After Her

by Amber Kay

  I glance at my half-empty glass, seeking another distraction. I can’t bring myself to face her. Instead, I rub my fingers against the glass, tracing sporadic patterns of pentagonal shapes in the condensation. “I don’t really feel like talking about this.”

  “Ah, then it’s not a something,” she says with a delightful spark in her eye. “It’s a someone.”

  “Vivian—”

  “Who is it? An ex-boyfriend? Your father? Or…is it your mother?”

  “You know what?” I blurt out in agitation. “Enough about me. I have been a good girl. I’ve answered your questions. I'm allowed to ask you another question.” She says nothing, but I ask anyway, “Where are you from?”

  “Me? I'm from Santa Barbara,” she says. “I’ve lived in California my entire life.”

  “And your parents?”

  “Never married.”

  “Why?” I ask, wanting to force the same invasive interrogation on her. See how she likes it for once.

  She shrugs then says, “Because my father was already married when he met my mother.”

  My mouth falls open, speechless. Vivian clears her throat and proceeds, “Now, back to you. Do you want children?”

  “I’ve…uh never really been the maternal type,” I say as the words stick to the roof of my mouth like peanut butter. I gulp another mouthful of water to alleviate the sticky goo sensation coating the pallet of my tongue, but Vivian’s previous confession leaves me in a verbal stupor.

  “I could never even keep a goldfish alive,” I add.

  She writes this down as well. “So you are on birth control?”

  Heat permeates my cheeks. Angry heat.

  “Where the hell did that question come from?” I reply through clenched teeth.

  “It’s a simple question, Cassandra. Are you on birth control…or not?”

  “I’m not answering that question.”

  She writes this down too.

  “Okay, then what about your bra cup size?” she asks.

  “What!”

  Her eyes drift to my chest with an appraising smile.

  “You look like a B, but these things are so indefinite with push-up bras on the market,” she says. “You could be an A.”

  I glare at her, hoping to find the right words to shut her up, but I feel an egotistical need to defend my breasts.

  “32B,” I say. “And why are we discussing my breasts, anyway? You don’t hear me making quips about yours!”

  “There is no need to make this personal,” she replies after writing my answer onto her little notepad.

  “You’re interrogating me about my breast size,” I say in a hushed whisper to keep others in the restaurant from overhearing. “How is this not already personal? What will you ask next, whether I prefer tampons or pads?”

  “There is no reason to encroach on that territory just yet. Not until things have been properly finalized.”

  I drink more water to fix the rasp in my voice as nerves begin to make my throat sore.

  “How many sexual partners have you had?” she asks. I gape at her until she realizes that I haven’t answered and has to look up from her notepad to ensure that I haven’t stormed out of the restaurant in a fit.

  “Cassandra?”

  “I'm not answering anymore questions,” I say.

  “You don’t remember how many people you’ve had sex with? Hmm, that’s discouraging.”

  I blush again, but this time from anger. I'm certain of this emotion, if nothing else. This is undeniable because the urge I have to strangle this woman is much stronger than anything I’ve ever felt before.

  “I'm done with this interrogation,” I say. “I'm going home. If you won’t take me, I’ll walk!”

  I pull out of my chair and march away from the table, through the middle of the crowded restaurant then toward the women’s restroom. Dim lighting seems to be a prevalent theme in this restaurant. Shroud within the gossamer glow of the candlelit restroom, I see only the outline of my face in the mirror. I look myself in the eye and reprimand the reflection staring back.

  “What the fuck am I doing?” I mutter beneath my breath as if I expect someone else to answer the question.

  The restroom door swings opens, allowing Vivian inside. She doesn’t say a word for several minutes. We stand staring at each other in front of the mirrors, like two opposing forces, prepped for battle.

  “Why did you follow me?” I ask.

  “You stormed off in the middle of our conversation,” she says with a scowl. “No one has ever done that to me before.”

  “Either you tell me what you want or leave me alone,” I say. “Which will it be?”

  Vivian smirks and I notice her hand reach out, extending toward me, bony fingers grasping at empty air.

  “Don’t touch me!” I say while flinching away. “Just…don’t.”

  She withdraws with a sigh, visibly offended by my reaction.

  “You’re so much like me when I was your age,” she muses, her eyes now focused on a strand of my hair. I could move if I wanted or shy away from her hand when it grasps a fistful of my ponytail, but I don’t. I watch her fondle the strands, appearing enamored with a single stray strand that rests atop my left shoulder.

  “Are you a natural redhead?” she asks abruptly.

  “Strawberry blonde,” I say. “And yes, it’s natural.”

  She fashions a familiar nostalgic smile. “Then Adrian will love you.”

  I expect her to explain that, so I wait. Instead, she says nothing and begins to sob. Her body wilts, crumbles like a fallen tree onto the restroom floor. I can only watch her hysterical performance, unable to figure out how to react. My kryptonite is female emotions. Men like to claim that all women are hormonally imbalanced, that we all react to sadness by crying.

  I'm not sure I relate to that particular sentiment. I hate to see women cry just as much as men hate it. With Vivian, I feel useless, like there is nothing I can do to fix her. This woman could melt into a puddle of blood and skin and there would be nothing for me to do. Her cries erupt into wails so loud that I'm sure anyone outside can hear.

  “Vivian?” I kneel onto the floor beside her. She picks herself up, lumbers into one of the restroom stalls and swipes tissue from the roll. As she dabs away mascara that streaks her face, I wet a paper towel for her and wait until she pulls herself together.

  “Vivian?” I try grabbing her shoulder, to reassure or comfort her, but she jerks away. “What’s wrong?”

  “I hate you,” she replies in a low growl of voice. “I really fucking hate you.”

  I cock an eyebrow, bewildered in by her sudden hostility. “Excuse me?”

  She allows herself a wry chuckle while glaring at me through mascara-drenched eyes.

  “Okay, what is your goddamn problem?” I ask, forgetting the initial sympathy I’d had for her. She stops sneering at me. The abrupt smile she offers afterwards catches me off guard in a way that makes me wonder whether I not I imagined it.

  “Adrian is my husband,” she announces. “We’ve been married and divorced four times in the past twenty years. Until now, that man is the only person who has ever being able to see me at my worst.”

  “Until now?”

  “Until you,” she says. “I don’t cry in front of everyone and I certainly don’t allow myself to fall apart in public restrooms. I'm not usually such a mess. Perhaps you just caught me on an off day. Maybe you are exactly what I need right now, but Adrian needs you more. He’ll need you even more afterwards.”

  “Vivian, you’re being annoyingly cryptic again,” I say. “Just get to the point.”

  She dabs her eyes dry and stares at me through the mirror after sauntering over the sink. I glance into her reflection’s bloodshot eyes, watching this cold shell of a woman fracture like ice. It’s weird to see such a menacing woman unravel like a spool of thread.

  I want to know more. I need to peel back the layers that sheathe her to know whatever else she hides. If I were
being honest with myself, I would admit that the fascination she has with me isn’t a one-sided transaction.

  “Vivian?” I ask. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

  With a heavy sigh and an obvious burden weighing down her shoulders, she turns to me, cupping my hands inside hers.

  “I’m dying Cassandra,” she confesses and my heart sputters like an old engine struggling to rev up.

  “What?” The single word is all I can say. Vivian makes no repudiations and allows no emotion to reach her eyes. She is so stoic that I expect her to laugh and reveal that this is all some sick joke. “You’re fucking with me, aren’t you?” I say.

  “I have a year to get my affairs in order and Adrian is one of them.”

  “What does this have to do with me?” I ask.

  “I don’t want Adrian to be alone,” she says. “So I want to recruit you.”

  “Recruit me for what?”

  “To replace me,” she says. “Cassandra, I want you to be my husband’s wife after I die.”

  8

  I don’t answer.

  I lurch backwards, gripping the porcelain sink counter to prop myself up when my knees threaten to buckle at the joints.

  “Cassandra?” Vivian pauses, attentively examining my face. She probably notices the lack of emotion in my expression—my slack jaw and parted lips—and fears I’ve had a stroke.

  A piercing ache burns in my throat, restricting my voice to a whisper. When she steps toward me, I jerk away and scurry toward the exit. She blocks my path to freedom, using her body to shield the door from me.

  “Vivian, get away from the door,” I say. Briefly, she smiles then grimaces, realizing that I'm serious.

  “Hear me out first,” she says.

  “You need to take me home.” I nudge her, pinning her against the door, preparing to bulldoze my way out. Vivian grips my shoulders and restrains me until I’m composed. Once calm, I catch my breath and she releases me.

  “Are you always this melodramatic?” she asks.

  “What else did you expect?” I say. “How am I supposed to react?”

  She steps away from the door while reaching into her purse for her cigarette carton. Her hand trembles as she slips one between her lips and sighs as if relief has washed over her in an orgasmic wave.

  “Will you sit down and let me explain?” she asks me. I open my mouth to reply. A knock on the restroom door interjects. Someone outside jiggles the doorknob before realizing that it’s been locked. I glance over my shoulder then back at Vivian.

  “This is a public restroom,” I remind her. “You can't just lock the door and monopolize the facilities.”

  She sits atop the sink counter, shrugging at my words as if they mean nothing to her.

  “Hello?” the person outside calls. “Is anyone in there?”

  I look to Vivian once more.

  “Make them go away,” she orders. With no time to react, I approach the door and unlock it. A woman with a toddler glowers at me, trying to force her way into the restroom.

  I quickly shove the door toward her to keep her from entering.

  “Excuse me,” she says. “We’d like to use the restroom if you don’t mind.”

  I scramble for words and can’t summon any. Damn, I'm a terrible liar. I can never sound natural enough to fool anyone.

  “I'm sorry, but…my mother is suffering from an explosive case of diarrhea. Trust me; you do not want to come in here,” I say. “In fact, I urge you to inform management that an Out of Order sign might be necessary.”

  The woman says nothing more and scoops her toddler into her arms before scampering away. Vivian chuckles while flicking her cigarette butt into the trashcan. I lock the door and approach her, arms folded in defiance.

  “I can't believe you made me lie to that woman,” I say. She slips another cigarette between her lips. Before she has a chance to light it, before I have a chance to consider my actions, I swipe it from her mouth and toss it over my shoulder.

  Her eyes pull tight across her face, narrowing into a fierce glare. For a moment, I'm certain she’ll slap me. I brace myself, fearing the worst, anticipating an immediate backlash. Vivian simply stares at me, gradually recovering some composure through a forced smile.

  “If you were anyone else, I'm not sure what I might have done to you for touching my cigarette,” she says while plucking another one from the carton. “You’re lucky I like you.”

  “You shouldn’t be smoking,” I reply.

  Her eyes pierce me, glowering. Her expression is frigid, taut with anger.

  “Cassandra, I'm already dead. Staying away from cigarettes isn’t gonna make me any less dead.”

  “How the hell are you joking about this?” I ask in a fit of outrage. “Who jokes about death?”

  “What is the point of crying over it?” she asks. “I’ve already shed tears. I’m done feeling sorry for myself. I’d rather stay busy preparing for inevitable—closing bank accounts, arranging life insurance policies and assigning beneficiaries. That’s how I spend my days now. I don’t have time to fall apart over a silly little thing like cancer.”

  I'm sure the shock is visible on my face. I can’t find any more words to argue a valid point. She’s already accepted this fate, accepted it as if it means nothing more than paying off a traffic citation or forgetting the milk at the grocery store. Cancer isn’t an illness to her. It’s a business opportunity. I sit atop the sink counter beside her. The silence she leaves me in, fills every space in the room, fills every space in my head. We languish in this quiet until she brandishes another cigarette and points it in my direction.

  “I don’t smoke,” I say.

  She slips it into her mouth instead, but doesn’t light it.

  “Adrian doesn’t like my smoking either,” she says. “He’ll love that you’re not a smoker.”

  “Don’t talk to me about Adrian,” I mutter. “I haven’t agreed to any of this. I haven’t even begun to consider it.”

  She turns to me, frowning.

  “Why do you have to sound so condescending about it?”

  I stare at the floor, fidgeting with my fingers to distract myself.

  “Why me?” I ask. “How did you decide which random woman you’d pimp out to your husband?”

  “Don’t call me pimp,” she says. “I'm more of a matchmaker, if anything.”

  “You call this matchmaking? Vivian, this is not fair to Adrian.”

  “I’ll tell you what isn’t fair!” she retorts. I watch her expression contort into something reminiscent of unmolded clay. Every angle, once soft, is now rough and malformed. Tears swell her eyes; she scrubs them awaywith the heels of her palms.

  “What isn’t fair is that I'm dying in my forties,” she says, her voice strained. “What also isn’t fair is that you’re healthy and young and beautiful, but you’re taking it all for granted. Life isn’t fucking fair, Cassandra! I’m just doing the best I can while I still have the time to do it! You have no right to judge me for it.”

  “You accuse me of taking life for granted because I don’t want to marry your husband? You’re taking your own marriage for granted,” I say. “Have you even bothered to ask Adrian what he thinks about this arrangement? How is he going to feel about you handpicking his second wife?”

  “You’d be his fourth wife, actually.”

  The warmth leaves me face. In a stupor, I plop from atop the counter and stagger into the adjacent stall, placing my hands over my face to muffle my exasperated screams. As I sit atop the toilet inside to take a breath, Vivian watches me, stoic.

  “Cassandra, this will go a lot smoother once you stop behaving like a child and talk to me like an adult.”

  “Hey! You may be old enough to be my mother, but you’re not my mother,” I say.

  “And thank god I'm not. Otherwise, I would have cut that disrespectful tongue out of your mouth years ago,” she retorts. I don’t respond so she adds, “I’m willing to pay for this conversation.”

  �
��What?” I say, uncertain of what I think she said. Vivian fishes a checkbook from her purse along with an ink pen. She jots down a series of numbers then hands me the slip of paper with a look of business on her face.

  “Ten thousand is enough to cover tuition and books in the fall, right?” she asks.

  I don’t answer. Speechless, I only nod while gaping at the check.

  “If you hear me out, I’ll pay for your next semester at Northham,” she replies. “I know that Frank isn’t paying you enough.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “You weren’t chosen at random, Cassandra.”

  My stomach tightens as sweat veils the nape of my neck. “How long have you been watching me?” I ask.

  She looks me in the eye, bringing a wicked smirk to her face. “You’ve been a subject of interest for a while.”

  I glower at her, resisting the urge to pout because it would only prove her assumptions about me correct. Only children pout to get what they want. Vivian must be handled with some amount of mental dexterity.

  She is right about one thing. Frank isn’t budging on giving me a pay raise. I see myself dancing around the topic of money with him for many years to come. Meanwhile, Vivian is handing it out like party favors. This could work in my best interest…if I'm careful. I sit up straight, arms folded and me with a stern poker face, readying myself to negotiate.

  “You win,” I say. “Since you obviously won’t leave me alone until we discuss this…then let’s talk. Can we return to our table?”

  “No, I know a place more private and much more suitable for the discussion.” She drops to her feet from atop the counter and heads toward the door while hitching her purse atop her shoulder.

  “Where are we going?” I ask.

  She turns back briefly. “To my house.”

  * * *

  She drives this time and I don’t object. I settle into the passenger seat, fiddling with the buttons on the door to adjust my seat. It’s an impressive panel of functions. One button warms the cushions. Another rolls the window down. One other button prompts a mirror from the ceiling that suspends in front of me.

  I can't believe how much of a child this car turns me into. I’ve never been inside a car with so many utilities. My Honda is on its last leg. It’s a classic 97’ coup covered in chipped mint green paint with a dent in the bumper. At sixteen, working at Baskin Robbins for seven-fifty an hour, it was all I could afford. As much as I love the old thing, I can't deny how easier life would be in a car like Vivian’s Porsche.