What is Love?

by Saks, Tessa

  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.

  He pushed it away, replacing his
napkin. “Yes, whatever you need. It’s important that you are … um, happy.”

  “Then I’ll also need to change a few things around the house.”

  “The house?” He took a rather large sip of wine.

  “It seems … well, it’s classy and all, but God, it’s so frumpy and frilly. It’s just so boring.”

  “Boring?”

  “Well, stuffy, you know … old-fashioned, like old people live here. I was thinking about how it should look kinda cool and modern, like us. I plan to decorate everything—”

  “Whatever you want, dear,” he said, cutting into his remaining meat.

  “And I’ll need a lot of money for all this. Do I have to ask you about every little thing? Or do I have my own money? I would hate to run out … and get all upset … and depressed.”

  “You can have whatever you want. Use your platinum American Express card, there’s no limit on it. The money in the bank has always had your name on it, so that shouldn’t cause you any worry.” He studied her for a moment. “All right? Feel better?”

  “Yes, but there’s the servant thing.”

  “What servant thing?”

  “Do they go home at night?” she asked as a sinister smile spread across her face.

  “Of course not.”

  “So they sleep here?”

  “Some of them.”

  “Weird.” She shrugged her shoulder. “Very, very weird.”

  “Ellen? What is it?” He set his cutlery down and glared at her with narrow eyes.

  “It’s creepy. I never thought about it before. What if we want to screw, you know … like on the stairs—or in the kitchen? Do they watch us? I can’t run around naked and wild, can I?”

  “Ellen!” Jonathan stood and dropped his napkin.

  “Well? What then?”

  “They would—” His face went crimson as he stood. “Well, they’d stay in their room, I suppose.” Jonathan turned and strode out of the room without another word.

  “Don’t you want dessert?” Sam called out, but he was already too far away to hear. She could hear him open the front door and a few minutes later a car drove away.

  Aware of the emptiness of the large dining room after the servants quickly vanished, she stared at the crème brulee they had placed before her. It’s just like me, she thought. Hard, dry, crusty on the outside but smooth, silky and delicious on the inside. She cracked it with her spoon and tried to swallow.

  CHAPTER 21

  “Honest to God, I don’t know how you older women put up with it,” Sam called out from her fitting room in lingerie department of Saks Fifth Avenue.

  “With what?” Patty yelled back.

  “These soft mushy bodies. It’s horrifying. All of these folds and creases. I can’t even look at myself, let alone imagine a man getting turned on … God, turned off more likely!”

  “Speak for yourself, hon!” Patty shouted.

  Sam pulled the curtain open and stepped out into the dressing area as Patty relaxed in a plush velvet chair surrounded by all of Sam’s purchases. “And just where do I put these?” Sam laughed and reached into the bustier, trying to pull her breasts up to make cleavage. They folded over the top and appeared to be oozing out of it.

  “Better tuck that back in,” Patty laughed. “Here.” She stood and tried to squish them back into the bustier.

  “Like stuffing bun dough into a mail slot,” Sam said, shaking her head.

  “There,” Patty said, tapping her hands over the bustier. “Just don’t lean over.” Patty grinned as she stepped back and admired her work.

  Sam turned toward the mirror. “With candlelight, it might just work.” Her hands ran over the puffy cleavage. “These lace overcoats are amazing … hides the fat arms and the saggy ass.” She struck a pose. Her breast popped up again. “Damn it,” she cried as she pushed it back in. “These marshmallows are about to be lopped off in favor of silicone.”

  “Good for you.” Patty clapped. “I can’t believe the change in you. It’s remarkable.”

  “Just wait. A bit of nipping and tucking.” Sam turned and faced her. “Okay. A lot of nip and tuck and then I’ll be back in business.”

  “Atta girl, Jonathan won’t keep his hands off you.”

  Sam slumped into the chair. “God, I just want him to touch me, even once. I’ve never gone this long without sex. It’s been over two weeks already.”

  “Uh huh … Okay tiger.” Patty crouched down and picked up a sexy high-heel shoe. “Here, try these.”

  Sam tried to squeeze her feet into the strappy heel. “Crap, her feet are so friggin wide.”

  “Her?” Patty asked, raising her eyebrows.

  “Mine. Hers. Whoever. These bulges make it impossible to wear anything cute.”

  “You can get surgery for that.”

  “You can? Sign me up.”

  “Not so fast, tiger. They cut the bone off, and you can never wear heels again. Nothing over one inch—ever!”

  “You’re shitting me?” Sam sat back.

  Patty laughed. “No, I am not shitting you, Mrs. Pottymouth.”

  “Isn’t there anything good about being old?” Sam tossed the heels into the box.

  Patty glanced up, a finger resting on her chin. “Let’s see … hmm …” After a silent minute, she smiled and said, “No!” She shook her head and laughed, “No, I can’t think of a thing.”

  Sam joined in her laughter. “I can’t believe I’m stuck in this body. This is so horrible all I can do is laugh, because if I didn’t laugh, I’d probably kill myself.”

  Patty stopped laughing and leaned forward. Sam slapped her arm. “Kidding! Don’t get so serious.” Sam leaned in toward Patty, placing her hand on her chest. “I would never try and kill myself. It was her, you know, Ellen—the old bag—she did it.”

  Patty studied her with a tight inquisitive face and said, “Yes, and now you are the new Ellen, the improved model. Out with old Ellen, right?” She snapped her fingers.

  “Right.” Sam laughed. “Out with the old, in with the new.” She looked at Patty and wondered, did she understand? “You do know, I’m not Ellen.”

  “Yes, of course. You’re Yellen. Young Ellen.” Patty’s giggle sounded forced.

  “No. I mean, that I’m Samantha Miller.”

  Patty put down the mink-trimmed shoe she had been petting. “I know who you are … you are my friend. I know what happened, I helped you, remember?” Patty shook her head, placing her hand on her cheek as she stared intently at Sam. “I just don’t think we need to keep bringing it up. You can be whomever you want in your head. I’m sorry that you aren’t who you think you are, but you have to be who everyone else knows you are. Don’t you see, you have to forget that you think you’re Samantha Miller.”

  “But you know that I’m her, and she’s me.”

  Patty let out a big breath of air. “Wow! Listen hon, you’re my oldest—I mean, my best friend. We go back a long way. What happened?—I don’t know—but you have to get a grip. You are you. You are Ellen Horvath, like it or not.” Patty rose and sat beside Sam. “You can think young, act young, feel young—whatever you want.” She put her arm around Sam, squeezing her with reassurance. “You can even imagine you are Samantha—whatever. Just do not continue to tell people that you are not you. It’s just—well, it’s weird—and impossible, but even if it were possible, which it isn’t, no one will believe it anyway.”

  “But it happened. It did.”

  Patty stood and put her hands up in the air as if surrendering at gunpoint. “Hey, I don’t even want to know.” She turned away from Sam and picked up a lace jacket, smoothing the marabou collar. “I have no idea what it was like for you—the powder, the coma—all that. I hope you are okay, that you’re all there and stuff, but …” She turned and tapped her finger on Sam’s forehead. “This little brain of yours had better accept the reality you are in now or it will find itself on the inside of a nuthouse getting a lobotomy and a few rounds of shock treatments. So whatev
er—whoever, you think you are … keep it to yourself, got it?”

  “Yes … yes, I get it.” Sam shrugged. “I just thought you believed me.”

  “I honestly don’t know what to believe anymore,” Patty said and put her arm around Sam. “But I still love you, whoever it is you think you are.” She pinched her cheek. “And besides, you’re just so damned much fun now.”

  “Just you wait. A few more weeks and you’ll really see how much fun I can be.”

  Patty sat down again. “Here!” she said, throwing a thong at Sam. “Let Jonathan see just how much fun you can be.”

  Sam grabbed the panties. “I’ll see to that, don’t you worry. Whatever it takes,” she said, holding the thong in front of her wide hips. “Whatever, it takes.”

  ***

  It was late that night when Jonathan finally came home.

  Sam sat drinking wine in her room, anxiously waiting for him. She spent the evening trying on all her new purchases, unable to make her mind up about what would be best for seduction. The outfits looked worse than she remembered. Her body was hopelessly unattractive and looked nothing like she did inside. She shuddered, imagining how this wobbly flesh would feel to a man, any man. Young or old, they would find it loose and unsatisfying. And her body was stiff and inflexible, incapable of any stamina at all. Her attempts to work out, running at first, followed by aerobics, resulted in several scenes with Maria rushing to call the paramedics as she collapsed onto the floor with severe dizzy spells and chest pain that rendered any attempt to get fit hopeless.

  And she hurt. Even if she didn’t exercise, her joints were tight, aching no matter what remedy she tried. She was tired all the time, too. It always seemed that she should sleep or nap, yet whenever she went to lie down, insomnia appeared, making her restless and jumpy, but still exhausted. It was worse in the morning, waking at five a.m., powerless to get back to sleep.

  When had she ever had a problem sleeping in before? But then, when had she ever been this alone? No matter how many pretty things she purchased, no matter how much she spent, nothing seemed to erase the empty feeling constantly haunting her—the sheer loneliness that seemed now inescapable.