What is Love?

by Saks, Tessa

  “See you there. Bye Sammy, baby.”

  Ellen sat and stared at the phone, imagining how much Sam probably hated this embarrassment of a mother. Or perhaps, she loved her. Love is a funny thing. Ellen had read that sometimes, abused children still love their parents in spite of all the pain and suffering. She thought about her own children. They resented her for so many so-called failings. What would they say to a mother like Mrs. Miller? Would they have loved her more? Ellen admitted she held high standards for her children, for her family and herself, but it was all with the best intentions. She wanted them protected, she wanted them safe and happy. Isn’t that what all mothers want?

  She thought about Sam’s mother—in her own demented way, it was what she wanted for Sam. To be safe. Protected. Ellen laughed aloud at the irony in the fact that if a plan to put a hit on Ellen was real, as Sam believes—it would result in Mrs. Miller hurting—or far worse—killing her own daughter. No wonder Sam’s a nervous wreck.

  A chill raced up her back as she imagined what kind of plot could actually be underway. Whatever Sam feared, it was actually meant for her, for Ellen. Would I seem any crazier than Samantha if I had found out about a plan to kill me? Sam must know something or she wouldn’t be behaving this crazy and willing to be locked away in a mental hospital. Ellen smiled as she thought of the irony: that Sam should have wanted my life to end and by doing so, could end her own life. Talk about a plan backfiring.

  An uneasy feeling crept into Ellen and twisted deep inside her. What is even more ironic is that I am now in the sole position of protecting her. I have the power to save or destroy her. To her surprise, all the hate Ellen held for Samantha softened and she suddenly felt a kind of sympathy for her. This lasted a mere moment before she reminded herself what Sam would do if the tables were turned.

  Hah! She laughed at the notion that Sam would spend even a second to care about anyone—especially Ellen. She had read Samantha’s journal after all, and was very aware that in the hands of Jonathan and Sam, Ellen would certainly be where Sam is now.

  No. This little plotter and schemer deserves everything she has coming. No one has ever questioned that you reap what you sow. And now, for Samantha Miller, it’s harvest time.

  ***

  Ellen sat watching the door. The drone of voices filled the coffee shop with excitement and laughter. She inhaled the sharp fragrant air. When Rory phoned earlier today, she found herself feeling guilty about telling him of the divorce. He entered the room and upon seeing her, his smile widened and he gave a quick wave. She waved back as he headed toward her. “Hello gorgeous,” she said and immediately, a warm blush washed across her cheeks.

  He reached over and kissed her pink cheek. “You’re not so bad yourself,” he replied as he pulled up a chair, straddling it between his legs and leaning forward on the back. Ellen pushed a cup of coffee toward him and studied his rugged hands as they wrapped around the cup.

  “Mochaccino?” he asked.

  “Of course,” Ellen replied, wrapping her hands securely around her cup of coffee. She found herself unable to drink, feeling suddenly uneasy around him. Almost queasy.

  He took a sip, licking the cream from his lips. “What’s new? You must be up to something. You look like the cat that ate the canary.” Rory grinned. “You naughty little girl. Fess up.”

  “Well, I am—sort of. Jonathan is leaving Ellen. He’s finally filed for divorce.”

  Rory sat back, then pulled his cup closer. “Oh really? Lucky you. To the happy couple.” He raised his cup and let out a laugh.

  Ellen smiled. “I thought it might upset you.”

  “Upset me? Why?”

  “I don’t know, I thought maybe—”

  “You thought wrong.”

  Ellen looked into his eyes. “Did I?”

  “Yes.” He stared back with intense, dark eyes. “You did. I knew this was just fun and games. Relax.” He leaned toward her and pinched her cheek. “You look so serious.”

  Ellen shook her head. “I didn’t want to hurt you.”

  “Hurt me?” Rory laughed. “You hurt me a long time ago, remember? And I got over it. See?” He flexed his biceps. “All better, a man of steel.”

  “So you’re all right with all this—I mean, ending it?”

  “Of course I am.” He drummed the table like a beatnik bongo player. “I am happy for you— really. This is exactly what you want … what you’ve always wanted.”

  “It is.”

  “Then how could I be upset if this makes you happy?”

  “I just thought—I mean, it’s so final.”

  “Hey, we can still be friends. Look at me.” He wrapped his hands around hers. “I promise I will always be here if you need me. Even if I’m married and my wife hates you,” he said and pointed his finger at her. “You should see your face, you look so serious.”

  “This isn’t easy for me, we can’t—you know—ever.”

  Rory stood up, leaning over her, his face pressed close to hers. “I’ll be okay, really.” He put his hand on hers and put them next to his heart. “I mean it. I’ll always be your friend. All I need is for you to be happy. You are happy, right?”

  “Yes, very.”

  “Well, that’s it!” He stood and pulled her to her feet. “Let’s celebrate. How about your favorite place.”

  “Chanel?”

  “No.”

  “Sotheby’s?”

  He shook his head and pulled her close. His muscles hardened under the thin cotton as his arms flexed around her. She imagined him sitting against the headboard, no shirt … Stop! She scolded herself for even thinking it, then asked, “Where is my favorite place?”

  “You’ll see.”

  Ellen shuddered and tried to imagine, wishing more than ever that Sam’s favorite place had been Rory’s apartment.

  ***

  Sam sat staring at Jonathan as his words tumbled over her. He looked calm and relaxed, as if talking about the weather to a stranger. She stopped listening once her blood pressure surged, like an overloaded circuit board. “But Johnny, you can’t do this. You’re all I have.”

  “Now Ellen, we’ve discussed this before. You have your children, your friends … your charity work.” Jonathan pulled on his cufflinks as he spoke.

  “But they don’t even like me. I can’t—I don’t even know them. Please, Johnny. You don’t understand.” Sam put her hand on his arm. “Don’t leave me. You can’t. I need you.”

  “Now, Ellen.” Jonathan took her hand off his arm, placing it on her lap.

  “No! I’m so lonely. I’m afraid. I’m all alone, I can’t … Johnny, don’t you care? You must … I know you must.”

  “I’m sorry, Ellen. I can’t coddle you forever.”

  “Coddle?” Sam screamed, unable to restrain herself. She wanted to slap him. “You fuck’n call this coddling? Locking me away in here? Not trusting me? God, you’re an ass. I want out of here. Now!”

  “You can, in time.”

  “In time? What do you mean in time? I never agreed to this. I agreed to come here only for a while. My decision, not yours. Only to protect me until I decided.”

  “Yes, and it’s best, I see that now. You are safe here, out of danger.”

  “But Johnny, I am not crazy. I’m not like them. I shouldn’t be here. I need to leave.”

  “That’s true, but you can be a bit … irrational. That’s what they called it.”

  “Irrational? You do this to me, and I’m irrational? Anyone would be irrational in this place. You would be irrational! How the hell can I be anything but irrational?”

  “Ellen, calm yourself, this is not open for debate.”

  “This is my life you are ruining! How can it not be open for debate?”

  Jonathan stood and turned to the window, “Ellen, this is for your own good. You may even thank me one day.”

  “Johnny,” Sam cried. “Don’t leave me here. Don’t leave me. How can you not care? You loved me once—you told me you loved
me more than life itself, and now … now you don’t care.”

  “I do care. That’s why I’m doing this. It’s for your own good.”

  He started walking toward the door. “Johnny!” Sam cried. “Johnny!” she shouted with all the force her body could generate. “Don’t leave me here! Please!” Sam was crying and wiping her eyes when a nurse entered the room and helped her onto the bed, then handed her a pill. Sam brushed her hand away, sending the pill and the water cup flying. Another nurse arrived and together they held her arms as she tried to wrestle free.

  She kept crying out “Don’t leave me,” but Jonathan no longer heard. He was out the door, and there was nothing Sam could do about it.

  ***

  Ellen looked around the photo studio, wondering how she could begin to use all the equipment, not knowing what most of it even was.

  Rory pulled her over to a sofa. “Sam, why are you so uncomfortable here? You loved it here. You used to come on Saturdays and spend all day with Reg developing your prints.”

  “I don’t remember being here, or how to use any of the equipment over there, and I—”

  Rory picked up the camera and looked at her through the lens. “Reg will help you.” He set the camera on the table in front of them. “After all, you own most of the stuff in here. It’s not hard. Remember when you learned to use the darkroom in high school? We had some fun, huh?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think I can do all this. I can’t even think of anything to take pictures of. I’m not an artist. How can I make pictures that anyone would want to buy?”

  “Sam, here’s how I see it. Every one of us can be an artist. Come on Sam, I’ve seen your work. I know you’re good, that you have something worth sharing, that others will want.”

  “I don’t think so, not anymore.”

  “Come on. Try. That’s all I ask. Take some photos and bring them next Saturday. I’ll try to sell them for you. Just feel the work again. Let it come alive.”

  “I can’t. I don’t feel anything.”

  “You can. Inside of everything is a kind of energy. A force that if you study it, you can see. Look at a flower, I mean really look.” Rory grabbed her hand and held it. “Do you ever feel something when you look at things? Some emotion stirring deep inside of you?”

  “Yes, I guess.”

  He let go of her hand and sat back, kicking his feet onto the table. “I think that’s inside each of us. I want to capture that inside force and show it on my canvas. You know, it’s funny, kids have it and they aren’t afraid to let it all show. They are born with no inhibition and somehow, you’ve seen it, people tone it down. They tone down the best part of themselves. Sometimes, I see older people and I want to shake them, free that energy and force, you know?”

  “Not really …” Ellen sat, watching his hands as he spoke.

  “Anyway, I’m amazed by people and by things. Sometimes I feel things too strongly, I want to explode—release it, and share all that passion with others.” He looked at Ellen. “So, if you had no words, no language, what flower would you use to show love?” Rory asked.

  “That’s easy. Peonies.”

  “Why?”

  “For one thing, they have thousands of petals all tightly wrapped up into a firm ball and as they bloom, they open and suddenly there are layers upon layers—endless. The deeper inside, the more layers. They are also fragile in some ways, tender and delicate, but strong in other ways. You can plant them almost anywhere, neglect them for years and they’ll survive.”

  Ellen glanced out the window and continued, “And the weight. The weight of their petals causes them to bend, often all the way to the ground, yet they never break. In the rain, in sadness, they bend to keep from breaking when full, as when full of love, people overflow with the weight of the love they carry.”

  “And sadness? How would you depict sadness? No words, remember?”

  “A tulip. A lone tulip, its stem bent to touch the table in anguish. Most of its petals gone, perhaps only one lone petal left attached, all the others scattered on the table.”

  “Okay, and death?”

  Ellen paused a moment. “Black snakeroot, a purple-leafed plant, so deep and dark, its stems and leaves look truly black. Its jet leaves are lacy and jagged, severe, yet captivating in their somberness … a sort of rogue beauty. A stunning contradiction of melancholy and intrigue.”

  “Perfect. How about pain?”

  “Polar star. It’s a rose climbing vine, with long, thick, dangerously sharp thorns twisted amongst creamy white roses. Isn’t that how pain works, the degree of pain is in direct proportion to the degree of love or beauty lost?”

  “See, you get it. Art isn’t about seeing beautiful things or making a controversial statement. Art is saying with imagery what you feel. You use the image to say, yes, this is what I am feeling, right now. Others may feel as you do when they see the work, or they may not. Take your camera and try. I think if you took your feelings and photographed objects and flowers, putting them onto cards, you could make relevant work. And money. I know you could.”

  “I don’t know … I need real money.”

  “Just try it. Tell me you’ll try it once, then I’ll never harass you again.”

  Ellen looked at him and took the camera from his hands. She looked through the lens and focused on various objects about the room. Maybe it wasn’t so crazy. How bad could it be? It certainly couldn’t be any worse than her lack of jewelry sales.

  CHAPTER 30

  Ellen woke up feeling sick again. She reached over for her calendar and tried to determine her last period. Counting the days, she realized it had been at least seven weeks. How could she have forgotten to keep track?

  She sat on the bed, overcome with disbelief. This can’t be possible. She had used the diaphragm. She lay back and touched her stomach, which was noticeably swollen and bloated. She touched her face in frustration, dry washing it with her hands. What could she do? What would Jonathan do? She tried to imagine having a baby. Starting over. She was too old for it—not physically—emotionally. The crying. The diapers. The rebellion. The tempers. I can’t do it, no way, she told herself, then quickly rubbed her stomach again. “Sorry. I didn’t mean that,” she whispered to her belly.

  She rolled over and grabbed the furry stuffed bunny on the bed, tucking it against her stomach. Why? Why now? She lay back. Would Jonathan be happy? Perhaps he would be excited, supportive even. But he’s sixty-one. How could he be happy? How could any man his age? He’d be eighty when the child would start college. Impossible. Ellen examined her options.

  Have the baby and keep it. No—maybe. Have the baby and give it up. No—maybe.

  Abort. No—never.

  She sat up. But what if I’m not pregnant? This might be a mistake, a false alarm. She reached for her appointment book and called her clinic to book a pregnancy test, and hopefully, within a few days, she would know for certain and know what fate her future held. She stood and looked in the mirror. Her breasts were firm and full, but they had been like that since she switched into this body. Her belly did seem firm and bloated, but that might be her period starting. How could she know how regular Sam was? Ellen certainly had never been regular, often missing weeks at a time. She was rubbing her stomach when Sienna walked past.

  Ellen called out, “Hey, where have you been hiding?”

  “Steve’s place. I’m so in love. He’s the one—hey, congrats on the upcoming divorce.”

  “Yeah, it’s great.” Ellen sat down. “Just one hitch.”

  “Oh God, not the wife again.”

  “No, worse. I think I might be pregnant.”

  “No!” Sienna stepped into the room covering her mouth with her hand. “Oh Sam, no.”

  Ellen lay back and held the ridiculous bunny again. “I can’t imagine what to do.”

  “Have you tested?”

  “No. I go tomorrow and get the results on Friday. I’ll just drive myself crazy until then.”

  “Tha
t sucks.” Sienna turned to leave. “Hey, I have a pregnancy test, wanna try?”

  Ellen sat up. “Are they accurate?”

  Sienna shrugged and made a puzzled frown. “Pretty good, I guess.”

  With nothing to lose, Ellen followed Sienna into her bedroom and watched as Sienna opened her bathroom cabinet and rummaged for the box. “I have to run,” Sienna said, as she handed the box to Ellen. “We have tickets to the game and I won’t be back for a few days. Hey, good luck.” Sienna gave Ellen a hug and left.

  Ellen heard the front door slam and closed the bathroom door. “Please be no,” she pleaded to the box. “Please, be no.” She opened the wrapper and read the directions.

  “Add three drops of urine into the test tube, add contents of the plastic vial, shake ten seconds, place tube in holder and leave undisturbed for two hours.”

  She reread the instructions aloud, then followed every step and put the test tube into its special holder and sat watching … wondering, driving herself crazy, staring at the test tube, waiting for that little circle to not appear. Unable to read a book or do anything else while waiting, after two hours of grueling avoidance, she finally looked at the tube.

  For a moment, she felt a burst of joy. A baby! A soft, cuddly bundle of love and—then—the truth. Reality suddenly inundated her happy thoughts, wiping away any illusion of motherhood. Her heart sank as she stared at the brown ring that confirmed her biggest fear.

  She thought of her own children, her struggles to be a perfect mother, the stress and worry of being a parent, of everything. She toyed with the test tube absentmindedly as she questioned if motherhood was actually worth it. Here she was now, without her children. She missed them. But did they ever miss her?

  Her mind reeled back to when Brianna was born, a little baby so innocent and pure, full of love. No one could have predicted the challenges that lay ahead or convinced her that she would ever doubt her love for her children. She could see Brianna, her pigtails and curls, and Brandon, his long lashes and soft cheeks. Her heart longed for them. She missed them. She had missed them for the better part of twenty years, which was when she last felt they loved her. Somehow, the love had slowly slipped away, before she had realized it happened. Ellen tried to imagine what she might have done different. How could she have had their love forever? What would have worked? Ellen touched her belly and wished she knew the answer to everything.