What is Love? (23 page)

“What? What the
devil for?” His hand ran over his hair, smoothing it. A nervous habit.

Ellen reached up to
fix it back into place. “She tried to tell me—this sounds crazy—”

“That you aren’t you
and she’s you?”

Ellen stopped her fussing
and looked at him. “Yes. How did you know? It’s insane.”

Jonathan sighed,
picking a cigar out of the engraved silver case and trimming it with his Havana
punch cutter. “She’s telling everyone that. I’m sorry she did it to you.”

“She’s
 …
well, a bit disturbed, isn’t she?”
Ellen asked, taking the cigar out of his hand.

“I’ll say. You
should hear what comes out. I—honestly, I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.
She’s acting crazy, too crazy—it’s just so damn hard when she’s completely
unreasonable. The doctors say this can happen after a coma—confusion and
irrational behavior. I don’t want to be a total ass. What can I do? I mean
after what she did—”

“You’re not,
Jonathan. You’re not.” Ellen tossed the cigar onto the desk.

“I’ll tell her not
to call you, I’ll tell the doctor to tell her as well, but if she does, just
ignore her. Hang up. Okay?” He held her tight.

“I’ll try. Poor
thing, I feel sorry for her.” Ellen tried her best to sound sincere. “She
sounds so confused. I hope she sorts it all out.”

“So do I. God damn
it, so do I. This throws a wrench into everything. I can’t see you in the
office like this, just in case she shows up here once she’s released. Or out in
public, it’s too risky. Can you wait, darling? Can you wait a little longer?”

“Of course,” Ellen
said with a kiss.

“I’m just so damned
angry about everything
 …
this
delays all our plans.”

Our plans!
Ellen
leaned closer and kissed his cheek. “Yes
 …
our plans,” she said with a smile. “
Our
plans.”

***

The ride from the
hospital seemed to take forever. Sam felt eagerness—what future lay before her?
A big house. A mansion and piles of money. All of it now hers, complete with
servants and designer clothes and fancy parties. She may be stuck in a decrepit
old body, but she was determined to make the best of it. Patty was right—none
of this was her fault, but for now, she should take advantage of the situation.

She stared at the
massive houses passing before her—more like giant palaces. They were enormous
and behind every one of these huge gates—rich people! And now, she was going to
be part of it. Shopping would be first on her list, after all the plastic
surgery, of course. New shoes and clothes, lots of clothes. “Yes, Mrs.
Horvath!” “Put this on your husband’s account?”

The car pulled up to
a long stone fence, and tall metal gates with a curly scroll design and an
intercom panel, which the driver ignored as the gates opened. Sam had driven
past the house several times with Sienna, spying inside the gates and dreaming
of one day becoming the lady of the house. And now her dream was about to come
true, sort of. Sam looked down at her ugly hands and wished she was entering as
a beautiful young Mrs. Horvath instead.

They slowly drove up
the long drive to the stately monster house covered in tangled vines and stone.
As she started to get out of the car, the driver raced around and held her hand
while she exited. “Why, thank you, sir,” Sam said, her voice filled with faux
southern charm. “Hey, what do I call you?”

“Weston.” He took
his hat off and held it to his chest.

“The chicken has a
certain
 …
Wessonality.” Sam
sang, but he stood, unaware of her joke.

“Mrs. Brady?” No
response. He looked at her with a blank expression.

She shrugged. He
would need some work to lighten up. She glanced up toward the house and saw the
servants lined up outside the front door, just like in the movies. This was
going to be fun, having tons of money and power. “Hello,” she called out to
them. “Hello, my servants. I’m back. I’m better.” She smiled and waved. They
looked at her with frozen smiles.

The older woman at
the head of the line stepped forward. “Madame,” she said as she curtsied.

My god,
Sam
thought,
they really do stuff like this.
She curtsied back, uncertain
what to do next. Everyone stood waiting so she walked toward the stairs.

The front door
slowly opened as she walked up the stairs and a gentleman in a dark suit
stepped aside. Once inside, the front entrance glowed with light streaming in
from the beveled glass windows, located high overhead, and tall windows rose up
toward a high ceiling painted in soft colors and covered in swirly, fairytale
trim. Marble floors covered in an old-fashioned floral pattern seemed to go on
endlessly. A huge table with an enormous bouquet of lilies and white roses sat
in the center. She turned, holding out her hands. “It’s so beautiful. It’s just
beautiful,” she said as she spun around a few times. She stopped and turned to
the gentleman, holding the heavy door open. “Will you show me around?”

He closed his mouth.
Hesitating briefly, he nodded. “Certainly Madame,” he said, and closed the
door. She linked arms with him as he adjusted his jacket and cleared his
throat.

“What do I call
you?”

“Carlos, Madame.”

“Well, Carlos, I
want to see every room.”

“Yes, Madame,”
Carlos said, staring straight ahead.

“And starting with
this big one here.” He cleared his throat again and followed her lead into the
main living room. “I just can’t believe this is all mine now,” she said
spinning around the room and flopping on the chaise lounge. “Carlos, can you
believe it?”

He solemnly shook
his head, a bit confused. “No, Madame—I mean yes, I believe it.”

Sam jumped to her
feet and linked arms with him again. “Come on, let’s get a move on, this is a
huge friggin house, it might take all us night.”

“Yes, Madame,” he
replied, but Sam was too busy admiring all her new things to pay any thought to
the lack of enthusiasm in his voice.

***

After the tour, Sam
retired to her new bedroom. She was still in shock by the separate bedroom
arrangement. She had heard Jonathan mention it before, something about snoring
and hard mattresses, but somehow, it seemed so much worse seeing it for real.
His room was down at the other end of the hall, far away from hers.
All this
will change
, she told herself.
I’m sure as hell not going to sleep alone
every night like she did. No way!
Sam was imagining the nights of romance
when she heard a tapping on the door.

“Madame,” a voice
spoke from behind the door. “Dinner will be at six o’clock.”

Sam sat up and
glanced at the fancy gold clock on the fireplace mantle.
Imagine, a fire in
your own bedroom.
She hurried to the walk-in closet that was bigger than
her apartment and opened the large double doors with ornate handles. She
rummaged through all the old lady clothes—clothes her own granny wouldn’t have
worn. She grabbed a long cream sweater and a pair of tan pants. She put the
clothes on, avoiding the sight of her naked body in the mirror. When she
accidently caught her reflection in the mirror, she wanted to cry. Or scream.
She looked as wide as two of her real bodies, like when a funhouse mirror pulls
you sideways as a joke. The pants bunched in the crotch and stuck out like a
round ball over her stomach. The cream top showed the flab oozing out of her
bra like a horror movie prop.

“Uggg,” she cried
and went into the closet in search of black. She tried a black skirt that came
just past her knees, hiding the lumpy thighs. Her calves looked hideous, with
dark blue veins twisting like rivers on a map. She went through the drawers in
search of pantyhose. Sam held up a pair of enormous panties and laughed—big
enough to wash a car. No wonder her husband never wanted sex. They were all
like that. Sam dug around, determined to find at least one skimpy, sexy pair.
Nothing. She glanced back at the clock and pulled on the pantyhose and black
sweater. She felt like an actress dressed up as a schoolteacher. An old school
teacher, desperately in need of cosmetic surgery and new clothes.

At the dressing
table, she reached for the bottles of perfume, choosing a pretty cut-crystal
bottle and took a whiff. Ugg
 …
Roses
and old lady. She grabbed another.
Spice and musk
 …
it would have to do.
She sprayed her chest and lifted
her skirt, then sprayed between her legs.

She brushed her thin
hair, trying to tease it high, and gave it enough hairspray to make a big
puffball and spiky bangs, almost a punk rock look. She studied herself in the
mirror. “God, I’m so wrinkled.” She pulled on her skin, trying to erase the
lines. “Couldn’t you have put a little effort in to keep your husband?” she
asked the face in the reflection. “They do have facelifts, for Christ’s sake!”
Sam opened the drawers and found a jar of face cream and slathered the greasy
stuff all over her skin. She put liner on her eyes and blush. The blush stuck
to the face cream, resulting in too much color. She tried rubbing it, her face
now crimson and blotchy.

Ding. Ding ding!
Sam heard a bell tolling. A dinner bell.
You’re kidding me.

“Coming!” she yelled
before realizing there was no way anyone could hear her.

As she descended the
stairs, she glanced at all the portraits and photos. Everyone seemed formal and
stiff. She straightened her back and pulled her chest forward, then missed a
step. She straightened again and watched her feet for the remaining stairs. Such
a lady now!

She could see
Jonathan at the end of the table in the dining room and noticed a spot set for
her at the opposite end. “Good evening,” Jonathan said, as he stood and gave
her an air kiss.

She tried to lean in
closer, but his hands held her at a distance. “Good evening to you, sir.” She
smiled and gave a coy nod. Jonathan returned with a stiff nod.

Sam walked over to
her spot and sat down. A servant helped push her chair in. She looked around at
all the dark wood furniture with gold fancy trim and the big paintings with
fat, gold frames. The room seemed too big and quiet. She smiled over at
Jonathan. “I can’t sit here all by myself.” Then she stood and slid her
placemat, with the plate and cutlery intact, down to a spot beside him. One of
the servants raced forward to help her again with her chair.

Jonathan looked at
her, his gaze fixated on her new hairdo, and was about to speak, but then
closed his mouth.

A young girl
standing next to the door picked up Sam’s wine and water glasses, set them on a
tray and carried them to her new spot. Sam adjusted everything. “There. Much
better. Say Johnny, I want to talk about who I am.” She waited to see his
response before proceeding. No reaction. “You do understand that something
happened, that I’m not really your wife.”

“Of course, dear.
It’s all been explained.”

“That I’m only
calling myself Ellen to keep everybody happy.”

“Yes.” He continued
to eat his salad. “You can be whoever you want to be.”

“You don’t believe
me, do you? You don’t believe I’m really Samantha Miller?”

“God damn it! I
honestly don’t care what you want to call yourself, you can become Sally or Sue
or Cindy, just stop using her name! You sound like a damned lunatic!”

He reached for his
wine glass and motioned for a refill. After the server returned to his
appointed spot, Jonathan muttered, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t get angry, but for
God’s sake, please quit calling yourself Samantha Miller. It makes me crazy.”

“Okay, okay. I get
it.” Sam said and remembered Patty’s words of caution, reminding her to keep
quiet about everything for a while. “My name is Ellen Horvath and I’ll behave.”

Jonathan kept his
head cast down, looking at his plate. He pushed a piece of roast onto his fork
with his knife, then a bit of mashed potato, slid them through the gravy,
spooning extra gravy on with his knife and then added a little piece of
asparagus to finish. Did he always eat this slowly and with this much
concentration? She was usually too busy talking or drinking to notice.

She thought of
eating at her house, with Benny and Bob. They’d grab their forks, spearing the
meat like cavemen and, using the knife like a saw, rip the meat to shreds.
They’d continue shoveling, all the while talking with their mouth full. At
least she had learned manners.

She tried to mimic
Jonathan’s technique, stopping for the occasional sip of wine from the
constantly refilled wine glass. They ate slowly, in a long, concentrated
silence, with two staff, attentively standing ready, next to the doorway.

Unsure if she should
speak yet, Sam studied the contents of the room. On the side buffet, a
collection of fancy polished silver, like the kind in the museum. The large
colorful painting above the fireplace caught her attention—a plump woman
standing with her back showing, draped in a silver fabric, almost erotic, with
dark shadows cast all over her body. It was the most modern thing in the entire
house. It could stay.

Sam couldn’t stand
the silence and finally blurted, “This house is amazing. I knew it was big and
all, but I actually got lost trying to find the bathroom. It’s so
 …
it’s just friggin huge.”

Jonathan choked on
his water. “How are you feeling now, Ellen?”

“Better. I am much
better now that I’m here. Home
 …
in
my home.”

“Do you have any
plans?”

“Oh, yes.” Sam
remembered Patty’s advice. “Shopping. Lots of shopping. I’m going with Patty
and we’ll get everything I need. I desperately need new clothes. I can’t
possibly wear these rags—” She pulled on the black sweater. “I mean, look at
them, they’re horrible
 …
a bag
lady would be embarrassed to wear them. I need younger, sexier clothes. Maybe
some lingerie. I noticed she doesn’t have any sexy lingerie
 …”
She smiled and put her hand on his
leg.