Bigamist Read online

  We greeted guests and filed out of the church. There were a few reporters posted outside, I’m guessing they were waiting for some drama. I could see a few cameras pointed in our direction but did my best to ignore it, telling the kids to do the same.

  After the service, our home was full of family members of Ricky and I: friends, neighbors, as well as other people we knew and loved. A couple of Ricky’s aunts and an uncle, a few distant cousins, some of his long-time colleagues—mostly retired doctors—some of my distant relatives, old neighbors, and parents of some of our kids’ friends. There was even an old mailman from the first home we lived in and a few of Ricky’s earlier patients from years ago. Everyone was supportive of the kids and me, loving us through all of the mess.

  My brother arrived unexpectedly the day before. I hadn’t seen Alan since our dad’s funeral, so I was completely shocked that he was concerned enough about what was going on to come and offer support. As embarrassing as it all was, I appreciated his presence.

  With each person coming through the double doors at our home, I disengaged from my reality and turned into a hostess, thanking him or her for the support. I didn’t want any of them to know how totally embarrassed I was for my predicament. Those that truly loved me avoided the news coverage just as I had, and the others fully took it in so they could be ready with their unsolicited advice on how I should handle the other two women. The suggestions ranged from suing them to bringing physical harm. I didn’t have the stomach for any of it; however, I appreciated their loyalty towards me.

  Alan approached me. I couldn’t get over how great he looked—his cocoa-brown skin and slender build made me a little envious of his looks but at the same time, proud. I loved introducing him as my brother. It was visual verification of my blackness—my heritage. Having brown kids didn’t even do that because everyone figured they got their color from their dad. But my brother’s presence legitimized me as a black woman.

  “You look amazing. I know I keep saying it, but you really do,” I told him once he put his arm around my shoulder.

  “You’re looking good too, sis.”

  “Yeah, thanks to some talented doctors in Frisco.”

  “If it’s okay with you, I’m going to start asking folks to leave,” Alan whispered into my ear.

  I glanced at the clock. “I think it helps to have them here.” I could see Kylie in the dining room in a discussion with her friends.

  “We need to talk,” Alan announced. “I retained an attorney for you.”

  “Why’d you do that? I have an attorney.”

  “You can’t use Ricky’s attorney. He’ll be too cautious, trying not to ruin his friend’s reputation. You need someone new.”

  I exhaled and took a seat at the oversized island in our kitchen. “I don’t want to talk about it right now. Mentally, I’m drained.”

  “That’s fine. Get your rest but tomorrow, we’re on it.”

  Insurance papers. Lawyers. Court dates. Court drama. Fighting with Ricky’s women. Posturing to claim my position. The mere thought was exhausting. I wanted to go back to—a month ago—a year ago, to my simple life. Back to a time when I was the wife of a doctor that came home when he felt like it and I was more than okay with that. But here I was, neck-deep in Ricky’s mess.

  Suddenly, I was slicing baked ham, smoked brisket and roast beef. I packed up containers of potato salad, coleslaw and deviled eggs, offering plates of food to the guests in my home. It was my gracious way of saying, “Time to go.” Several of my girlfriends joined in and helped me by cleaning the kitchen. Everyone got the hint and left one by one.

  Once the house was empty and Alan had gone to bed, the kids and I looked through photos and watched old videos of them when they were small—when Ricky and I were young parents—when we had no idea how good we had it. We reminisced. We laughed. We cried.

  13

  Rose

  …take your words and twist them.

  I didn’t want to live. I didn’t want to fight. I didn’t want to cry. I didn’t want to remember him. I didn’t want to remember us. I didn’t want to talk about Rick being dead. I wanted to act as if the past eleven years hadn’t happened but that was impossible. Each one of our friends and fellow hospital workers needed closure and they were looking for me to provide a way for them to get it.

  It was ridiculous, really, all three of us having our own service for the man we claimed as our husband. We were all as different as night and day—as I’m sure our tributes to Rick were. As hard as I tried not to join in the circus of it all, I eventually caved into the pressure and threw something together. I didn’t have it in me to put together an elaborate service so there was a carefully worded obituary, a few flowers, and kind words delivered by the Chief Resident.

  It was hosted at a newly built recreation center, not far from Dallas Presby, with a small reception following. Dr. Salem Patel spoke softly over a group of a hundred or so doctors, friends, and hospital workers. It was all well and proper. Not too lavish, not too clinical. And it happened so quickly and spur of the moment that the media didn’t get wind of it in time to show up. Unlike Amy and Iris, I was spared that particular humiliation.

  I tried returning to work. I needed to keep my mind preoccupied, but the situation was difficult to escape. I had friends tell me it would pass and that soon people would turn to the next scandal, forgetting about this one, but I found that hard to believe. It was everywhere.

  It was a Thursday, normally the end of my work week but I had been working weekends since Rick died. Sitting home just made me crazy—made me miss him crazy—made me have crazy thoughts. I had taken on many of Rick’s patients, so work was plentiful—not to mention our research. My hands were full and I was beyond thankful for that.

  “Dr. McDaniel, can you look over an x-ray for me? I’d like your opinion on a patient’s case.” Dr. Marie Joseph stood in front of me holding CT scans. “Follow me,” she added.

  I did. Even though I was busy, I couldn’t ignore that she grabbed me by the elbow and escorted me off. We ducked into an observation room and she placed the scans on the monitor and flicked the light on.

  I studied them closely. “What am I supposed to be looking for?”

  I could hear Marie breathing heavily next to me.

  “This looks like your basic case of calcium build up in the coronary… am I missing something?” I turned to find her staring at me. “Just a basic by-pass—a double.”

  “Hey… I wanted to get you alone.” She cleared her throat. “I was contacted…” She cleared her throat again.

  I waited.

  “I was contacted by Globe Magazine. They want to pay me to answer questions about you and Dr. Hart.”

  I took a seat at the table and she joined me.

  Marie secured her hair behind her ears. She had been at Dallas Presbyterian for four or five years, a young, single woman dedicated to her career. We’d perform many surgeries together and she had trained exclusively under Rick for the past two years. I could see perspiration forming on her nose.

  The heat was rising for me too. “Why are you telling me?”

  “I thought you needed to know.”

  “You know, you’re not the first person to come to me with such news.”

  “No, I didn’t know.”

  “Hey, I can’t tell you what to do—I’m sure the money is tempting.” I moved to get up from the table.

  “Look, I’m not tempted. I honestly wanted to inform you that I’d been asked. I have no intention to tell them anything—I don’t know anything anyway.”

  “You know enough, I’m sure.”

  “The fact is, if I don’t talk, they’ll find someone who will.”

  “I’m sure they will, unfortunately,” I responded

  “I haven’t declined yet, but I thought if I did speak to them, I could tell them what you wanted me to. I want to help you. There are so many ugly things being reported that I want to clear it all up.” She exhaled slowly. “I’ve a
lways admired you and Rick—your personal and professional relationships. I just hate what’s happening.” I saw a tear well up in the corner of her eye.

  “I appreciate the offer, but they can’t be trusted. They will take your words and twist them. As much as I believe you want to help, it won’t in the end.” I touched her hand. “The best support you can give is to remain silent. I am not going to fight for my place as Rick’s wife. I just don’t have it in me so don’t get caught up in this mess. Just remember the man, friend, and colleague he was to you and support me while I make my way through it all.”

  The tear spilled over onto Marie’s cheek and I fought back my own.

  “I can do that.”

  “At some point, it will all die down,” I added.

  We embraced for a long moment.

  “And, in case you can’t tell, I truly appreciate you coming to me first. Most everyone has but I’m sure it’s just a matter of time before there’s someone who can’t resist.” I gently touched her shoulder. “Again, I appreciate it.”

  14

  Iris

  …flush out all of the ugly…

  I had been to three attorneys—all different—and all promising me that I had a winning case against Erick’s first wife and that doctor. All I needed to do was choose one of them and be ready to fight. I was ready. I needed a barracuda in the courtroom because I was going for everything that was coming to me for my children. Deciding which one was the most ruthless was where my thoughts remained.

  It was tempting to lose focus and get involved in the social media banter, but I kept my mind on what was important—claiming my rightful place as Erick’s wife. Besides, people’s posts were inflamed on one day and the next there’d be virtual silence. And then, some new development would happen and this whole fiasco would be at the top of everyone’s news feed again. And then TruthBTold had a video circulating that’d had a half a million views. Marigold tried to keep me from seeing it, but she was too late.

  TruthBTold was reveling in my misery. The thrill was all over her face when recapping how I bragged about having a husband and painting her as a lonely, bitter bitch. I couldn’t let my story end like this. I had to have the last word, which was why I needed an attorney perfect for the job.

  My mother joined me each time I met with a lawyer, praying first, and advising me on which to choose. We stepped into the third attorney’s office, ready to check her out.

  “Hello, I’m Marion Mays,” my mother spoke up first, extending her hand.

  “Hello, Marion. I’m Greta Baldwin.” The plump, blond woman shook my mother’s hand while peering past her, looking at me. Her shoes were soft brown leather Crocs, completely broken in, each heel slanting in the opposite direction. Her short hair rested on the collar of her standard white blouse that was tucked inside a navy-blue suit. I could even see dandruff flakes on the shoulders of her double-knit blazer.

  “Hello,” I spoke up. “I’m Iris Hart.”

  Greta shook my hand with her right and grabbed my elbow with her left. “It’s good to meet you, Iris. Please, both of you have a seat.”

  My mother and I sat in front of Greta’s desk. Her office was huge with stately, heavy furniture with a huge picture window behind her desk. We were in downtown Ennis, Texas so the view wasn’t so great. The other highly recommended attorneys we’d visited were located in Dallas and were set up in fancy, contemporary offices. I was almost committed to one of them, ready to cancel my meeting with Greta. Seeing her was making me second-guess my decision to keep the appointment.

  I took one glance over at my mother to hopefully read her expression and it was as if she were person-ally hearing from God. There was a sparkle in her eye that told me she thought we had found who we were looking for. I wasn’t so sure just yet.

  “So, let’s cut to the chase. I normally let a client tell me his or her story and then I decide if I can help them win the case. But due to the notoriety of your situation, I’ll tell you what I know and you can fill in what I don’t know.” She plopped down in her rickety office chair heavily, making it scream for mercy. She slid in closer to her messy desk, pushed her glasses up on her nose, and then folded her hands in front of her. “You’re a fashion blogger who married a bigamist and the media is having a field day with it because he’s a well-noted heart surgeon. You’re not just any fashion blogger but one with enough pull to get Commissioner Williams to show up at your memorial service.”

  Greta paused as if she thought I would respond but I waited on her to finish.

  “And, from what I could tell, you had the biggest crowd at your service between all three, which may indicate that people see you as the legitimate wife. Or, it could just be because you have fame and the media was there, too. You have two small children, in fact you recently gave birth to the doctor’s youngest child and that adds another pull on the heartstrings. Of the other two wives, it seems, that he only legally married one of them many years ago so proving that they were no longer married in the practical sense will be our focus. The other woman should be of no consequence since there was no marriage license.”

  She ran my shit down like it was nothing. Like my life was nothing.

  “Okay, so you’ve watched the news.”

  “There’s no escaping it.” She stared at me eye to eye as if she was trying to read my mind. “How is it that Commissioner Williams showed at your service?”

  “His nephew by marriage has a skin care line, Body Glo, and it’s one of the products that I blog about and promote. They make a lot of money based on my articles so I’m sure the whole family felt obligated to show. Money talks.”

  “That explains it. So, tell me what I don’t know.”

  I exhaled, cleared my throat and began, “We were married for five years—happily. We moved into our home after it was built just shortly after our destination wedding in Cabo San Lucas. He loved our children and was thrilled about our son being born. And… I might add… he loved me.”

  “Did Dr. Hart reside in the home?” she asked matter of fact.

  “Of course.”

  “You say, of course, but did he have his clothes or personal belongings there? Did he sleep there every night? Receive mail?”

  “Yes, his things were there. No, he didn’t sleep there every night—he’s a doctor. Some nights he stayed at the hospital,” my voice went up an octave or two.

  “Are you sure that’s where he was?”

  “Well, I didn’t have a GPS on him. He said he was at the hospital and that’s what I believed.”

  “I’m sure you also believed that you were his only wife—or at least his second wife, right?”

  “Look, just state your strategy,” my mother chimed in. “What’s with the degradation?”

  Greta turned to my mother. “That’s nothing compared to what could happen in court.” She turned back to me. “We will need to flush out all of the ugly if we plan to win. And I think you can win.”

  There was another pause and again I waited.

  “First, we will establish what he was worth because if there’s nothing to get, there’s no need in going through all of this. And then, we’ll find out more about the other two women. It won’t be an open and closed case but it’s one we can win.” She exhaled and pushed back, making her chair scream again. “Think things over and if you’d like to retain me, let me know. Ten-thousand up front and I work at four hundred and fifty dollars an hour.”

  Greta didn’t have the look and style I imagined my attorney having but I liked her straightforward attitude. She didn’t give a fuck and that’s what I needed.

  I opened my purse and pulled out my credit card, holding it up in the air.

  “Great. See Sammy out front and I’ll send you an engagement letter for you to read and sign—let’s say, tomorrow.” She stood.

  “Okay.” I also stood, and my mother followed suit.

  “Can’t wait to get started.” Greta stretched out her hand for a final shake.

  15
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  Amy

  I didn’t want to feel for anyone else’s pain…

  I was not a woman hard up for money because having access to Ricky’s accounts was never a problem. For one, my name is and was always on them. However, it was disappointing that the life insurance payouts were being held up. Maybe frustrating was a better word. I was the first wife—the rightful wife—the legitimate wife and once everyone recognized that, the kids and I could move on with life.

  Going to court to prove who I was didn’t seem fair, but I could tell that little Miss Thing with her toddler and newborn was going to present a problem. Instead of handling this with dignity and class—in other words, quietly—she was all over the Internet, responding to questions and allegations much more than what I thought was necessary. And even when she herself wasn’t saying anything, it was obvious she had her people and her fans speaking on her behalf.

  Iris and her trolls were letting people in on private details. She was the same as every other millennial, living her life out on social media, over-sharing and responding to the most idiotic comments, rumors, and lies. I was mad at myself for even reading the mess that was posted.

  Too many days had passed, and I couldn’t help but wonder if things were happening that I wasn’t privy to. Again, I wasn’t desperate for money but if the death certificate and Ricky’s body was released to anyone other than me, I was gonna blow a gasket. I took in a few quick breaths, exhaled slowly, and picked up my cell phone.