A Secret Kept By My Wife

Leon, drink up. Finish every drop in this glass."

As my wife, Alice Carr, holds a glass of warm milk, she keeps staring at my Adam's apple intensely.

Every night, she needs to watch me finish the entire glass of milk.

At first, I think this is Alice's way of showing me her love. That is, until something occurred last month.

Back then, my neighbor's fire alarm blared extremely loudly due to a fire breaking out. Yet, I had slept like a log the whole time. Only then do I realize that something is wrong with the milk.

Last night, I pretended to go on a business trip. When I secretly go home in the middle of the night, I find out that my bedroom door is locked.

When I peek through the gap in the door, I feel my hairs rising on their ends.

It turns out that Alice isn't asleep at all. She's standing on the balcony while holding my pillow and burying her face into it. Then, she inhales the scent deeply, as though she were a drug addict. Her shoulders keep trembling violently the whole time.

It's one thing if Alice is madly addicted to my scent. The thing is, the pillowcase is a part of the bedroom set that my mom has dug up from my childhood home last week.

I never have a chance to use that pillow, so there's no way my scent lingers on the pillowcase.

Suddenly, Alice halts in her actions and raises her head. She looks up at the moon while licking her lips in an euphoric haze.

Then, she mumbles softly, "Your dad's scent… is fading away…"

"Mason, what does it mean when a woman stays up half the night just sniffing a pillow?" I asked.

The sound of a thermos lid unscrewing echoed across the line.

My colleague, Mason Hughes, took a loud sip of his tea and smacked his lips.

"What kind of pillow?"

"Brand new. I haven't even slept on it once."

"Then she's not sniffing you."

No kidding.

I was crouching in the hallway of my apartment building by the fire hydrant, my back pressed against the freezing tiles.

What my wife, Alice Carr, had said under the moonlight still stuck in my throat like a fishbone. "Your dad's scent is fading."

Dad was cremated 11 months ago.

"The thing is," I said, keeping my voice down, "she says it smells like my dad."

For once, Mason went dead silent for three whole seconds.

This was a man who had been cleaned out by three divorces and could usually never keep his mouth shut for more than two seconds.

"Your old man's been gone for almost a year."

"Yeah."

"Then who the hell is she actually smelling?"

I didn't have an answer.

"Look, man, take my advice. Rip that pillow open," Mason said, switching into full preacher mode. "My second marriage failed because of a pillow.

"My ex had hidden a gold chain her guy gave her right inside the stuffing. By day, she told me she loved me; by night, she slept with another man's present."

"This is different—"

"Every clueless man thinks his situation is different."

I hung up.

Just past 3:00 am, the bedroom door clicked open.

Alice headed into the bathroom. Under the cover of the running faucet, I slipped back inside the bedroom like a ghost.

The pillow was still sitting on the wicker chair on the balcony, glaringly white in the moonlight.

I pinched the four corners.

In the bottom right, my fingers hit something hard. It wasn't big and was tucked deep into the inner lining.

The stitches were tight and clean—Mom's handiwork.

Ever since I was a kid, every pair of pants she patched for me looked exactly like this.

The water in the bathroom stopped.

I tossed the pillow back, retreated to the living room couch, and closed my eyes to fake sleep.

Alice's footsteps came down the hall, drawing closer and closer.

She didn't go back to bed. Instead, she walked straight over to the couch and stopped.

I forced my breathing to stay steady.

Through my eyelashes, I could see her cotton slippers right in front of my face.

"Leon, you back?" she whispered.

I didn't move.

She bent down and pulled a light blanket over me. Her fingers brushed against my neck, sending a chill through me.

Then she went back to the bedroom.

The door closed, and the click of the latch echoed sharply in the dark.

At 7:00 am, a cup of warm milk sat waiting on the dining table. Everything was the same as every other day.

Alice pushed the cup over. "Drink it."

Her eyes were locked on me.

I picked up the cup.

The moment the steam hit my face, I caught a faint, bitter tang beneath the milk.

It wasn't spoiled. It smelled like crushed herbs.

"Something wrong?" she asked.

"No."

I took a huge gulp. The moment she turned around to grab a tissue, I spat it all out into the trash can by my feet.

Before heading out, I looked back one last time.

Alice was standing on the balcony, leaning on the railing, and gazing into the distance.

The morning sun cut a perfect silhouette of her face. She looked like the picture-perfect wife.

But a perfect wife wouldn't hold a brand-new pillow at 3:00 am, staring at the moon and whispering a dead man's name.

I sat in the car for ten minutes before I finally turned the key.

My phone buzzed. One word flashed on the screen—Mom.

"Leon, how do you like the pillow?" she asked.

I gripped the steering wheel tightly.

"Mom, you sewed something into the bottom right corner, didn't you?"

There was a sharp pause on the other end.

Her breathing suddenly turned heavy, like something was choking her.

"You opened it?"

"No. I just felt it."

A silence followed, so long that I thought the call had dropped.

Then Mom spoke in a very soft voice, as if she were forcing each word out through clenched teeth. "Leon, listen to me. Don't touch what's inside that pillow."