by Saks, Tessa
It was disgusting to use someone else’s things, to see bits of their dirt and remnants of hair and dead skin. She couldn’t use her toothbrush and would need to buy another soon. Sienna had kindly given her a new one, but it was such a stiff bristle that it hurt her gums.
And her panties! Not only was it unimaginable to wear someone else’s panties, but there wasn’t a decent pair in the drawer. They were either thongs—which she couldn’t begin to imagine how anything that absurd could be comfortable, cutting into you with a thick chunk of fabric that wedged right into your butt. Or there were the tiny little thigh-high briefs that barely covered anything and a couple of pairs of crotchless panties—no thanks! Another much-needed purchase to add to her growing shopping list.
At the thought of shopping, Ellen reached for Samantha’s purse, sitting on the floor beside the dresser and opened it, looking for a wallet. Inside, she found another package of cigarettes and a lighter. This time she lit the cigarette and took a deep drag. It must have been over thirty years since she smoked. As she inhaled the smoke, her nerves calmed and she relaxed, taking a few more puffs, then stubbed it out, unsure why she had felt the overwhelming need in the first place.
She continued searching the purse, finding lip gloss, eyeliner, earrings, gum, countless folded receipts and a wallet. Inside the wallet, she found her driver’s license. She checked the date and laughed. I’m now a Gemini. I’m twenty-seven years old and a hundred and twelve pounds. Wonderful.
There were various store cards: Saks, Macy’s, Bloomingdales, Visa, Sears, a fitness studio membership, expired coupons. Twenty-three dollars and change. And a debit card.
“Pin number,” Ellen said aloud. She would need to get her pin number. And I will need a lot more than twenty-three dollars, that’s for sure, she told herself. The first thing will be to get some comfortable shoes and a more appropriate wardrobe, including underwear.
Ellen grabbed the appointment book on the desk and flipped through the contacts to see if any numbers listed might be her pin number. Nothing. She would need to visit the bank, explain how she can’t remember, and have the pin number changed. Looking through the rest of the calendar, there were appointments sprinkled throughout. Nails, hair, waxing, drawing class, Mom’s birthday, dentist, doctor. Nothing important. Nothing interesting. Nothing compared to the life she left behind, a life filled with friends, parties and luxury.
She tossed the book aside and a knot twisted in her belly as she imagined living as Samantha Miller, in this squalid place and working, with nothing interesting or important to do and no one significant to talk to. Nothing to do except work and pray for more. Ellen stared at the pretty face in the mirror, but somehow, it was little comfort now.
***
Sam awoke again but couldn’t open her eyes. How many hours had passed? The world was brighter, she could tell lights were on above her, yet her eyes were still glued shut. As she strained to open her eyes, she listened to noises all around her.
Beeps and bumps, talking and whispers, and squeaks, lots of squeaky wheels and shoes against polished floors. A hospital. She knew she must be in a hospital, but why? She prayed it wasn’t a car accident, a hideously disfiguring or paralyzing accident. Her head still pounded in an agonizing rhythm, with painful pressure where it touched the pillow. It hurt to try to move it from side to side. She moaned as she attempted to raise her hand.
“Oh thank God!” a male voice cried out.
“Nurse! Nurse!” the voice called out as it faded into the distance, along with footsteps.
She heard the hustle of footsteps coming closer. Then she felt the warm touch of a hand slipping into hers. A large strong hand. She tried to grab it but her muscles wouldn’t cooperate.
“Oh my darling, we were so worried,” the voice said. It was Jonathan.
She smiled, or at least tried to smile. Was she smiling? She couldn’t feel her face. Why couldn’t she feel anything? A scuffle of more shoes and a murmur of voices rose in the background and she struggled to hear their words, but couldn’t.
“Relax, the nurse should be here soon,” Jonathan said in a reassuring tone.
The warmth of his hand touched her again and she tried to squeeze it—his reassuring hand. She didn’t want him to let go; she needed his strength and support, his steadfastness. She tried speaking, but nothing came out except a dry gasp. Then she tried to cough, to clear her throat. Nothing came out but a huff of air. It hurt. Her body was completely overtaken in pain. She let out a cry that sounded like a weak groggy moan, nothing more. She wanted to scream, to say, ‘let me out of here and release me from this aching and lifeless body.’
“Don’t speak now. It’s going to be okay.” A hand touched her cheek and forehead.
More voices surfaced. A hustle of activity was followed by more beeps and clicks.
She tried again to speak. Her lips would not cooperate, her body too exhausted. She could feel herself slipping again, like sliding into a dark hole—faster and faster. Deeper and deeper.
Back into dreams. Back into slumber. Away from the pain. She struggled to stay, but eventually let go and slipped back into the deep void of darkness.
***
Inside the hospital room, Jonathan stared at Ellen lying in the bed in front of him, her body motionless and silent. She looked peaceful. Jonathan had sat there for thirty minutes, trying to imagine what was she was thinking or feeling. Could she hear?
“Ellen? Are you there? It’s me; it’s Jonathan.” He stood and reached for her hand; it was cool and lifeless. The doctors had so much hope after she made a brief response two days ago. But since that initial moan, there was nothing, and now the doctors cautioned him about false signals, about twitches and moans that were merely reflexes or muscle spasms, nothing more. They warned him against getting his hopes up before any significant proof indicated she was truly awakening. Apparently, she was as much in a coma as before.
Leaning over her, he said, “I’m here, don’t worry. I’m here now.” Don’t worry? What a stupid thing to say, he scolded himself. Of course, she’s worried. That’s why she did this. How could I tell her not to worry? She’s in a coma, for Christ’s sake.
He sat down again, still holding her unresponsive hand. Part of him wanted to kiss it, another part of him wanted to slap it. “I should be angry at you for doing this. I am, in fact—angry, that is—you shouldn’t have done this. The kids—they love you so much. They are worried sick about you.” Jonathan squeezed her hand. “Hang in there, Ellen.”
What about me? He let go of her hand and wondered—do I love you? Jonathan couldn’t say the words. Whatever feelings he had for her, they were also mixed with anger and frustration. She did this to hurt me, to make me feel guilty, to control things. This is the very thing I should have wanted. After all, this is the one thing that would simplify everything—all the money, all the hassles—gone. Just like that. In one quick moment, all my problems would evaporate and disappear forever—and leave everything …
He looked at her again. In one quick moment, it would all be fixed … if she died.
If she died. He looked up at all the equipment beeping and blinking, straining in a concerted effort to keep her alive. Could she die? What incredible guilt …
If she did die, he would have to carry that guilt forever. Yet, what if she stayed like this?
God, what if she was a vegetable forever? Then what? He felt guilty just thinking about it. Worried that she would read his thoughts, he stood and walked toward the door. He stopped and said, “Get better, Ellen. Get better. Your family needs you … think of them.” Then he turned and quietly closed the door, still unsure of what he actually hoped would happen.
CHAPTER 17
Ellen spent the next day cleaning the apartment. She lifted the ruffle of the bed skirt and discovered several cardboard boxes, which she slid out and opened. Inside the large boxes, she found a camera and several large albums filled with black and white eight by tens and stacks of loose photos. E
llen picked up a stack of photos; some presented store windows while others showed everything from gargoyles from churches and cemeteries to biker bars and pawnshops with barbed wire and guns. She grabbed another stack with what looked to be naked body parts, hips and buttocks, shoulders and breasts, wet skin with close-up sections covered in lace. Several looked like bondage scenes, with ties and chains or leather strapping. She tossed the stack back into the box. Nothing but a collection of tawdry sex, bordering on pornography. Certainly not art.
She picked the camera up and looked through the lens. She thought about all the photos taken over her lifetime: tiny hands and feet, fingers and toes, smiles and laughter, birthday candles and Christmas gifts—a legacy of family, of love, of values. As she thought about her children, she longed to feel their love again. She missed the laughter of children and their carefree, uninhibited nature, their complete lack of judgment. They loved you as you are, pure and true, without manipulation, without force, without effort. As natural as smiling, that’s how they loved.
Ellen looked again at the stack of photos filled with sex and violence. Was that what Samantha Miller thought of love? Was it tied to sex and gratification? Filled with games and pretense? She pushed the boxes back under the bed, determined not to look at them again.
She continued to go through drawers, boxes and closets until she found enough about Samantha’s life to make her sick. More to the point, she found a pay stub from Horvath Industries.
April 25 - May 9 Eleven-hundred dollars, minus taxes. Nine hundred dollars!
Two weeks’ pay. Unbelievable. How on earth can I live on this? Ellen closed the wallet and remembered her own mad money stash. If she could just get back in her house, there was enough—enough for a little while, at least. And her clothes, if she had access to her clothes … but then again, they wouldn’t fit—not this thin body. She looked at the closet and all the unwearable clothes. I have to redo this entire wardrobe, and that will take some money—a lot of money.
The bills she kept finding distressed her. Debt, debt and more debt. There had to be a way to clear this entire mess up. She decided the only sensible thing to do was to make a list of her basic requirements, then go to the bank in the morning and meet with the manager and ask for an advance or a loan. She made the list as lean as possible, trying to eliminate unnecessary luxuries. How do people live like this? Finally, in frustration she quit trying and threw the list aside.
She closed her eyes and imagined her life improving once she remarried Jonathan. She couldn’t wait to see him and show off the new body. It would be strange to have the man who ignored you for so long suddenly attracted to you again, suddenly touching you.
“Hey, feeling any better?” Sienna appeared in the doorway eating a piece of cake.
“Oh, good, you’re home.” Ellen stood and cleared the bed. “Here, help me lift this mattress.”
“What for?” Sienna asked, as cake crumbs fell to the floor.
“I need to flip it over. It sags in the middle and I can’t sleep.”
Sienna stepped into the room, wiping her hands on her sweatshirt. “Why bother?” She shrugged and looked around at the disarray. “I thought you were going to rest. You should be—”
“How on earth could anyone rest with these dirty sheets and stained carpets, I shudder to imagine what they are from—not to mention the disgusting cockroaches. I can’t live with this filth, no one could.”
“I can. You could.”
“Well, not anymore. I need to get the superintendent to come and spray—the roaches are everywhere.” Ellen pointed to the floor. “And you, dropping food everywhere doesn’t help.”
Sienna laughed and continued eating. “This is New York. God, you’re funny.”
“But they’re out of control. We’re not talking a couple here and there. There are hundreds of them. They’re under the sink, in the drawers, in the boxes, even in the shoes. It’s disgusting.”
“So shake them out before you wear them.” Sienna let out a chuckle and bent down, picking up her crumbs and tossing them into the trash.
“I’m serious. It’s unhealthy. There are tenant rules of some sort to prevent this. No wonder I can’t sleep at night, knowing those horrible pests are crawling around in the dark.”
“Do what I do, spray a ring of that bug stuff around your bed and all over the headboard—they won’t jump onto your pillow that way.”
“Oh no!” Ellen’s face scrunched in horror. “They jump? Now I feel sick.”
“I’m kidding … but the entire building would probably collapse if they got rid of them.”
“I don’t find your humor amusing. I will get this place sprayed. I refuse to live like this. Now, help me with the bed.” Ellen reached toward the mattress.
“Okay, princess. I admire your new enthusiasm for clean.” Sienna bent down and grabbed the mattress. “Just remember me when you move into that big bug-free mansion.”
Ellen smiled at the thought of being back in her house, her beautiful house with her pretty things and staff to take care of everything … “Yes,” she said. “I will be there soon, won’t I?”
They lifted the mattress and had it on its side when something shiny and red, in the center of the box spring caught their eyes.
“Your diary!” Sienna called out. “Not so secret now.” Sienna reached for the book and let go of the mattress. It fell toward Ellen, pinning her against the wall as the nightstand knocked over and the lamp and ashtray flew off, crashing onto the floor.
“Sienna!” Ellen yelled, trying to push the cumbersome mattress off her body.
“Sorry, sorry.” Sienna lifted the mattress to help free Ellen. “Crap, that’s heavy,” Sienna said, unable to hide her laughter as they set the mattress back on the bed. “Anything about me in here?” Sienna asked, as she grabbed the diary and opened it, pretending to read it.
“Only that you’re a snoop, a liar and a slob,” Ellen said with a laugh as she snatched the book from Sienna’s grasp.
“That sounds more like Johnny than me. Better get a new hiding spot.”
“Close the door as you leave.”
Sienna closed the door mumbling, “Thanks, Sienna.”
“Yes, thanks,” Ellen said, as she opened the red diary.
It was a large, hardcover book full of doodles, clippings and photos interspersed with sloppy handwriting. Samantha had taken markers and drawn hearts and flowers everywhere. Some pages, colored in a rainbow of pinks and purples and greens, made the whole thing look like a kindergarten scrapbook. But did that really surprise her? Did anything anymore?
Ellen flipped to the section from a month ago.
May 10th, 1986 - Johnny told me again how much he loves me and how hard it is to be away from me all the time. He is finally serious. He hates his stupid wife and his boring life. I really think he’ll leave her. She drives him crazy with her complaining. What a dumb bitch!
“No, you’re the bitch,” Ellen muttered.
I hate her, too. She’s like, completely clueless. This poor guy’s so friggin lonely. I got new lingerie again. It’s sooo fun to shop with him. He has so much money!!!! He’ll buy me anything. I love him. I know I do. I gave him a blowjob the other day in the fitting room and I thought he was having a stroke or something he was so excited.
Ellen’s face flushed with heat as her temples pulsed. “Could you be more of a slut?”
Then he came all over my tits just as the salesgirl knocked on the door.
“Oh, God help me!” Ellen yelled and flung the book across the room. It bounced off the closet door and fell to the floor with a thud.
“Everything okay?” Sienna yelled through the wall.
“Fine,” Ellen replied. “Just fine.” She lay back and looked up at her constellation of glow-in-the-dark stars. Did Jonathan really hate her, or was it just that bimbo’s ignorant opinion?
Am I that bad? She thought about their life. There had been fun times. Lots of fun times. Mostly in the past. How coul
d she know he was unhappy if he never complained, if he appeared happy? She wasn’t a mind reader. No woman is.
Except her—the foolish tramp. She seemed to know how he felt. Ellen thought back to the disgusting scene she read, of the two of them in the fitting room. Part of her wanted to ignore it, to convince herself it never took place, but another part of her wanted to see why it happened, to understand what it was she gave him that made him love her so much. Ellen would never—not even if she drank too much—could she ever imagine doing such a thing, and in a public place. Why? What part of her couldn’t behave like a tramp? And why was it so easy for this little bimbo to behave so badly? What switch allows her to forget propriety and lose control of common sense and values? Upbringing. It all comes down to upbringing and class.
Ellen rolled to her side. Most of the sex acts Jonathan wanted were perverse, and she was happy to allow someone else to perform them. And besides, she honestly thought it was a passing phase, a midlife thing that he would get it all out of his system and eventually return to the beautiful lovemaking they shared when they were first married.
Ellen wasn’t frigid. She wanted sex. Sometimes she fantasized about him coming to her and taking her into his arms and kissing her with such passion that she would collapse in his arms and he would carry her to their bed and make love to her in the most tender, satisfying way, the whole time telling her how much he loved her and needed her, hungered for her.
Her body tingled as she imagined the scene. The kisses—deep savory kisses. She found herself touching the new breasts, feeling the pleasure of strokes and caresses, getting excited. She imagined his hands touching this delicious skin and hungering for more. Her hands slid down her flat stomach toward her smooth thighs, searching. Tingles surfaced, tingles in an area that had lain dormant for too long. She wanted him, her body wanted him, she was filled with such desire, her hand exploring unfamiliar regions when suddenly, she heard—