What is Love? (17 page)

The next morning,
Ellen sat back against the headboard and surveyed the room. A dingy, crowded
bedroom, filled with cheap furniture and jam-packed with stacks of shoeboxes,
bags and stuffed animals.

Pathetic. Her own
daughter never lived like this. At least, Ellen had never seen evidence of it
if she did, not since she had left home four years ago. Ellen wondered why
she’d never visited her daughter’s new apartment. Brianna’s need for privacy
was the excuse Ellen frequently used to cover the fact that she’d never been
invited, but mostly she dismissed the thought whenever it arose. Besides, she
had bigger worries now. What was she going to do?

She walked over to
the closet, about to open the small cream-colored door, coated in many layers
of rough paint, and her first thought was to get someone to sand away all the
run marks and uneven brushstrokes. She sighed. It would be pointless to fix
just the door, for the entire room was as bad or worse. Her hand ran across the
recessed panel of the door, picking up layers of dust and grime. She guessed it
had been years since anyone bothered to wipe anything. She looked at the clump
of dark brown goop collected on her fingertips—perhaps decades.

Rubbing her fingers
together to rid herself of the filth, she realized she would have to clean this
room—a task she could manage—but she couldn’t imagine sanding and repainting.
She would have to hire someone, once she figured out some money. But then
again, why bother?

She turned the
tarnished brass knob and opened the door to reveal a closet crammed tight with
every color and print imaginable. Chaotic. Unorganized. Garish. She tried to
pull one of the dresses out, but it caught with other hangers, then pulled on
several more hangers. Touching the various pieces, she discovered what kind of
clothing Samantha Miller liked—cheap and poorly made, with large topstitching
and puckered seams.

Ellen couldn’t
imagine buying any of these items, let alone wearing them. Some had frayed
edges and broken topstitching. Others were missing buttons or had zippers
broken. She managed to pull a long-sleeve top out of the sardined lot and
examined it. The side seam twisted all the way to the middle of the back. Ellen
tossed the blouse into the trashcan beside the desk.

What could one
expect from cotton made in India—they don’t understand how to comb and twist
their yarn well enough so that the garment wouldn’t twist and shrink into an
unrecognizable rag. She much preferred the highly twisted and combed cottons
from Egypt—
they
know how to make cotton. Ellen thought of her own
six-hundred-thread count sheets and her sumptuous Egyptian towels—a far cry
from what was on this girl’s bed. Why, hotels had better quality sheets and
towels than these. Didn’t Samantha notice the difference?

She looked down at a
big pile that lay on the floor of the closet. Laundry? Rejects? Garbage? Ellen
couldn’t be sure. Either way, she wouldn’t be wearing anything kept on the
floor.

Behind that heap
were the shoes, mostly heels. Strappy heels, pumps, very high heels or tall boots.
Ellen grabbed a pair of high silver party heels. Glitter and flash. She slipped
her foot into the straps, expecting it to be too small for her wide, bunioned
feet. To her surprise, the shoe fit. Of course it fit, she laughed. This narrow
foot was hers, at least for now.

Ellen put the other
shoe on and fastened the buckles, then looked at herself in the full-length
mirror next to the closet. Beautiful, long tanned legs rose up from those tiny
feet. She touched the flesh on her new thighs in disbelief. They were smooth.
So firm. So flawless. No veins. No discoloration. No saggy skin. No cellulite.
Every inch was perfect. She turned to see her back view. Beneath the shorts,
she caught sight of a very firm derrière. She grabbed a hand mirror and stared.
Round and high. Her hand lifted the thin fabric of the shorts. And firm.
I
look airbrushed, like a pin up girl, she laughed. I never had a body like this.
Even when I was young, I never looked like this.

She faced the mirror
again and looked at the tank top she was wearing. Large, buoyant breasts sat
perched beneath the fabric. Upright and firm, with no support needed
whatsoever. Her hands reached underneath the fabric and pushed them up. They
fell back exactly where they started. The skin around them tight. She poked
them. They rebounded. She shimmied. They shimmied. No flopping. No drooping.
Perfect and pert. She slid the tank top off and stared. They were perfect. No
wonder Jonathan enjoyed her so much.

Jonathan!
Ellen froze.
These
breasts were the breasts his lips were kissing.
This
is the body his hands had been rubbing all these months—these legs, these arms,
this stomach, this
 …
she
couldn’t say the word as her stomach cramped. She walked over to the bed and
sat, trying to imagine Jonathan and Samantha making love, here, on this bed. It
made her shudder with a blend of both disgust and envy.

As she lay back on
the bed, she tried to visualize what it was like.
Did Samantha enjoy it?
As he grunted and panted, did this young body enjoy his touch? Did he paw her,
attacking her like a crazed dog? Or was he gentle and loving?

Ellen touched the
breasts again. She felt tingles as the nipples hardened. He would love this.
She knew it deep inside and it was no surprise to her. Never in her life did
Ellen have breasts like these, not even during breastfeeding. They had
enlarged, but not into a high round, perky large—more into an oversized, soft
large that drooped due to weight and gravity.

Back then, Jonathan
had certainly enjoyed the extra cup sizes. It was after breastfeeding Brianna
that Ellen fully realized how much he loved large breasts and when hers
eventually deflated, as they do once breastfeeding stops, all she was left with
was sagging breasts. Once they went back to normal size, had he ever touched
them? No. It was as if touching them was so abhorrent, so unappetizing, he
didn’t dare risk losing his erection by the mere touch of them.

But then, hadn’t she
also recoiled? Hadn’t she backed away whenever he attempted to touch them, well
aware of how unappealing they were, feeling embarrassment and shame. Had she
discouraged his touch?

Ellen covered the
new breasts with her hands. She imagined how much pleasure these breasts would
give him, how he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from touching them. It wasn’t
fair. She hadn’t chosen to lose her full, beautiful breasts, to have them
distort into a disappointment for both of them. But at least she had breasts.
Many women lose one or both of their breasts and their husbands still touch
them, still make love to them.

Or do they? Are
men that obsessed that they can’t see past the breasts?
It sickened her to
realize that the loss of her breasts coincided with the loss of lovemaking in
their marriage. They were an unintended symbol of what was to be lost,
incrementally, as the years sailed past, vanishing quietly along the way. She
touched the smooth firm flesh again.

But I have this
body now,
she reminded herself.
This is my body now. I can be with him
just like her. I can give him pleasure again, make him love to touch me, caress
me, hold me. It can be as it once was. And he can love me as he should. I am
not my old body anymore.

But then, who is?
Ellen’s thoughts turned to Sam again.

Is she in my body
now? Did she die?
Ellen wondered if what she had done was a sin. She said a
quick prayer to erase any guilt.
I can be Samantha Miller. I can do this.
For as long as this situation exists. I can do this. Who knows, I may even
enjoy it.

She found herself
excited at the thought of seeing Jonathan
 …
especially with
this
beautiful body.

An appointment book,
resting on a stack of papers on top of the small metal desk, caught Ellen’s
attention. She picked it up and flipped through it, unsure of what she hoped to
find. Messy handwriting filled in the occasional days, highlighted with colored
doodles and stickers.
How juvenile
, she thought as she tossed the book
aside.

She started
searching the drawers, looking for anything that could tell her more about
Samantha’s life. On the desk lay a package of cigarettes. Ellen picked them up,
pulled one out and started to light it with the silver lighter. She suddenly
dropped them both as if they were toxic.
What am I doing? I don’t smoke.
She quickly tossed the package into the trashcan.

As she rummaged
through the contents of the desk, she found old movie stubs, pawn shop stubs, a
bottle of hand lotion, half-used cosmetics, various office supplies and broken
bits of jewelry until finally, something of interest—a stack of letters bundled
together with a bunch of greeting cards. She carried them over to the bed and
sat down. As she untied the pink satin ribbon, she couldn’t help feeling
certain of their contents. The first letter confirmed her fears.

My beautiful
love, I miss you more than you could ever imagine. I feel an emptiness that
only you can heal. You can’t imagine how hard it is to endure living without
you.

Do you miss me? I
can only hope that you feel as much as I do, that you feel as empty as I do.
Only then will you know the pain I endure without you. Only then will you
experience what hell it is to live away from you.

My life. My soul.
My forever love.

Ellen’s hand
trembled as she read and reread every word, each touching phrase—words that she
had longed to hear. Words that she used to hear
 …
long ago, once upon a time. She lay back on the bed and
closed her eyes, pressing the letter to her heart. She wanted to tear the
letter into a thousand little pieces
 …
but
another part of her imagined the words were meant for her.
Could they be?
Why not? I am, now, Samantha. But am I? Am I really Samantha Miller? Could I
believe these words are for me? After all, the words are meant for this body.

Ellen sat up again
and looked through the cards and remaining letters.

I miss you. I
love you. I need you. I long for you. I desire you.

Everything she had
wanted to hear all these years
 …
needed
to hear, as if starved for any morsel of love he could spare.

She bundled the
cards and letters together, leaving the first letter aside, and carried the
remainder to the bathroom. She opened the bathroom window, closed the door and
picked up the lighter lying next to the candles that lined the edge of the
bathtub. Holding the bundle in one hand, she held the lighter to the bottom
corner and flicked it, watching the flame reach the folded edges of the papers.
It slowly started to burn. As the flames grew larger, Ellen turned her hand,
away from the spreading flames. Within a minute, the bundle was too hot to hold
and she dropped it into the tub and watched it reduce to crisp black ashes.

Ellen sat on the
edge of the tub and stared at her heroic gesture, symbolizing an end to the
betrayal and the hurt, of words given to another. An end to heartache and
treachery. An end to pain and suffering. And out of the ashes, her phoenix
would rise and Ellen would be victorious.

Ellen would
finally—for the first time in decades—feel loved.

***

Sam lay in the
darkness, aware only of the intense pain in her head and the numbness in her
body. Had she drank too much? She tried to remember, but no memory surfaced.
Images flashed into her mind but slipped away, too fast to hang on to. She
tried to roll on her side. She couldn’t move. Her body felt encased in a
concrete tomb, dead weight pressing against her chest, holding her.

Was she dreaming?
What had happened?

Suddenly, the room
started tilting, as if she was falling.

Falling, slowly
 …

Down. Down. Falling
deeply
 …

Falling into sleep.

***

Ellen walked into
the bedroom after her burning ritual ended, feeling somewhat triumphant, and
spotted a photo of Samantha and Jonathan resting on the dresser. It was a beach
somewhere, with Samantha in a bikini and Jonathan grinning next to her, in a
tight embrace. Ellen slammed the frame onto the floor, hoping it would shatter.
It didn’t. They stared up at her, his arms wrapped around her tiny waist, that
beautiful young body.

This beautiful
young body
 …
mine now.
Ellen
touched the smooth skin of her new face.
Would he know the difference? Would
it matter?
She turned and looked at herself in the mirror. It still seemed
strange, to look and see someone else in the mirror, to see the woman you hated
most in the world stare back at you. And worse, to not only look like her, but
to be her.

For how long?
She
wished she had some idea what would happen when her old body finally woke. Was
Sam in there? Would they switch back as if nothing had happened?

Ellen’s hand ran
through the long silky hair that was now hers. Ellen pulled the brush through
the thick mane of shiny brown hair. She turned her head from side to side,
allowing the full weight of the hair to swing and bounce. She smiled at the
stranger in the mirror. Such a pretty face, such firm skin. Her hands touched
her smooth cheeks as she smiled. She puckered her lips into a kiss. No wrinkles
radiating out, just full kissable lips.

She sat back on the
bed and surveyed the room. It had been in complete disarray, as if Samantha had
left in a hurry and not returned. There were cigarette butts in the ashtray on
the nightstand. Who would dare smoke in bed? The dresser, covered in burned
down candles, was another fire hazard. A hairbrush lay next to a hand mirror, a
brush filled with dark brown hair, as did the hot rollers and the hair elastics
strewn across the dresser and in the top drawer.