by Amber Kay
After disarming the deadbolt and heading inside, the first thing I see is the flashing red light on the answering machine. It can only mean one thing. I mentally prep myself for the onslaught of what’s to come. I toss my jacket across the living room sofa, grab the mail and pour Fruit Loops into a glass for a quick breakfast.
While nibbling on dry cereal one piece at a time, I head toward the answering machine and press the play button.
“You have 10 unheard messages,” the automatic voice tells me before proceeding to replay the voicemails. The first is some bill collector demanding $42.50 for this month’s WIFI fee. The second is some foreign telemarketer selling AVON products. The rest are of course from my mother—the other Vivian Lynch in my life.
8:45 pm—
“Sasha, why haven’t you called me back?” Mom asks. “Call me now or so help me god, I'm getting on the next plane.”
I laugh at my mother for being such a drama queen. I know I forgot to return her last call. This isn’t the first frantic message she’s left that turned out to be about nothing. I skip past it to hear the others.
9:30 pm—
“Sasha, please, just call me back,” Mom says. “I’m going out of my mind!”
I slip another Fruit Loop into my mouth.
“Mom, calm down and breathe,” I say then I press the button to hear the next message.
10:00 pm—
“Sasha, where the hell are you? Tell me what the police said. Please, please, god, just call me back!” she says only now she sounds like she’s in tears.
What in hell has Sasha told her to rouse her? This isn’t unlike my mother, but certainly, one-step too far even by her standards. I pluck my cell phone from my purse and plop onto the living room sofa while dialing her number.
I glance at the wall clock. Mom should be awake by now. Judging by those messages, she probably didn’t sleep at all last night anyway. I gobble more Fruit Loops and listen to the ring tone while waiting for her to pick up.
“Hello? Sasha?” Mom answers. “Did they find her? God, please tell me she’s alright!”
“Mom, it’s me,” I say. “Calm down and tell me what’s wrong.”
“Cassandra? Is that really you?”
“Who did you think it was?”
She sobs into the phone, wheezing heavy gasps of weepy breath into my ear.
“Don’t cry,” I say. “Please, relax. Mom, talk to me.”
“Cassandra, how dare you do this to me,” she snarls. “I thought you were dead, lying in some alley.”
“What are you talking about?”
She stops crying long enough to sound somewhat coherent.
“What’s the matter with you? Erick nearly had a goddamn heart attack!”
I jerk forward, spilling my Fruit Loops onto the couch, between the cushions.
“What has Sasha been telling you?”
“Where is Sasha?” she asks. “She said she’d call me back with news.”
“News of what?”
Mom blows her nose. I imagine her with a wad of crumbled tissue to her nostrils, blubbering like a colic newborn.
“She called around 7:00 last night and told us that you hadn’t come home.”
I suddenly remember the rest of that last answering machine message.
“So she reported me missing to the police? I can’t believe she’d do that!”
“Don’t get angry at her. I told her to call them,” she says.
“You wasted valuable manpower that could have been put to better use on an actual crime,” I say.
“What else was I supposed to do? My only kid moved as far as she could away from me then decides that it’s a good idea to disappear without calling anyone for nine hours!”
I should be used to this by now. Nineteen years as Diane Tate’s daughter should have taught me one thing if nothing else. Jumping to conclusions is a family tradition. I snicker at myself for getting so peeved then at her for being such a helicopter mess of a mother.
“Are you laughing? I'm glad that you find my maternal agony so humorous!” she snaps sarcastically.
I cover my mouth to muffle the laughter, but I can't silence it for long.
“I’m sorry, Mom,” I say through the laughter. “I leave the apartment for a few hours and everyone assumes I’ve been murdered. Wow. I love you guys, but this is ridiculous.”
Mom is quiet for a minute before pulling herself together and replying, “Can you at least do me the future courtesy of calling the next time you decide to go joyriding in the middle of the night?”
“I’ll make sure to have Sasha extend my leash so that I don’t wander too far away from the apartment next time,” I mutter.
“Cassandra, this isn’t funny,” she says. “I was worried sick.”
As I hear the concern permeate her voice, I draw back my sarcasm for some sincerity.
“I’m sorry Mom,” I say. “I don’t like you worrying. Tell Dad not to go into cardiac arrest. I love you and I promise to call twice a day for now on.”
“Baby, I don’t mean to hover over you like a second shadow,” she says. “I just…miss you so much. This house feels so empty.”
I smile, hoping she’ll feel my sincerity through the phone.
“Don’t waste so much time thinking about me. Your life didn’t end the moment I left home. You still have so much left to do and I will not let you spend that time mourning me like I'm dead.”
“I can’t wait to have you back home. Even if it’s just for a week,” she says.
“Go to work and think happy thoughts,” I say. “I love you and ditto to Dad. Keep him out of the hospital. Tell him to breathe and have a fresh batch of those honey biscuits ready for me when I get there. I have class in an hour so I have to go.”
“Bye baby.”
“Bye Mom.” I hang up after the dial tone and exhale to alleviate the ache in my chest. Just now, the door unlocks and Sasha emerges in the doorway. Upon seeing me, she instantly drops her purse and backpack onto the floor and rushes into the apartment. The moment I get up from the sofa, she hugs me.
“Finally,” she says then pulls back to scowl at me. “You couldn’t pick up a damn phone to tell me you were okay?”
“You called my parents and told them that I was dead?” I ask in the same icy tone.
Sasha steps back, defensibly folding her arms.
“The last time I saw you, you were getting into Vivian Lynch’s Porsche nine hours ago. People don’t always escape a Lynch’s custody unscathed. What was I supposed to do? That woman practically kidnapped you.”
She saunters back to the door, retrieves her dropped bags then locks the door behind her. I pluck the spilled Fruit Loops from between the sofa cushions and dump them into the trash in the kitchen while Sasha rummages through the refrigerator. After getting herself an apple, she turns to me, glaring.
“Well?” she says with mouthful of apple in her cheek. “Are you gonna tell me what happened?”
I pour myself another glass of Fruit Loops and proceed to eat them while debating about what to say. The truth deserves a fair chance. Knowing Sasha, she’d be on the phone with my mother in an hour to disclose every sordid detail. Either that or Vivian would have my ass for disobeying her “contractual terms.”
“I’m Vivian’s intern,” I say, choosing to play it safe. “She wanted me to do her a favor.”
“For nine hours?”
“We lost track of time,” I say. No need to explain why I instead was getting drunk with Adrian Lynch in the middle of the night. She’d fucking tie me down to hear the details about that incident. “I have a major favor to ask you.”
“What?”
“You don’t have anything important planned for the 23rd of March, do you?”
Her eyes narrow. “Why?”
“Because I have a gig for you and I want you to accept,” I say.
She saunters into the living room and I follow, stealing a seat beside her on the sofa.
“What i
s it?”
“You heard about Vivian’s fundraiser gala?” I say. “She has this scholarship program set up for students in dire financial need and wants me to provide the entertainment for the gala.”
“You want contact with some local bands? I can dig up some informants,” she says. “You have no idea how many grunge rock wannabes that would kill to entertain Vivian Lynch and her snooty cohorts.”
I shake my head. “Um, Sas, do you really think that Vivian is a Green Day fan?”
“What? Would she prefer some White Stripes? Arcade Fire?”
“No, to all of the above,” I say. “I'm thinking of something a bit more…classy.”
“So where do I fit in?”
“Sasha, you play the violin. Why don’t you entertain?”
Sasha’s expression falls and I can’t figure out what she’s thinking.
“Sas?”
“You want me to play violin for Vivian Lynch and her rich friends?”
“You’re the only person I know with her taste in music,” I say. “If I pick based on my own taste, she’ll get some crappy karaoke cover band singing alternative rock renditions of old Frank Sinatra songs. So will you play or not?”
Suddenly, she smiles and I don’t know what to think of this sudden whiplash of mood.
“Sure, but on one condition,” she says.
“What?”
“Tell me what’s really going on between you and those people.”
I stare blankly at her, unable to reply until I find a suitable enough answer to alibi myself.
“Nothing is going on.”
“We have been friends since sixth grade,” she reminds me. “You think I don’t know when you’re lying?”
I turn away and slip a handful of Fruit Loops into my mouth. Sasha tugs my shoulder, forcing me to face her.
“Cassie, since when do we keep secrets from each other?”
“I’m not keeping secrets.” Not technically since none of the secrets I have are mine. Everything I want to say belongs to Vivian.
“Would you tell Diane that if she asked you the same question?” Sasha asks. “Because I have a hard time believing that you would lie to your own mother to protect the Lynchs from their downfall.”
“You think this is about me wanting to protect them?” I say.
“Otherwise, you’d tell me the truth, wouldn’t you? You obviously feel some sick sense of loyalty to those people. Why else would you alienate me for them? Why else would you shut me out?” she says.
Sasha’s expression reminds me of a wounded puppy.
“Sasha, there is nothing wrong,” I say. “The Lynchs aren’t brainwashing me. They aren’t conspiring against you or my parents. I’m fine. I swear. There? Was that enough to convince you to chill out?”
I can tell that it wasn’t enough. Sasha’s never been good at hiding her worry. She always gets these frown lines on her forehead like a pug. When we were kids, I often resisted the urge to smooth them with my fingers, like she were a mound of unmolded clay waited to be sculpted and refined. Even now, I resist.
“Okay,” she sighs. “I’ll back off and I guess, I’ll be Vivian’s musical entertainment. I'm only doing this for you.”
“I know,” I say. “And thank you.”
She takes my hand and with a gentle squeeze, she suddenly cracks a clownish smile.
“So,” she says. “What are we going to wear?”
I hadn’t thought much about that. The simple mention of formal attire makes my skin itch. The last time I even came close to playing “dress-up” was for my high school prom. Sasha’s eyes light up like beams of neon during a laser show.
“We need to go shopping, right?”
“Right now, I need to go to class,” I say. “Then I have to work. We’ll talk about it later. Just please, find a way to contain yourself until then.”
With my car keys in hand, I grab my backpack from my room and push my way out the front door. Outside, waiting in its usual spot, is my Honda with its mint green paint glinting in the sun. I slide into the driver’s seat and adjust the rearview mirror.
I quickly pull back my unkempt hair into a low chignon. I reach into my purse for my lip-gloss for a quick retouch. When I glance back into the mirror to apply a coat, I notice a man standing behind my car.
I quickly lock the door, unable to think of a better reaction. The man doesn’t move from where he is. He doesn’t react nor does he speak. He simply looms behind my car holding what looks like a camera in his hands. My next instinct is the start the car, hoping that the sound of a revving engine will be enough to scare him off, but I'm paralyzed.
My hand dangles in the air, trembling with the key inches from the ignition. He steps to one side, snapping several pictures of me. When he approaches the driver’s side window, I jam the key into the ignition, finally able to start the car. As I pull out of the space, he shuffles to one side, averting my car as I swerve out of the lot.
I stomp the gas pedal, speeding down the street so fast that I'm sure my Honda will conk out if I don’t slow down. Once out of the immediate area and certain that I don’t see the man in the rearview mirror anymore, I slow my car to a stop to process the memory of whatever just happened.
A man taking pictures of me. How long had he been there? Had he followed me home? Seen me in Adrian’s car? I grip the steering wheel, wanting to calm the shivers roving through my shoulders. Several car horns blare abruptly, compelling me to notice the line of cars filing in behind mine. I pull myself together long enough to drive across the road as the light turns from red to green.
21
Vivian saunters into Frank’s around noon the next day.
When she walks through the door, I'm carrying two trays of food and milkshakes to a back booth. Frank’s is packed with its usual crowd. Cheers from the backroom TV area erupt into yells. I suspect a football game. Frank must be sitting in to control the rowdier patrons.
Vivian cuts through the crowded restaurant, claiming a seat at one of the tables. What I notice from afar is that she’s on the phone, smiling and curling a strand of her hair around her pinky. I can’t recall the last time I’ve seen her in such a good mood.
I deliver my final order to a table of gossiping cheerleaders before heading toward Vivian. She pays no mind to me, completely oblivious to anything, but whoever’s on the other end of that phone call. As I near, she finally glances up at me and quickly hangs up the phone.
“Cassandra!” she greets me in a chirpy voice while stuffing her phone into her purse.
I stare for a moment at that purse, waiting for a voluntary explanation. She offers nothing.
“Vivian. What are you doing here?”
“I'm taking you out for lunch,” she says. “Remove that disgusting apron and meet me in the car.”
“Guess there’s no point in arguing with you, huh?” I mutter beneath my breath.
She doesn’t hear.
“We have to discuss the rest of the preparations for the gala,” she says.
“I’m in the middle of a work shift,” I say.
“Are you saying ‘no’ Cassandra?”
I part my lips, thinking of a different answer than the one that comes out of my mouth.
“Fine, I’ll meet you in the car. Just let me tell Frank I'm leaving. As you can see, we’re kind of busy today.”
I gesture at the congested dining room, at all of the overflowing tables crammed with college students with open books, some just sipping coffee. The stench of grease, food and body heat coagulates in the air, forcing me to hold my nose. Vivian’s already ignoring me.
With her cell phone out, she proceeds to text. I stare sidelong at her, waiting for her to respond. Her focus never leaves that cell phone.
* * *
Vivian chooses the restaurant, of course. At least she doesn’t force me to drive this time. During the drive, I think about mentioning the photographer to her. I wonder if she will deny it, tell me I'm insane or that I imagined the who
le incident. I shake my head, chastising the thoughts that incite doubt. There is no way I imagined it.
“How is school?” Vivian asks in some random fashion during the drive. I eye the traffic, counting the cars whizzing around us in rapid succession. The heat of Vivian’s shadow feels heavy on my shoulders. It latches on, nails sunk deep into my skin like a perching vulture. “Cassandra?”
“School was good,” I say.
“You’re not gonna elaborate?”
“Honestly, Vivian, I'm not really sure what you want from me.”
She sighs, but keeps her focus on the traffic.
“By the end of the year, I’ll be dead, Cassandra. Don’t you think you can humor me with some small talk until then?”
“Don’t do that,” I mutter. “Don’t guilt me into behaving the way you want me to.”
She rolls her eyes. I turn away, arms folded, refusing to face her. Several silent minutes roll by.
“Fine, then we’ll talk business instead,” she says. “Did you book the venue for the gala?”
I nod. “You’re all set and ready to go at the Coconut Lounge.”
“And the caterers? Did you remember to call them?”
“I spoke to them,” I say. “The arrangements are finalized. They want you decide on the finger-food appetizers. Mini quiche or shrimp puffs?”
“You decide,” she replies.
“You’re leaving this to me?” I ask warily.
“You’ve proven yourself a capable girl,” she says. “I’m sure you can handle a decision as small as food.”
I know the hidden meaning in those words. The way she says them confirms my initial suspicions. She’ll let me decide only to end up contradicting me. The only way out of this is to beat her to the punch. I pull out my phone and text the caterer, ensuring that she bring both quiche and shrimp.
“Did you secure the entertainment?” she asks.
“It’s taken care of and at no cost to you,” I say.
“Oh? And who did you manage to hire?”
“Sasha is a music major. She plays the violin, the viola and the cello. I figure that since the gala is in honor of your scholarship program for Northham that it’d be some good publicity to actually have students from the school attend the event.”