What is Love? (42 page)

“But
 …”
Rory looked at her, wincing in his
concern. “You’re confused. I wish I could—”

“I understand, you
don’t have to say anything,” Sam said, squeezing his hand. “Just imagine what
if—just for one moment. What if something happened and I actually did wake up
from a coma in a body that wasn’t mine? In the old body of the woman I hate
most in the world. And what if Ellen slipped into a coma after trying to kill
herself, with God knows what concoction, and she wakes up in my beautiful young
body? Try it. Imagine it. What if?” Sam looked away. “Imagine how hard it would
be for me to convince anyone
 …
and
that no matter what I did, they thought I was crazy, and the harder I tried,
the crazier I seemed. Imagine if this really happened—how could I get anyone to
believe it?” She shrugged, looking away. “I have no one. I am completely
alone.”

Rory sat in silence,
as if allowing the words to filter in for a few minutes. Finally, he spoke.
“But she would know
 …
if Ellen
was you, if this happened, she could explain it all.”

“Yes, and she does
know and she didn’t explain. She lies.”

“She would have to
 …
she couldn’t get away with it—I
mean, if it happened.”

“Does she? Does she
really have to tell?”

“She couldn’t
pretend to be Sam
 …
no one
would—”

“She’s gotten away
with stealing my life and my future from me. She’s taken everything that I
wanted—why not pretend and lie? What possible reason is there for her to tell
the truth, to admit the deceit?”

Rory shook his head,
resting it in his hands. “It’s impossible. I’m sorry, I just can’t—”

“It’s okay. It does
seem crazy—I’ll admit it. Tell Ellen that he’ll demand a paternity test, he’s
that kind of asshole. And tell Momsie I love her. Say goodbye to Benny, that
big suck of a brother. Give him my secret pinch. Oh, and I’m changing my will,
my ‘Ellen’s will,’ so that you and Mom are my beneficiaries
 …
and Brianna, she was decent to me.
After I die, you’ll have to meet with lawyers, I guess. Tell Mom to save some
money and hide it from the loser men she’s with. And to not waste it on drugs,
she’s worse than a child. I hope she’s okay without me
 …”

Rory grabbed her
hand. “You can’t kill yourself, no matter who you are—or who you think you are.
There’s so much to live for—”

“Is there?” Sam sat
back, her body slack against the pillow. “God, that sounds real corny—so much
to live for
 …
I used to think
that. I don’t anymore.” Sam pulled on the sheet. “The only hope I have, is that
by dying, somehow, by some miracle, I go back into my body. It’s my only
chance. And I’m tired, so very, very tired
 …
tired of everything.”

“Please, don’t.
Don’t do it. I need—give me a bit of time, to figure out—”

“Take all the time
you need. I can’t say when I will go. Opportunities can come anytime. Remember,
I also have Bob’s hit, God knows when that will happen again. You remember all
that joking about the hit? Kind of ironic now, huh? Killing your own daughter
 …”

Rory looked
confused.

“Never mind, just
let everyone know all this stuff after I’m gone, okay? Can you do that for me?
I want someone to know I died.”

“I’ll come back to
see you again.”

Sam laughed. “You
probably can’t wait to get the hell out of here. But hey, if you do come back,
do me a favor—could you bring some coconut-covered marshmallows, and that grape
spaghetti licorice? I haven’t had them in ages. Might be a last meal.”

Rory smiled, as if
remembering something. “Absolutely.” He leaned over and kissed her cheek,
lingering for a moment, then stared into her eyes. “Goodbye Sam-Ellen,” he
whispered. “And if this is
really
you Sam, you always did
want
to
be Mrs. Horvath, remember?” He grinned.

As he turned to
leave, Sam picked up her pillow and tried to throw it at him, its dead weight
flopped to her feet. He turned back and picked it up, his hand gently pushed
her forward as he propped the pillow behind her. He held her hand but didn’t
look at her as he guided her back to rest on it again. She noticed his eyes
glaze as he looked down at her, and then with a gentle squeeze, he let go of
her hand. “I’ll see you in a couple of days.”

He walked out of the
room, his hand raised toward his eyes as he slipped out of view.

“Sam, I need to see
you,” Rory said, his voice sounded demanding. “Can we meet tonight? It’s
important.”

“I have to meet with
Steve about working my booth at the art market, but after that, say eight? Is
anything wrong?”

“We’ll talk tonight.
O’Leary’s then?”

Ellen hung up. She
hadn’t seen him since his art show and it was hard to tell if the emotion in
Rory’s voice was excitement or frustration. She didn’t know what to think about
his involvement with Bob. Was Rory capable of hurting Ellen? And would Rory
have anything to do with hurting Jonathan after they are married? Could that
have been Sam’s plan all along?

Ellen tried to push
these thoughts out of her mind and resume work, but they were like driftwood.
The harder she tried to ignore them, the stronger they resurfaced. She looked
at her calendar. She had one week left to decide, one week before it would be
too late for an abortion—at least one that she could live with. But could she
do it? Could she really live with the guilt? Ellen tried to convince herself
that thousands of women do it every day and never give it a second thought.
Like going to the dentist, they say.

But could I?
Could I actually kill a human life
 …
in
one swift move, end it?

She knew the answer
before she asked the question. But it wasn’t the answer she wanted to hear. She
wanted to be free of the baby. She wanted to be the woman who could do what
needed to be done, the woman in charge of her body, in charge of her destiny.
She had made harsh decisions before. She had strength, she knew she did, and
yet, in this situation, there wasn’t any to summon. Every time she imagined
herself lying on the table, ending a precious life, her blood ran cold. Her
hand rubbed her stomach. She felt guilty even thinking about doing it.

In frustration, she
looked at her calendar again, as if by looking at it, she could change
anything. Jonathan would leave her if she kept it, she was certain of that. The
very thought of being pregnant and alone and even worse, broke, scared her
beyond any other fear imaginable.

It was, in fact, her
worst nightmare. Out of options, what choice did she honestly have? This life
inside her demanded commitment, and Jonathan demanded freedom. As she looked at
the deadline, it occurred to her that she wasn’t actually Ellen anymore. She
was Samantha Miller. And honestly, what would Samantha do? This was Sam’s
choice, in a way—it was, after all, Sam’s body. Sam would do it. She already
had. In a bizarre way, so had Ellen, unintended, of course, but with the same
result—so there was no need for guilt, no need for the extra drama.

Her eyes glanced at
the clock and the piles of invoices stacked in front of her. She had a lot of
work to finish in less than three hours. She continued sorting, tried to stay
focused on her task and to ignore the pressure of her miserable decision.

***

Ellen arrived at
O’Leary’s at 8:45. She hurried into the bar, past the cluster of people at the
front. The air hummed with the clatter of conversation and laughter, with
Celtic music playing in the background. Knowing Rory would be near the back,
resting in a booth, she pushed her way through the crowd along the bar.

“Sorry I’m late.”
Ellen dropped her tote bag onto a chair and sat across from him.

“It’s all right—lots
to look at.” He rose and leaned toward her, kissing her cheek.

“Yes.” Ellen smiled,
eyeing a table of pretty girls. “I see that.”

“How was your
meeting with Steve?”

“Good. We’ll rotate
every other weekend. I am so happy that you convinced me to try photography,
it’s going well and I made almost four hundred dollars last weekend.”

“Great news.” Rory
took a swig from his beer. “I went and saw Ellen Horvath yesterday.”

“What?”
Why would
he see that idiot?
Ellen shifted in her seat. “How is she?”

“Awful.”

“That’s too bad,”
Ellen said, trying to sound concerned. “She is completely insane. Jonathan says
she may have borderline personality or schizophrenia. I feel sorry for the
woman.”

Rory leaned in,
resting his arms on the table. He gazed into Ellen’s eyes. “Who are you?”

“What?” Ellen sat
back and laughed, searching her bag for some lipstick. “Very funny.”

“I’m serious. Who
are you, really?”

“I can’t believe you
are even asking me that—you’re as loony as she is.”

“Maybe,” Rory
answered but didn’t smile. “So who are you?”

“I’m Samantha
Miller, for heaven’s sake.”

“You are? Okay, how
about this—where did you work when you were twelve?”

“In Mrs. Simpson’s
house,” Ellen answered. “Cleaning up after her four little monsters. I hated
it, if you remember.”
Thanks Sienna, for reminding me how much I hated my
past jobs.

“What did we do
after our junior high dance?”

“Danced. Kissed. I
don’t remember any more.”

“You should.”

“Well, I don’t
 …
do you?”

“I do, and so does
Ellen Horvath.”

“What does it matter?
She hired a private eye, remember?”

Rory looked at her
with a studied gaze. She felt the weight of his judgment. Ellen looked away.
“She must have contacted my mother and found out about everything
 …
that’s not my fault, and I still
can’t remember big chunks of my past after the fever, remember?” Ellen tried to
summon tears for effect, but they wouldn’t cooperate.

“I remember. Look,
I’m not trying to get you upset—”

“Well, you are.”
Ellen stood, grabbing her jacket and tote bag. “You’re just upset that I’m
going to marry Jonathan. I feel sorry for you. You sound crazy.” She started to
walk away.

“I love you,
Samantha Miller. Do you love me?”

Ellen stopped and
spun around to face him, unable to respond.

“Do you love me?”

“Of course, you are
my good friend—”

“As a friend? That’s
it?” Rory’s voice grew louder. “She loves me.”

“Who?” Ellen asked,
already knowing the answer.

“Ellen Horvath!”
Rory’s hand banged the table.

Ellen studied him.
“How? How can she love you? She doesn’t even know you. You need help,” Ellen
said, her voice sounding surprisingly harsh. She turned and headed toward the
door.

Rory got up and
followed her. He grabbed her arm and held it tight as he spun her around. “Who
are you
 …
are you Ellen?” He
held her and shook her, staring into her eyes.

“You’re scaring me.
Let go!” Ellen struggled to free herself and hold back her tears.

Rory let go. “I’m
sorry. Sorry, I’m just—please, come back and talk.”

Ellen shook her
head. “You’re a mess.”

Rory nodded with a
smile. “I am, I know
 …
but
please, at least hear me out. Come, let’s start over
 …
I’m sorry.” Ellen looked at his pleading eyes. He pulled
gently on her arm.

Ellen cautiously
walked back to the booth, unsure of what he would do or say. She sat down,
resting her tote and jacket on her lap, as if ready to leave.

“I’ve been messed up
since I saw Mrs. Horvath. She said some things that only you would know. Lies,
cover-ups. It was eerie
 …
more
the way she acted. If it wasn’t so crazy—and I know it is—I’d swear she really
was you. She’s more like you than you are. I always wondered where you went.”

“Where I went? When?
What are you talking about?”

“After the fever,
you changed. You lost your spunk and your spontaneity. You talked completely
different, you stopped swearing, you even moved different. You got so uptight,
so proper. And you were suddenly rigid. Even your sense of humor evaporated, no
more silliness or joking around. I never understood what could possibly have
come over you that could make you so different from who you really are.” Ellen
stared at him, unable to speak.

He continued, “I
ignored it mostly, thinking, what did it matter? If you were sick with your
fever and it affected you, I would accept you no matter what you were like.
Besides, you were busy with Jonathan anyway. Then, recently, I started to see
you open up
 …
to have fun again,
almost like that one crazy night, remember?”

Ellen stiffened.
“No.”

“Oh
 …
of course not. That was the first
night that you partied and got drunk right after your fever. We had the most
amazing sex, like you hadn’t had any for years and suddenly you—you don’t
remember any of it?”

“When was that?”
Ellen’s stomach cramped.

“I don’t know, July
I guess. Oh, yeah, just before my birthday, July 17th—anyway you were more like
yourself that night. Then you went back to being rigid and proper until we met
at Jax in August. That was when Jonathan was back with Ellen, remember?”

“I do remember that morning.”
Ellen calculated the days.
No. No.
Impossible!
How could she have
forgotten the night she woke up with Rory? The night right around her
conception date. The night, ten weeks ago, when she had no idea if they
actually had sex. When she was too embarrassed by the whole episode to even ask
him. Of course they did. A sick feeling surfaced in the pit of her stomach.

“You started to
remind me of the old Sam. The one I loved, the one I missed so much.”

Ellen shifted
uncomfortably in her seat. “Did I use my—that night, did I use my—”

Rory grinned. “There
wasn’t time.”

“Did you use
 …?
”

“No, you were
crazed, like a starved, ravenous animal. You told me that it was impossible for
you to get pregnant, that you were too old. Man, you were silly drunk that
night.”

The gnawing in her
stomach intensified. She traced through the probabilities. “Why are you telling
me this?”

“Because it isn’t
you I love, it’s Ellen.”

Ellen jumped to her
feet in frustration. “Well, have fun, you two deserve each other.”

“Sit down, please.”
He reached for her hand. “Sam! Just sit. You need to hear this.”

Ellen obliged and
sat, her mind spinning in disbelief.

“You are marrying Jonathan,
so it shouldn’t matter who I love.”

“True.” She tried to
reason all the information—but what was he saying?

“My point is
 …
I never realized how much you
changed until I spent time with her. Maybe I am crazy, but I keep asking myself,
what if? What if
somehow
, in some kind of weird, strange event, you did
switch? What if you truly are Ellen and she—if Ellen is
really
Sam
Miller?”

“I know who I am.”
Ellen stood to leave.

He put his hand on
hers. “Just hear me out, please?”

Ellen looked at the
serious expression on his face. “Okay,” she whispered and sat again.

“Maybe you don’t
know who you really are, maybe you forgot. Maybe you truly believe you are
Samantha Miller. And maybe you aren’t Ellen or Sam, maybe you’re someone else
entirely.” Rory raised his hands in the air and shook his head. “I don’t know.
But I do know this—that woman in that hospital is hurting, she’s in pain and no
one seems to care. No matter who she is, no matter who she thinks she is, she
shouldn’t want to die.”

“That’s not my
problem,” Ellen said.

“I know, but it will
be our guilt and my guilt if we don’t try to help her in some way.”

“Help if you want. I
think she’s mad, Jonathan thinks she’s mad, her own doctors think she’s mad.
Her children
 …”
Ellen stopped.
Her poor children, believing their mother is insane.

“I know all that,
but I don’t believe it. And I don’t know why, but I believe she really believes
that she is you, that she is Samantha Miller.” Rory leaned in close. “You will
marry Jonathan, what does it matter?”

Ellen shrugged. “It
doesn’t, I guess.” What she wanted to say—it matters because she’s been a
conniving little bitch who deserves everything she has coming to her.
Ironically,
if it was the other way around and I was actually in there, Sam certainly wouldn’t
help me. She would pull the plug, throw away the key. No, Sam wouldn’t lose any
sleep over me.

“What could I do? I
mean, she hates me.”

“She needs you. She
needs you to stop the hit. She won’t ask, so I’m asking.”

“The hit? What hit?
Why is everyone so worked up about an imaginary hit?” Ellen blushed at her
feeble attempt at innocence.
So, he does know all about it.

“Your mother, Bob
and God knows who else, planned and paid for a hit. You should remember the
conversation,
you
were
there, after all.”

“How do you know?”
Ellen asked. Rory leaned back, about to speak. His face was colorless. “You’re
part of it! Oh my God, you are!” Ellen covered her mouth in disbelief.

Rory shook his head
and held up his hands. “No, not at all.”

“You are! How else
could you come up with such
 …”
she paused. Her
mother
could have told Rory, her
mother
did have
a big mouth. “You don’t believe they would do it, do you?”

“Yes, I do. I know
Bob and he definitely could, and if lots of money is involved, he would. You
know he would.” Rory hesitated. “She’s very sick. I think they are poisoning
her. I think it’s too late to stop it.”

“Couldn’t we just
tell her doctors?”

“First, they won’t
believe us—like, who are we? Then, if they did, we would look like we are in on
it. How else could we know all about it if we weren’t in on it? And why
shouldn’t we be? There is that nasty little problem of motive that usually
winds up with lots of jail time.”

“So what can we do?”

“Get her out of
there.”

“You must be
joking.” Ellen shook her head. “She’s a mental patient—she can’t just leave.
You can’t just march in and take her out of a locked facility.”