by Amber Kay
Vivian only has herself to keep company. I suspect that with Adrian working all the time, she must need something to make her feel needed, wanted. All alone in that the big, empty house, I imagine she must chant the same mantra over and over again: I am needed. I am loved. People want me around.
I think about that and feel sorry for her all over again. It’s amazing how someone like her—someone always in the spotlight and always in the tabloids—is so lonely. I fear that’s her worst fear. She’s dying, but what’s worse is that she’s dying alone. Under the scrutiny of the media. It’s like everyone is waiting for her to die so they can blog about it.
I busy myself with this magazine, flipping to the page of her story and skimming the four-page article detailing her battle with cancer, from prognosis to treatment. On one page, Vivian sits atop a barstool smiling back from a photo with a quote from her interview printed in large white letters over her head in quotations.
“At first, I wanted to fall apart,” says the quote. “Until I realized that shutting the world out wouldn’t cure me. Stepping up and rising against this was the only option I agreed with. It’s just not in my DNA to give up on anything I want.”
I believe these words the moment I read them. Only she could have said them. Vivian’s determination to obtain the things she wants is what got me into the position I'm in. What I don’t believe is the phony smile in this picture.
I don’t believe that Vivian is who she wants to be. She’s certainly not the same woman in these airbrushed photos. In actuality, she is nothing, but a caricature of someone perfect. Not a personification.
Eventually, a nurse calls Vivian’s name. We follow her to a small examination room with several medical diagrams of infected organs of all types. To my left is a giant poster of a woman with a hole in her throat urging smokers to quit. I'm sure Vivian ignores this poster every time she comes in here.
Vivian dresses in the regulatory hospital gown then sits atop the examination table. She won’t put down her cell phone and has been arguing with someone for ten minutes about decorations for the scholarship fundraiser gala she’s been planning.
She orders me to take notes and ensures that I plan to give my own suggestions for the catering. So far, being Vivian Lynch’s intern means escorting her to doctor appointments and arranging for charity parties. It’s nothing I can’t handle. Vivian is the only thing I worry about handling. Tending to her chores and cleaning up her messes are the extraneous duties. Vivian is the main course.
When she finally puts her phone away, Dr. Carrick arrives in the room. He looks only at Vivian, once more neglecting to acknowledge or even notice me. His focus belongs to her. The man even straightens his tie like some preening schoolgirl.
“So Vivian, how are you feeling today?” he asks and suddenly he’s completely different person than he was the last time I saw him. Receptive and…smiling? I didn’t think the man had it in him to even fake cordiality. I don’t get it. What changed between the last time I saw him and now? Why’s he suddenly in such a smiley mood? Vivian forces some half-assed grin, I guess to lighten the mood.
“I’m still breathing…for now,” she says. “I’d kill for another cigarette. Are you sure you don’t want to reconsider that ‘no smoking’ rule this clinic has?”
Carrick smirks. I get the feeling that she isn’t kidding and may actually want an answer to that question.
“Let me check you out,” he says then he proceeds to give her a full body check-up before revealing her X-rays on the illuminating blackboard.
“Where is it now?” Vivian sighs. “The last time you claimed that it had spread to my kidney then I let you people steal chunks of my body away. What will you take this time? An arm? A leg?”
Carrick disregards Vivian’s hostility, setting his focus on the X-ray of her chest. I don’t know what I'm looking at, but from what I can tell, her left lung looks like an overinflated balloon whereas the right lung appears puffy—less swollen.
“Not good,” Carrick announces. “I was afraid this would happen when you decided to stop chemotherapy.”
“You’re not doing chemotherapy?” I interject.
She shrugs, nonchalantly.
“I'm not putting myself through that again.”
“Vivian, the cancer has spread into your right lung,” says Carrick. Her eyes widen, briefly acknowledging his words with a look of sudden shock. I’ve never seen her look so feeble before. It’s odd to see a crack in Vivian Lynch’s armor.
“Vivian, are you okay?” I ask.
She nods, but her expression exposes no emotion at all.
“I know I'm dying, Carrick,” she replies with a frail smile. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
Carrick clears his throat, attempting to sustain some sense of professionalism. I wonder if he’s gotten used to Vivian’s nonchalance about all of this. I can’t imagine many other cancer patients being as cool about death as she is.
“We won’t be able to remove your lung to impede its progress. We can’t just ignore it either. I can prescribe some medicine to treat the inflammation and fit you for a respirator machine to make you more comfortable.”
“What would be the point?” Vivian asks. “Fitting me for an iron lung like some kind of invalid? I can breathe just fine.”
“Breathing will be the least of your problems,” he says. “This is stage II Adenocarcinoma. You have several uncomfortable symptoms to look forward to. Shortness of breath, difficulty walking long distances and climbing stairs. I’ve already discussed the dangers of smoking in your current condition. Vivian, you are incapacitating yourself by refusing to take my advice. As your personal physician, I'm not sure what more I can do if you won’t heed my warnings.”
“I don’t need to hear this,” she replies without looking at him. I watch her eyes descend, scanning the floor of the examination room, swollen with tears that rest in the corners of her bottom lids. Her frail body tilts forward, hands gripping the edge of the table as she rocks rhythmically back and forth.
“Vivian, you need to listen to me or I can’t help you,” says Carrick in a voice that sounds more beseeching than cautionary.
“How long?” she whispers.
He and I wait, assuming she’ll elaborate on what she means. When she doesn’t, he asks, “How long what?”
“How long do I have left?” she says. “Last time you estimated one year. Did that change or am I already one foot in the grave?”
Carrick glances at his clipboard then back at the X-rays and faces Vivian with a stern look of gentle composure, only reserved for the worst kind of news. I’ve only ever seen this look on the face of the doctor that pronounced my grandmother dead when I was eight.
“Well Carrick? Speak up,” says Vivian. “When am I leaving?”
“It’s hard to pinpoint exactly, but my estimation is somewhere between three to nine months,” he says. “I'm sorry Vivian. Perhaps if you had taken better care of yourself, the time span would be more positive. It could have extended your life by two years.”
“I signed my own death warrant. I already know that. It’s no surprise. I was never good at taking orders,” she chuckles, ironically. “My mother always said that being hardheaded was gonna get me in trouble someday.”
“Vivian, I know it’s hard, but we can make you comfortable until—”
She sighs aloud, only now her breaths sounds wheezy.
“I don’t want to prolong this, Carrick. I want you to stop babying me for once. Just prescribe me a couple painkillers and some sedatives then send me on my way to face the inevitable.”
I look at Vivian as she wraps her hand around mine. Unsure of how else to respond, I squeeze her hand back.
“What do you think I should do?” she asks me then the two of them turn to me, awaiting a response.
“You don’t want to know what I think,” I say.
“I didn’t just hire you as an intern,” she replies. “Moral support and medical advice is also in your job description.”
“Okay, well, I think you should return to chemotherapy.”
Vivian scowls.
“If you knew what that procedure does to me, you’d agree with the opposite.”
“Vivian, you’re asking me for permission to die,” I say. “I can’t ethically agree with that.”
She chuckles at my response then looks to Carrick who pretty much repeats what I’ve said without saying anything at all.
“I will not sit bedridden in this damn hospital and shrivel up while chemotherapy eats away at me!” she snarls.
Carrick clears his throat and rejoins the discussion.
“Since you’re adamant about rejecting chemotherapy, we should really talk about that respirator again.”
“I already told you what I want,” she says. “I won't be confined to some breathing mask like a cripple. My business endeavors require that I remain mobile. I can’t show up to a charity event lugging a twenty-pound capsule of artificial oxygen. People expect Vivian Lynch to look her best and I will die with that reputation written into my obituary. I won’t be remembered as the haggard, dying old woman who used to be Adrian Lynch’s wife.”
I expected this much from her. Vivian seems like the type to carry pride like lumberjack with a redwood on his back. Of course, she won’t go back to chemotherapy. Of course, she won’t listen to the doctor.
She’s a stubborn child in an adult body. Vivian isn’t dying because there is no cure for her ailment or because she was declared terminal. She’s dying because she refuses to let go of her pride long enough to let anyone help her.
“Vivian, are you sure this is what you want?” Carrick asks.
“I want a refill on my sedatives and painkillers,” she says. “It should be enough to last the rest of the year, to help me when the pain becomes too much. Soon, I’ll lie down to sleep and I’ll let myself slip away in the middle of the night.”
Carrick doesn’t argue anymore. He’s probably been her doctor long enough to know when to argue and when to accept defeat. Carrick leaves the room to inquire about Vivian’s prescriptions. She glances at me while redressing into her clothes. Something foreign in her eyes makes me take notice—uncertainty.
“You must think I'm an idiot for making that decision,” she says.
“You already decided how you’re gonna to die,” I say. “You don’t care what I think.”
Her mouth twitches into a half-smile.
“Cassandra, your opinion is the only thing keeping me from slitting my wrists. And we both know I'm not exaggerating about that.”
“Why are you doing this? You act like you have no choice, like dying is the only option. You could stop this if you really wanted! None of this is out of your control. Why did you reject chemotherapy?”
Her lips tighten, like two drawstrings retracting at once, forming a single hard line.
“You really want to know?”
“If you’re going to involve me in this, then I deserve to know,” I say.
“I was a beautiful little girl,” she says with a wistful smile. “Pudgy with dimpled cheeks and curly brown hair. Mother used to call me her little Shirley Temple. I was gorgeous teenager. Long hair. Blue eyes. Killer curves. Perfect breasts. What am I now? Hmm? Look at me and tell me what I am, Cassandra.”
I don’t answer. I'm not even sure if I can. Vivian smiles. The amusement never reaches her eyes. It touches only on her lips, but isn’t genuine. The mask quickly melts and she begins sobbing. This woman is giving me mental whiplash.
“Vivian, I’m sorry. I didn’t—”
“Chemotherapy took away the only thing that gave me meaning. I was beautiful. Young. Healthy. Now, I'm…this.” She lifts up her skirt to reveal several patches of varicose veins that I’ve seen before. Hundreds of them streak her inner thighs, discoloring her skin from pale to purple to black to blue. Her flesh is a rainbow of bruised colors.
Then I remember the bedsores, the ones that cover her back like Dalmatian spots. The only physical scars she can hide from the world with her clothes on. What about the mental ones? How does she hide those?
I’ve seen her work this talent like a pro. I’ve seen her smile, nod and pretend to the world that she’s perfect. She’s everyone’s favorite person. She’s Orange County’s “queen.”
A powerhouse. A role model. I wonder how tiring it must be to carry those words atop her shoulders. I'm sure each one weighs a ton.
“It drained me,” she says. “Some mornings I couldn’t get out of bed, felt so nauseous that I thought I would puke my lungs out. I vomited blood. Barely ate. Barely bathed. I was a walking corpse. It never cured me. Chemotherapy destroyed me, Cassandra! Is that what you want for me?”
Something sour coats the back of my throat and my stomach cramps. I inhale deeply, my hands shaking. I wasn’t prepared to confront this head-on. Vivian and I stand frozen, like two sculptures. I hold my breath, feeling it heavy in my chest.
“No,” I say, unable to speak above a meek whisper. “I wouldn’t want this for anyone.”
“None of this is in my control.” She drops her skirt, reaches into her purse and touches up her make-up, starting with her lipstick. “Because if it were, I’d have chosen a hell of a better way to die.”
“We’ll need to take you shopping,” she abruptly announces after brushing on a coat of mascara. “You’re well overdue for a wardrobe change and I’m interested in getting you a private session with Gia.”
“Who is Gia?” I ask.
“My personal hairstylist. That woman could make a chimpanzee look like Grace Kelly.”
“I thought you said that I wouldn’t need a makeover and I never agreed to marry Adrian, remember? I agreed to the internship. Not the marriage.”
“I know what I said,” she says. “The shopping trip and makeover wouldn’t be for Adrian.
If you’re to be my intern and spokesperson, you will need to look the part. And…the trip would be good for me.”
“Good for you?”
She halts in her task to touchup her make-up, offering me a brief pensive glance.
“You’ve forgotten that I like spending time with you, Cassandra. Despite how you may feel about me, I'd like to spend as much time as I can with a surrogate daughter before I die. Being around you gives me a taste of what motherhood could have been if I’d gotten to raise my biological children.”
The more she says things like that to me, the worst I feel. This woman isn’t just dying of cancer. She’s dying of a broken heart.
“Okay,” I say. “I’ll do the makeover just…don’t make me feel guilty about it, okay?”
When she smiles, my heart tingles at the sight of seeing some semblance of happiness on her face.
“Thank you, Cassandra.”
I nod, disconcertedly. “Sure.”
Dr. Carrick returns with her filled prescriptions. After discussing the side effects and permitting us to leave, I start toward the door. Vivian stays behind, telling me to wait for her outside. I walk toward the end of the hall and wait, watching Vivian and Carrick whisper furtively to each other.
Carrick’s face is purposeful, determined to convince her of something. Vivian answers and they both smile. I'm too far away to hear the conversation, but close enough to realize that something is off. Another whispered conversation. Another secret something I'm not allowed to hear. I squint to read their lips. The conversation ends. Vivian approaches, grabbing my hand and leading me toward the clinic lobby.
“What was that conversation about?” I ask.
“Just boring medical stuff,” she answers nonchalantly. “Don’t worry your head over it.”
“But, that wasn’t—”
“You’ll be having dinner at my house tonight,” she interjects.
“I have a ton of cramming to do to prepare for my midterms next week,” I say. “I have to work in the morning. I can’t—”
“Please say you will,” she interjects again. “I’ll only keep you for a couple of hours.”
“Alright, but I have to be back home no later than 7:30,” I say.
“I’ll call and inform the cook that we’ll be having an early dinner tonight,” she says. “First, we’re taking you shopping.”
I smile, forcing the muscles in my cheeks to react. It’s a lost cause. I'm much too wound to appear genuine. I'm a puppet at this point, bound to her with strings and chains. I can’t deny that any longer.
15
We spend the entire afternoon in the mall.
Vivian picks the most expensive boutiques along with every outfit I try on to model for her. After a plethora of cocktail dresses, halter-tops, A-line skirts, and several hundred pairs of stilettoes, she eventually decides on my “new and improved” wardrobe and pays for it all with one swipe of her American Express.
“Gia will see you at 3:00,” she tells me as we’re stuffing the shopping bags into the trunk of her car.
“What will this entail?” I ask, though I can’t honestly say I'm pleased about this idea at all. I'm not very keen on having some stranger touch my hair. Vivian starts the car and lights a cigarette.
“Hmm, I'm thinking we can give you a dye job,” she says. “Let’s make you a full redhead. You certainly have the complexion for it. I’ve always wanted to try a color change, but my skin is god-awfully pale.”
She checks herself in the rearview mirror with a frown. After smoothing her bangs against her forehead, she slips the cigarette into her mouth and drives the Porsche out of the mall parking lot.
We arrive at the hair salon minutes later. Gia’s is a sleek looking salon with an interior covered in hundreds of pictures of supermodels flaunting their grandiose hairstyles. I turn a full circle twice to see them all, noting the different lengths and colors, all the while feeling sick to my stomach when I imagine with horror what Vivian has in mind for my new hair.
“Gia!” Vivian greets the Asian woman that meets us at the entrance. She’s a skinny little thing with blonde highlights and a spiky bob. When she and Vivian near, they come together for a hug and spend several minutes chatting before Gia notices me.