After Her (7 page)

8

I don’t answer.

I lurch backwards, gripping the porcelain sink counter to prop myself up when my knees threaten to buckle at the joints.

“Cassandra?” Vivian pauses, attentively examining my face. She probably notices the lack of emotion in my expression—my slack jaw and parted lips—and fears I’ve had a stroke.

A piercing ache burns in my throat, restricting my voice to a whisper. When she steps toward me, I jerk away and scurry toward the exit. She blocks my path to freedom, using her body to shield the door from me. 

“Vivian, get away from the door,” I say. Briefly, she smiles then grimaces, realizing that I'm serious.

“Hear me out first,” she says.

“You need to take me home.” I nudge her, pinning her against the door, preparing to bulldoze my way out. Vivian grips my shoulders and restrains me until I’m composed. Once calm, I catch my breath and she releases me.

“Are you always this melodramatic?” she asks.

“What else did you expect?” I say. “How am I
supposed
to react?”

She steps away from the door while reaching into her purse for her cigarette carton. Her hand trembles as she slips one between her lips and sighs as if relief has washed over her in an orgasmic wave.

“Will you sit down and let me explain?” she asks me. I open my mouth to reply. A knock on the restroom door interjects. Someone outside jiggles the doorknob before realizing that it’s been locked. I glance over my shoulder then back at Vivian.

“This is a public restroom,” I remind her. “You can't just lock the door and monopolize the facilities.”

She sits atop the sink counter, shrugging at my words as if they mean nothing to her.

“Hello?” the person outside calls. “Is anyone in there?”

I look to Vivian once more.

“Make them go away,” she orders. With no time to react, I approach the door and unlock it. A woman with a toddler glowers at me, trying to force her way into the restroom.

I quickly shove the door toward her to keep her from entering. 

“Excuse me,” she says. “We’d like to use the restroom if you don’t mind.”

I scramble for words and can’t summon any. Damn, I'm a terrible liar. I can never sound natural enough to fool anyone.

“I'm sorry, but…my mother is suffering from an explosive case of diarrhea. Trust me; you do
not
want to come in here,” I say. “In fact, I urge you to inform management that an
Out of Order
sign might be necessary.”

The woman says nothing more and scoops her toddler into her arms before scampering away. Vivian chuckles while flicking her cigarette butt into the trashcan. I lock the door and approach her, arms folded in defiance.

“I can't believe you made me lie to that woman,” I say. She slips another cigarette between her lips. Before she has a chance to light it, before I have a chance to consider my actions, I swipe it from her mouth and toss it over my shoulder.

Her eyes pull tight across her face, narrowing into a fierce glare. For a moment, I'm certain she’ll slap me. I brace myself, fearing the worst, anticipating an immediate backlash. Vivian simply stares at me, gradually recovering some composure through a forced smile.

“If you were anyone else, I'm not sure what I might have done to you for touching my cigarette,” she says while plucking another one from the carton. “You’re lucky I like you.”

“You shouldn’t be smoking,” I reply.

Her eyes pierce me, glowering. Her expression is frigid, taut with anger.

“Cassandra, I'm already dead. Staying away from cigarettes isn’t gonna make me any less dead.”

“How the hell are you
joking
about this?” I ask in a fit of outrage. “Who jokes about death?”

“What is the point of crying over it?” she asks. “I’ve already shed tears. I’m done feeling sorry for myself. I’d rather stay busy preparing for inevitable—closing bank accounts, arranging life insurance policies and assigning beneficiaries. That’s how I spend my days now. I don’t have time to fall apart over a silly little thing like cancer.”

I'm sure the shock is visible on my face. I can’t find any more words to argue a valid point. She’s already accepted this fate, accepted it as if it means nothing more than paying off a traffic citation or forgetting the milk at the grocery store. Cancer isn’t an illness to her. It’s a business opportunity. I sit atop the sink counter beside her. The silence she leaves me in, fills every space in the room, fills every space in my head
.
We languish in this quiet until she brandishes another cigarette and points it in my direction.

“I don’t smoke,” I say.

She slips it into her mouth instead, but doesn’t light it.

“Adrian doesn’t like my smoking either,” she says. “He’ll love that you’re not a smoker.”

“Don’t talk to me about Adrian,” I mutter. “I haven’t agreed to any of this. I haven’t even begun to consider it.”

She turns to me, frowning.

“Why do you have to sound so condescending about it?”

I stare at the floor, fidgeting with my fingers to distract myself.

“Why me?” I ask. “How did you decide which random woman you’d pimp out to your husband?”

“Don’t call me pimp,” she says. “I'm more of a matchmaker, if anything.”

“You call
this
matchmaking? Vivian, this is not fair to Adrian.”

“I’ll tell you what isn’t fair!” she retorts. I watch her expression contort into something reminiscent of unmolded clay. Every angle, once soft, is now rough and malformed. Tears swell her eyes; she scrubs them awaywith the heels of her palms
.

“What isn’t fair is that I'm dying in my forties,” she says, her voice strained. “What also isn’t fair is that you’re healthy and young and beautiful, but you’re taking it all for granted. Life isn’t fucking fair, Cassandra! I’m just doing the best I can while I still have the time to do it! You have no right to judge me for it.”

“You accuse me of taking life for granted because I don’t want to marry your husband? You’re taking your own marriage for granted,” I say. “Have you even bothered to ask Adrian what he thinks about this arrangement? How is he going to feel about you handpicking his second wife?”

“You’d be his fourth wife, actually.”

The warmth leaves me face. In a stupor, I plop from atop the counter and stagger into the adjacent stall, placing my hands over my face to muffle my exasperated screams. As I sit atop the toilet inside to take a breath, Vivian watches me, stoic.

“Cassandra, this will go a lot smoother once you stop behaving like a child and talk to me like an adult.”

“Hey! You may be old enough to be my mother, but you’re
not
my mother,” I say.

“And thank god I'm not. Otherwise, I would have cut that disrespectful tongue out of your mouth years ago,” she retorts. I don’t respond so she adds, “I’m willing to pay for this conversation.”

“What?” I say, uncertain of what I think she said. Vivian fishes a checkbook from her purse along with an ink pen. She jots down a series of numbers then hands me the slip of paper with a look of business on her face.

“Ten thousand is enough to cover tuition and books in the fall, right?” she asks.

I don’t answer. Speechless, I only nod while gaping at the check.

“If you hear me out, I’ll pay for your next semester at Northham,” she replies. “I know that Frank isn’t paying you enough.” 

“How do you know that?”

“You weren’t chosen at random, Cassandra.”

My stomach tightens as sweat veils the nape of my neck. “How long have you been watching me?” I ask.

She looks me in the eye, bringing a wicked smirk to her face. “You’ve been a subject of interest for a while.”

I glower at her, resisting the urge to pout because it would only prove her assumptions about me correct. Only children pout to get what they want. Vivian must be handled with some amount of mental dexterity.

She is right about one thing. Frank isn’t budging on giving me a pay raise. I see myself dancing around the topic of money with him for many years to come. Meanwhile, Vivian is handing it out like party favors. This could work in my best interest…if I'm careful. I sit up straight, arms folded and me with a stern poker face, readying myself to negotiate.

“You win,” I say. “Since you obviously won’t leave me alone until we discuss this…then let’s talk. Can we return to our table?”

“No, I know a place more private and much more suitable for the discussion.” She drops to her feet from atop the counter and heads toward the door while hitching her purse atop her shoulder.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

She turns back briefly. “To my house.”

* * *

She drives this time and I don’t object. I settle into the passenger seat, fiddling with the buttons on the door to adjust my seat. It’s an impressive panel of functions. One button warms the cushions. Another rolls the window down. One other button prompts a mirror from the ceiling that suspends in front of me.

I can't believe how much of a child this car turns me into. I’ve never been inside a car with so many utilities. My Honda is on its last leg. It’s a classic 97’ coup covered in chipped mint green paint with a dent in the bumper. At sixteen, working at
Baskin Robbins
for seven-fifty an hour, it was all I could afford. As much as I love the old thing, I can't deny how easier life would be in a car like Vivian’s Porsche.

“If you agree to my proposition, I’ll leave this car to you in my will,” she says after we’ve crossed back onto the highway. I almost don’t respond, but I can't ignore the funny feeling her comment leaves in my stomach.

“I don’t want to be listed in your will,” I say.

“As Adrian’s new wife, you’ll be entitled to all of my belongings after I'm dead. Any other girl would be ecstatic about that. In fact, all of the other girls I tried to recruit were most happy about that.”

Other girls? I remember her mention of other girls. It just didn’t process until now. She’s offered this deranged proposition before.

“So how many other girls have you tried to purchase?” I mutter with an edge of sarcasm in my tone.

She sighs, but doesn’t turn to face me. Her focus remains on the traffic.

“There were seven others,” she says. “None of them were suitable.”

“What makes you think I'm suitable?”

“Because you’re the only girl that didn’t light up when I mentioned putting you in my will,” she says.

I swallow the familiar lump in my throat and turn to glance out the window. A dark veil sheathes the sky. A gauzy sun bobs along the Californian horizon like a tiny yellow face leering at me, shaking its head in dismay.

“Don’t think about so much about me dying,” Vivian says. “You won’t have to feel guilty about taking my place. After I'm finished coaching you, you won’t remember I ever existed. You’ll be set for life.”

“How are you so optimistic about this?” I ask. “You should be spending your final days with your husband, not recruiting women to take your place. Adrian married you because he loves
you
. He doesn’t want a replacement wife. He wants you.”

“And soon he’ll want you,” she says. I sigh. There is no getting through to her. I assumed that if I pretended to go along with this plan, then she would eventually realize how stupid it is and change her mind. Surely, she can’t think that offering her husband a new wife will actually work out.

As we pull off the highway onto a private paved road with rectangular bushes straddling the outskirts, I lean forward and notice an onslaught of McMansions. It’s a massive suburban neighborhood with thousands of these gorgeous luxury houses with nice, fresh cut lawns and groundsmen tending the colorful gardens. I’ve only seen something like this on TV, but never had the privilege of visiting one.

My old neighborhood in Montana isn’t what one would call suburbia. It’s nice, just not
this
nice. I slide closer to the car window, gripping the door, pressing my face to the glass to see it all up close. Beautiful three-story Traditional style houses with antiquated shutters and paved driveways sail by. As they fade into the vantage point behind us, I catch a fleeting glimpse at them through the rearview. 

Soccer moms pack children and golden retrievers into minivans. Men in business suits kiss their homemaker wives in the doorway before heading toward their expensive sports cars with briefcases tucked under their arms. It’s so perfect.
Too
perfect.

“Do you like the neighborhood?” Vivian asks me as we drive further into the plush suburban kingdom.

“It’s beautiful,” I say. “You live
here
?”

“No, I live there.” She gestures at the largest house on the block, a massive sprawling estate sitting on its own plot of land with no neighboring houses. This four-story stone manor is like something out of an old 70’s soap opera with all of the appropriate bells and whistles to accompany it.