What is Love?

by Saks, Tessa

CHAPTER 26

  The next morning, after her depressing encounter with Rory, Sam had Weston take her straight to Harry Winston, to buy another consoling little pick-me-up gift for herself, something she seemed to do quite frequently now.

  Next, Weston took her to the bank so she could deposit her new purchase. Sam entered the bank, crossing the marble floor to the row of elevators leading to the lower floor, where they stored her other treasures. She rode the dark, wood-paneled elevator down and walked up to the safety deposit window, signing in as Mrs. Jonathan Horvath. For some reason, signing Mrs. Horvath was natural and she had no trouble with the signature. Her handwriting looked more like Mrs. Horvath than her own, Sam Miller handwriting. But then, a lot of strange changes had taken place because of the switch, so nothing surprised her anymore.

  As she entered the private room, she reflected of the radical change in her finances. She sat patiently as the guard entered, carrying her box. He set it on the table in front of her and then discreetly left her alone to gorge on her prizes in complete privacy. Sam set her bag aside, lifted the lid to the safety deposit box and pulled out a large velvet case. She opened it and held the diamond necklace up to catch the light. It sent thousands of tiny rainbows against the walls of the privacy room. She opened the safety deposit-box lid again, staring at the tray holding more velvet boxes filled with countless other extravagant purchases.

  She opened each box and admired her collection. Her fingers stroked the glorious cut stones. Emeralds, tanzanites, rubies. And diamonds. Loads of diamonds. Too many to count. Some were drop earrings, others bracelets and a few necklaces. This last piece was by far the most beautiful—fifty carats of various-sized diamonds on a shaped filigree collar with a drop: ten carats of diamonds surrounding a seventeen-carat sapphire. Sam smiled as she placed her assets back in the box. At this rate, she would need a much larger box soon. Perhaps she should get three boxes: one for diamonds only, and the other for colored stones and another for the cash from the sale of all the antiques. She would talk to the manager on her next visit and make the arrangements. Sam reminded herself she should send some cash to her mom. Next time, she promised. It would be a fun surprise, opening an envelope filled with cash and not knowing who it was from. But would it make her mom nervous? She might think it was drug money or Bob’s stolen money, and then what? She sighed, wishing everything would get better for all of them.

  She buzzed the guard to return the box to its secure home in the vast wall, filled with other boxes and numbers. Sam wondered what the contents in all those other boxes could be. Were other women stashing their treasures as she did? And what secrets did the husbands have stashed as well? The thought of all that wealth stashed away, just like hers, brought a smile to her face. She thanked the guard and took the elevator up to the main floor of the bank.

  The sunshine blinded her as she spun outside through the revolving door. A beautiful late August day, a day too good to be spoiled by the offensive encounter with the impostor. Sam squinted toward Park Avenue—a perfect day to shop. She glanced at her Cartier watch. She had three hours before her hair appointment.

  She stopped at a Gucci window, a beautiful fur trimmed coat stared back at her. Sam caught her reflection, a reflection she would never be used to, and cringed. She opened the door and took a deep breath. Yes, this would help. Dr. Sutton and Patty were right, shopping really was the best therapy in the world.

  ***

  Ellen walked into a dark, dusty studio with paint all over the floor and the sink, buckets and brushes strewn along the counters and floor. She looked at her note to ensure this was the right place.

  “Sam,” a voice called out. “Good. You made it.”

  Ellen looked up to see a scruffy man in his forties, with a ponytail and black fingertips and smears of black on his forehead. “Class will begin in five minutes,” he said “Go on into the coffee room and help yourself.”

  Ellen looked toward the side room, a small, brightly lit room filled with a table and coffee pot, mugs and shelves of art supplies. Eager artists filled the main room, already set up and waiting by their easels. A few clustered around someone’s drawing pad, flipping the pages.

  Ellen went to an empty spot and pulled out her supplies, lining them along the edge of the abused wooden table in front of her easel. Graphite pencils, square conte sticks, kneaded erasers. A woman walked up the platform in the middle of the room and adjusted the spotlights.

  “Here Sam, you need to get changed.” Mr. Ponytail man appeared, holding a robe. He handed it to Ellen.

  “What do I do with that?” Ellen stared at the tattered silk in her hands.

  “Funny. Get changed, we’re almost ready.”

  “Changed?” Ellen looked about the room. A sofa and cushions rested on a raised platform. Ellen looked at all the drawings pinned to the wall, suddenly realizing her role. “Oh no!” she cried and looked at the man. “I can’t, I’m sorry.”

  “Come on, get going.” He put his hands on his hips in mock anger. “Get nude, girl!”

  Ellen tried to hand him the robe. “But I can’t. I’m not prepared. I …”

  “Shy now, are we? You’re such a kidder.” He laughed pulling her by the arm.

  Ellen pulled away. “I can’t, you don’t understand. I just can’t.”

  The smile fell from Mr. Ponytail’s face. “Sam everyone here is counting on you. I know we all have pissy days, but you’re booked. What’s the matter? You’ve done this a hundred times.”

  Ellen stared at all the artists watching her, ready to work. She thought of Rory and of what Sam would do. She reached down for the robe. How on earth could she be in this situation? To have a room full of voyeuristic men—perverts, staring at every inch of her body. Analyzing. Laughing. But it wasn’t her body, was it? It was someone else’s. Did that matter? She sat down and stared at the paisley pattern on the silk robe in her hands. They don’t know she’s Ellen Horvath. They think she’s Sam. Why should I care what they think? It’s not me really, it’s Sam.

  “Get going girl, tick-tock.”

  Ellen stood and walked over to the coffee change room. It was dank smelling, with a gnarled couch that had experienced too many cats, a worn-out card table and mismatched coffee mugs. On the walls were several vulgar nude drawings created by amateurs.

  How did I get myself into this? Slowly, she folded her clothes and set them on the stained couch. Removing her bra was difficult enough, but when she got to her panties, she took a deep breath—just like at the doctor’s office, she told herself. She slipped the robe on and tied the belt tight around herself as if to save her from opening it. She reached for the doorknob. Can I really do this? Every cell in her body screamed, “No, don’t do it. It will hurt. It will be painful.”

  A quick tap at the door. “Ready? Come on princess, your audience awaits.”

  Ellen opened the door and Mr. Ponytail said, “You okay?” He pulled her hair out of the collar of the robe. “This isn’t like you—you love this, remember?”

  Ellen made a feeble smile.

  “Really, you okay?”

  “No, I’m fine … I’m just … well, I’ve been sick, and …”

  He put his hand on her shoulder and rubbed it gently. “We’ll take it easy. Just a few minutes of one-minute poses to warm up and then some ten-minute ones. You can do the long ones lying down—nothing too challenging.”

  “Yes, that would help. I’m not myself … I’ve forgotten how …”

  “Say no more, we’ll be gentle.” He grabbed her hand and led her onto the platform. She stood, staring out at the sea of faces. The heat from the lights hit her face and her body, warming her. She started to untie the robe.

  “Perfect,” he said. “Let’s start with the robe. One minute Sam.” He positioned her to stand with her arms folded over her chest, the robe slightly open. He ran to his spot by an easel and set a kitchen timer. “Time begins … now.”

  The tick of the kitchen timer combined with Mozart’s “Jupit
er” playing in the background. What was she doing? She looked at all the perverse voyeurs who had assembled, using their pads and pencils as an excuse to peep—old men, young men, old women, young women—they all wanted to stare at a fresh naked body. Her body. She was about to plan her exit when …

  Buzz! “Another pose Sam, undo your arms … yes, now widen your stance. Perfect. Time … begin.”

  Tick, tick, tick. Buzz. “Let the robe fall off your shoulder. Great.”

  Ellen slid the robe down and revealed her modesty.

  “How about more breast?”

  Ellen took a deep breath and exposed her breast slightly.

  Tick, tick, tick. An eternity. Finally … Buzz.

  Mr. Ponytail walked up to her. “Okay, let’s open the robe. You ready to let it slide down? Here.” He pulled on the robe and Ellen tried to hold it. “It’s warm now, relax. Enjoy.”

  Enjoy! Ellen stood naked with only a scrap of a robe draped across her body, her ugly body—no, Sam’s body! It didn’t matter whose body—she felt them all looking, judging her. They were thinking nasty, cruel thoughts. They were examining her body. Were they laughing? Did they have any idea how uncomfortable this was? How torturous? She pulled the robe across her breasts and private zone, allowing it to drape to the floor. “Perfect, hold, just like that.”

  Tick, tick, tick. The ticking droned on endlessly. Why don’t I feel beautiful? Why can’t I allow this to be pleasant? Sam would. Sam loved her body—flaunted it. Why can’t I be that person? Why can’t I pretend?

  Buzz.

  How can I be doing this? What would anyone say? She changed positions, carefully covering her modesty with the robe, allowing only glimpses as she adjusted into each new position. What would her children think if they knew? But they wouldn’t know. She fought with her guilt as she continued. It was a challenge to push herself, to allow herself. Part of it was freeing, like daring yourself beyond your comfort zone. She began to feel a pleasure stirring, experiencing the fact that she could do this, that despite all her morals and upbringing, she could be bad, just this once, and she could be someone daring and risky, someone adventurous and bold, and no one need ever know.

  ***

  At the break, Ellen pulled the robe on and walked past the sketches lying on the tables and on the easels. She tried to avert her eyes from the shameful drawings. She spotted one, captivated by its softness, by lines flowing into curves, thick and rough, then thinning to delicate wisps. Smudges of charcoal telling of shapes blending together, forming a hip, a leg, a mound of sensuous flesh. The sum total was more than the body. It was beauty, revealed in its curves and light and shadows. Life and pleasure at play, full of its vitality. And she was part of it, forever tied. Ellen smiled as she wrapped her sash tight. Someone handed her a cup of coffee and she nodded, saying “Thanks,” and continued walking around the room, looking at all the abandoned work, laying open, available for viewing.

  Each one told a different story, the same pose but with a dissimilar look or feel. Each one a calling out of vibrancy and life or whispering seduction and longing through different shades, different textures, different angles—but all, an expression of her, of Ellen in this body.

  She touched her neck and shoulder, her breasts and waist, feeling every curve. And as she stood, closing her eyes, she realized the joy of embodiment. She understood the connection between body and soul. They could see it. It was more than a carcass of skin and bones, more than sexy or fat, thin or ugly. It was an expression of life, of being human. She studied the drawings on the wall of all the other bodies: old bodies, fat bodies, thin bodies, male, female. Each one a story. Each one a secret, begging for release and understanding.

  There was a stirring in the coffee room and people started filing back into the studio to their easels and tables. Ellen smiled at them. They no longer looked like evil voyeurs; they were, instead, archeologists, looking for treasure, searching every angle and curve, and upon finding it, sharing it with the world. As she walked toward the platform, undoing her sash, she decided she would give them more. She would help them in their discovery. She would reveal a part of herself, a part of Ellen. They would discover that hidden deep within this beautiful body was more beauty and passion, more torment and longing than they could ever imagine.

  The challenge was to bring it to life … uncover it and bring it out into the open. She stood naked, eagerly waiting to see what they might discover and expose, to see what secrets they’d find and share with the world, to see a part of Ellen brought to life.

  ***

  After her hair appointment, Sam headed home. She hoped Jonathan would be there but as usual, Sam ate dinner alone. As she stared at her plate, she wondered if Jonathan would ever dine with her again. They were far apart these days, and with all his talk of unions and walkouts, of closing divisions and factories, he seemed agitated and angry. Nothing she did pleased him, and she found herself missing conversations and touch. Missing everything she had before.

  She pushed her potatoes around her plate, smashing them together with the vegetables into a noxious clump. They were dry and difficult to swallow. She glanced out the window to the darkening sky. Large, charcoal clouds formed angry patterns that streaked across the horizon in jagged shards. She could hear the distant rumble of thunder.

  Sam stopped eating and went to the window. She pulled the lace curtains back and watched as a lightning bolt ripped across the sky. As it did, her stomach twisted and tightened.

  Sam went back to eat, but could only stare at her food. What lay ahead for her? What if Jonathan did divorce her and leave her with no money as he had planned? For weeks now, she stashed jewelry into her safety box—but how long would that last? She sat, trying to imagine her chances on her own. After all the surgery, men still didn’t seem to notice her. Never in her life had men ignored her. Being beautiful always granted her admission, always guaranteed her success. She realized how much she relied on her looks to get her way and use people. For the first time in her life, she realized how hopeless being old really was. It was painful. She pushed the plate away in disgust.

  Sam tried to imagine meeting other men. No one seemed interested in her. Young men wouldn’t even look at her, and most old men ignored her or laughed behind her back at her immaturity, making fun of her. Was it any wonder—a young sexy girl trapped in an old body? How else should she behave? Not like the other old woman, all cranky and stuffy, that’s for sure. But that only made them hate her. She knew they were laughing at her, their favorite joke.

  If only Jonathan were the way he had been before. He had adored her. He treated her with respect, and made others respect her as well. Now he wouldn’t even touch her. He treated her worse than she ever imagined. Did he hate her?

  She had ruined everything. No one respected her—no woman wanted to be seen with her. She had alienated herself from everyone and had no idea how to fix any of it. Even her so-called children were no comfort; they seemed too busy with their own lives to bother with her. Patty was the only person she ever talked to lately.

  Sam got up from the table to phone Patty. As she walked to the study, her stomach cramped again. Sam stopped and braced herself by leaning against the wall and waited for the pain to stop. It continued in sharper spasms. She staggered to the sofa as the razor-sharp jabs of pain pulsed within her. Whatever she ate—she was about to pay. Sam tried to lay back but the pain intensified, causing her to lean forward and wrap her arms around her stomach, holding it. She cried out in anguish.

  Her head was suddenly light and a seasick feeling swept over her, setting her off balance and dizzy. The reality of her illness became clear. Sam headed toward the bathroom, but not before she threw up all over the marble floor. She collapsed to her knees and vomited again. The pain intensified. She cried out in agony as Maria came running out from the kitchen.

  “Señora! Oh, Señora!” she cried.

  “Maria, oh … I … help me to the bathroom … hurry!”

  Maria hel
ped Sam to her feet and they stepped through the vomit as Sam raced to the bathroom. She barely made it before the other end exploded … purging itself of built-up pain. Both ends suffering in miserable unison. Sam leaned over and moaned. Maria grabbed the garbage can just as Sam retched again. Maria stood for a few moments, waiting.

  “God, call an ambulance! I’m going to pass out if I have to barf again,” Sam moaned.

  Maria slipped away. Sam wanted to curl up, but couldn’t. Sweat made her blouse stick to her back and chest. She wanted to die. As Sam sat staring at the remains of her dinner in the slosh of the wastebasket, she thought about what could have made her ill. Chunks of bright green floated on the surface of the vomit. The sight and smell sickened her, the cramping and gagging intensifying. Sam couldn’t leave the toilet. She wanted to lie down and die.

  After what felt like an hour but was less than ten minutes, she heard the siren. God, now what? She couldn’t let them see her like this. Think! But she couldn’t think past the pain, her brain was hazy and as unresponsive as her body. She tried to stand, but the room spun around her and she collapsed onto the floor, her panties and pants still around her ankles. The floor was cold and wet, smelling nasty—she lay there, paralyzed, immobile. The sound of paramedics rushing in with their tackle boxes and tight uniforms should have been welcome, but was instead, under the circumstances … mortifying.

  “Can you stand?” one of the paramedics asked. Of course, he was good-looking. Sam tried to smile, but he kept a serious face, avoiding any eye contact.

  “No,” Sam said, in a voice so feeble, it was barely a whisper. “That’s why I’m licking the floor.” She tried unsuccessfully to laugh.

  He helped her to her feet and set her back on the toilet seat, putting a blood pressure band on her arm. “We can wait until it settles a bit,” he said reassuringly, then stood and faced away while he pumped the band. To her horror and disgust, she got sick one more time. Her head felt light, too light … and airy. She closed her eyes as stars and flashes danced before her, then a black screen wiped everything away.