She ignores my displeasure and flings a dress onto the floor. “I can’t go on a trip with your husband by myself. The press would eat that right up.”

I hate how compliant I've become, but nonetheless find myself in the helicopter with Noah, flying to our multi-million dollar island vacation home ten miles from shore, with his mistress in tow. Adjusting the headphones over my ears I peer out the window at the choppy waters below. The wind is gusting hard and the ride is turbulent.

The pilot says something over the headset. The only word I can make out is “failure,” which I’m sure is my mind playing tricks on me.

I press the headset firmly down on my head, “I’m sorry, what was that?”

He shouts above the static, “Mechanical failure.”

Noah yells to ask what’s happening. The pilot murmurs something and then the connection falls silent. 

The helicopter drops and then rises again and again, along with my stomach. I reach out for Noah. He brushes my hand away and wraps his arms around Kristen. I recoil as if he slapped me. I’ve been waiting for a moment that pushes me over the edge and makes it impossible for me to go on living with him, and this is it.

The helicopter lowers altitude and begins to descend toward the island. When the engine dies down, the pilot comes to talk to us. Apparently, mechanical failure doesn’t always mean everybody on board is going to die; sometimes it just means something went wrong and needs to be fixed. We all look at him dumbfounded.  

Noah looks genuinely terrified, which is a rare emotion for him. I instantly realize this means he’ll be getting certifications and gathering hours so he can fly helicopters.

There’s an uncomfortable exchange of words between Noah and the pilot. Then I watch in disbelief as my husband grabs his suitcase in one hand and Kristen’s in the other, leaving me to retrieve my own. In a single day my marriage has made the transition from ‘ignorance is bliss’ to ‘I can’t stomach this’.

“Hey,” I say to the pilot. I clear my throat, caught off guard by the trembling in my voice. “Any chance I could get a ride back?”

I’d rather die in a helicopter crash than endure watching my husband openly dote over Kristen. Unfortunately the pilot, irritated by his conversation with Noah, suggests I arrange other transportation. I roll my eyes. “Great. I’m sure Uber has a private helicopter on standby.”

Kristen is busy marveling at how great Noah is at billiards when I walk in. By mid-afternoon he’s built an outdoor furniture set; and now we’re eating a three course meal that includes beef Wellington and baked Alaska. Every bite melts in my mouth, which only makes me hate him more.

“Ten times more capable,” I hear Kristen say from across the table. “Is that the same as ten times better?”

“Not exactly,” Noah responds. “I’m ten times more capable than an average man at golfing, but if I shot up a bunch of cocaine and then played, I probably wouldn’t win. Just because you’re capable of something doesn’t necessarily mean you’ll be successful at it.”

My forkful of baked Alaska descends back to my plate. I don’t know why Noah is feeling so chatty today but his revelation sends me reeling. I suck the dessert off my fork and debate about drugging Noah. I suppose if I challenged him at something, drugged him, and failed, he’d be ten times more likely to kill me without getting caught. It doesn’t matter though. Even though I think he’s a sludge human being, I don’t have the heart to hurt him, in spite of everything.

My shoulder gets a violent shaking after I’ve fallen asleep in the guest room. I’m somehow convinced I’m still in the back of the limo. “No,” I grumble. “I don’t want to go. Go without me.”

“Get up,” Kristen orders, shaking me harder. “It won’t quit raining and the island is flooding. The entire first floor is under water.”

I force my eyes open and glance around the room. “Where’s Noah?” 

“I can’t get him to wake up.”

I let out an exasperated sigh. Noah, as with everything, is a very good sleeper. 

Racing to my window and pushing open the curtains I gasp at the high water, scared that it’s only a matter of time before the whole house is underwater.

I run to the master bedroom, locking the door behind me. Kristin pounds on it relentlessly, demanding I unlock it. I ignore her, watching the water seep under it. Kristen’s voice is full of panic, then hysterics, and finally falls silent. She must have given up on Noah and left to save her own skin.

Drawing the curtains closed, I lay down beside Noah and pull his arms around me. He begins to nuzzle my ear and then kisses the back of my neck. I close my eyes, wishing his affection was meant for me.

I whisper in his ear, “You need to wake up.”

His arms jerk off me and he sits upright. “What are you doing here?”

I lay my hand on his chest and then remove it. “I want a divorce.”

He’s quiet for a moment before saying, “No, you have a good life and I’m happy with Kristen. Nothing needs to change.”

“I guess.”

“You give up so easily,” he chastises.

Knowing he can’t turn down a challenge, I add, “How about if next time we go swimming, if you can swim farther, we’ll stay married.”

He snorts under his breath. “You couldn’t swim further than me on your best day.”

“So we have a deal?”

“Fine, whatever.” 

He repositions himself and goes back to sleep while I quietly draw the curtains and open the window, then sit on the ledge. The ocean is engulfing the house and the coolness nips at my toes.

Kristen swims toward me, her blonde hair flattened to her head. “Noah!” she yells out.

I slip into the ocean as the water level reaches Noah’s mattress and pools over the top. He shrieks and falls off the bed, plunging under the surface and then rising above it, coughing water forcefully from his lungs.

Calmly treading water, I watch as Noah and Kristen swim toward each other like magnets, trying to cling to each other, then bobbing under the water and separating; discussing, then arguing, about their next steps. Noah swims to the roof, the top of which is barely above water, and drags his wet body onto it.

I yell out to him while flitting my fingers through the water. “You’re going to lose the race.”

Noah’s eyes lock with mine as the realization of what I said reaches his brain. He never swims in the ocean because he’s terrified of sharks, but he already agreed to this race, and this is in fact the ‘next time’ we are swimming. If he doesn’t participate or if he loses, he won’t possess his power anymore.

“You’re insane. There’s no place to go. You’ll end up in the middle of the ocean. You’ll drown.”

I shrug. “Maybe.”

Lying on my back and staring up at the night sky, I move my arms through the water one stroke at a time. There’s a loud splash as Noah enters the ocean, but I don’t watch to see how far he swims, I just keep going as far as I can, and then further. 

The water is frigid. I continuously move but am chilled to the core. My arms move slower and my head bobs below the surface, leaving me sputtering for breath. Waves begin to pummel me in the face and I begin grappling with the realization that I'm going to die, when I see the faintest sliver of land ahead and use energy I didn’t know I had left to swim to the shore and pull myself onto the sand of the vacant beach. 

My clothes dry as the sun climbs higher. I lay panting for breath with the noise of seagulls and the sound of the crashing waves ringing in my ears. 

A lady in pink sweatpants jogs along the shoreline and spots me. She shrieks, “Are you okay?” I nod and ask to borrow her phone.

I call the Coast Guard and make an anonymous report. Then I call Kristen’s husband and explain a shortened version of events. He’s quiet. Very quiet. When he finally speaks, his voice cradles a sense of care but no urgency. “Are they searching for them?”

“Yes, the Coast Guard is doing all they can.”

There’s an awkward pause before I add, “I hate to do this considering the circumstances but is there any way you could arrange a ride for me?”

I’m surprised when Tom finds me on the beach. He extends his hand to help pull me up. I grasp it with a light squeeze. It never occurred to me that he would come. Inside his car I apologize for inconveniencing him.

He waves me off. “It’s fine. I’d rather stay busy.”

Tom isn’t as pretty as his wife. He has a few gray hairs along his temples and a little divot on his chin, likely a scar from having chicken pox as a child. Maybe he isn’t Hollywood handsome, but his striking blue eyes captivate me.

He opens and closes his mouth several times while keeping his eyes on the road. “They were having an affair weren’t they?”

I’m tempted to pretend I don’t have any idea what he’s talking about, but instead I just nod. 

“Thanks for the ride,” I say when he pulls into my driveway.

He raises one eyebrow. “No offense, but you look like death warmed over. Let me walk you in.”

My whole body is numb and tingly as I enter the house. I walk into my living room, not knowing what to say to Tom, who may have just lost his wife. Running the tips of my fingers along the baby grand piano, I sit at the end of the bench and stroke the tops of the keys with my fingers without pressing down.

Tom's phone rings and he takes it outside. When he returns he announces, “The Coast Guard just picked them up. They’re both alive.” He looks relieved but his tone is flat.

“Oh,” I say, experiencing little emotion. “I guess I’m finally going to ask for a divorce then.”

His blue eyes cloud over. “Yeah. Me too.”

There’s sheet music in front of me but I never learned to play. I press down on a few keys and the piano groans in protest.

“Do you play?” I ask Tom.

“I used to spend summers with my grandmother in Italy. She taught me a little.”

“Can you tell me the names of the keys?”

He presses down on a key in the middle of the piano and explains its middle C, and one by one gives me a very basic explanation. Then he points to the sheet of paper and explains a few of the notes and how they correspond to the instrument in front of me. 

He sits beside me and plays the sheet music with a few errors. When he’s done I reach out and repeat what he did, somehow correcting the notes that he missed and playing at a faster pace.

He manages a soft smile and nods his approval. “Very nice. I thought you didn’t play.”

I place my hands in my lap. “Beginners luck, I guess.” 

He plays the piece again and then asks me to, but I politely decline. Unlike Noah I’m not that competitive. I don’t want to be an Olympian or a lawyer, or even a top grossing actress. Knowing Noah has changed my perception on goals and success. As far as excelling in life, I’m going to focus on one thing to strive to be amazing at. Love.

“Would it be weird if I made you hot chocolate and asked you about Italy?”

Tom shrugs. “I don’t see why not.”