After Her

by Amber Kay

“Surprised? Vivian, I'm disturbed.”

  “We’re two consenting adults,” she replies. “Nothing disturbing about that.”

  “I knew something was off,” I say to myself. “Those phone calls you kept getting. That weird conversation I witnessed between the two of you at the hospital. The way he looked at you when you on stage. The pieces were there. I just didn’t put them together. How long has this been happening?”

  “Cassandra, why don’t you just come back with me to the party?” She reaches to grab my hand. I pull away.

  “I’m not going back out there,” I say. “It’s all a fucking charade! I'm not gonna help you lie to those people anymore!”

  Her smile fades, allowing the amiable façade to go with it. She’s longer interested in keeping up appearances. She grips my arm, and shoves me into a corner.

  “Keep your voice down,” she orders.

  “How long have you been sleeping with him?” I ask, purposefully raising my voice.

  She covers my mouth with her hand to shut me up.

  “Cassandra, we will discuss this later,” she whispers in a low I-will-hurt-you-if-I-have-to kind of voice. As her fingers pinch my lips closed, I know not to push the issue any further. So I nod and she adds, “Go back to the party.”

  “I can’t find Sasha,” I say after she removes her hand from my mouth. “Do you know where she is?”

  “I have a roomful of unsupervised guests that I really need to get back to.”

  “She has been missing for hours,” I say. “Tell me that you had nothing to do with that.”

  Her eyes narrow then widen from astonishment.

  “Are you accusing me of something specific?”

  “Do you know where she is?”

  Vivian sighs. “I’ve done nothing to your nosy little friend. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have guests to entertain.”

  “I think you’ve ‘entertained’ your guests enough for one night,” I say.

  She saunters away, but twirls midstride to add, “You’re still under contract so I suggest you go find Adrian instead. He hates being left alone during these events. They often bore him. Why don’t you go cheer him up?”

  “Does he know about Carrick?” I ask. “Do you even care if he knows?”

  She marches toward me, gripping my arm again while leading me back to the ballroom. I resist her grasp, wanting to loosen it, but she’s so damn strong. Once outside the ballroom, Vivian releases onto me a fiery glare that I imagine turning me to stone.

  “I adore you, Cassandra. You know that, but I will not have you embarrass me in front of my guests.”

  “I won’t whore myself out to Adrian the way you did for Carrick,” I say, wanting to remain firm in my determination. She looks down at me, meeting me in a prolonged stare down. She cracks some semblance of a smile then chuckles.

  “Cassandra, you’re not Adrian’s whore. You belong to me. You will do what I say.”

  Nothing more is said before she leaves me standing in the banquet hall foyer, stranded and uncertain of what to do with myself as she strolls back into the ballroom, closing the doors behind her.

  26

  My knees tremble. I will my feet to move, but they remain cemented in place.

  I stare at those closed ballroom doors for several minutes, wishing I could evaporate. Vivian has always maintained a sense of sophistication and professionalism with me. Sure, sometimes, she’s prone to some unprovoked aggression.

  I blame that on her circumstances, her frustration with life and the inevitably of her imminent death by cancer. Never has she outright threatened me. Past threats were always directed at herself, but never at me.

  Her words are usually sugarcoated, wrapped in pretty bundles of perfect phrasing to deceive anyone into thinking that there’s some genuine affability behind them. For the first time, she’s shown her true colors and shed the skin of a tragic maternal figure.

  In a daze, I turn toward the exit, placing my hand on the doorknob. If I leave the party, only two outcomes would occur. I imagine she’ll send someone to follow, tailgate my taxi all the way to my apartment where they’ll remain all night, watching me through a crack in the curtains, reporting to Vivian.

  I can’t deal with that reality. It’s too much. Too personal. I can’t have any more strange men lurking outside my apartment. My other option, the only one I see working in my favor, is to stay at the party, mingle and pretend to enjoy. Enraging Vivian will do me no good. I don’t need that woman pissed off at me.

  “Miss Tate?” someone calls, triggering my focus. “Are you okay?”

  I turn toward the voice, finding Amelia in its place and dressed in something I imagine being her only form of formal wear. It’s nothing akin to what the more affluent guests are wearing, but probably all she can afford as Vivian’s maid.

  “Amelia, I didn’t know you’d be here.”

  “The house help isn’t usually invited to these things, but Vivian needed someone to serve her rich friends food,” she replies.

  “Oh,” I say, wanting to appear at ease despite the inner turmoil eating away at my frayed nerves.

  “Are you okay?” she asks again. “You don’t look so good.”

  I straighten my shoulders, puffing out my chest to seem relaxed. It’s no use. Amelia gives me eyes that I’ve only seen on the face of a bystander baring witness to a fatal car accident. Curious. Fretful. Nervous.

  “I’m fine,” I say. “Some of that food doesn’t agree with my stomach. I think I may be nauseous.”

  I slump onto the floor, tugging once more at my skirt to prevent it from rising above my knees, exposing my undergarments. Stupid dress. Amelia kneels beside me, reaching then fishing something from her pocket.

  “Here,” she says while handing it to me. “It’s a sedative. Sometimes, I need a little to relax me during these boring parties. It’s done wonders for me. Perhaps it’ll have the same effect on you.”

  I carefully grasp the tiny capsule and hold it up to the light for a more thorough inspection.

  “You didn’t get these from Adrian, did you? It seems that everyone around here has a fetish with self-medicating.”

  “We call it the Vivian Lynch syndrome. Everyone around her experiences psychosomatic symptoms,” she laughs and it has an infectious effect, luring a chuckle from me. It’s something I wish I could prolong. My body has craved some genuine laughter for a while.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “For what?”

  “For reminding me that Vivian hasn’t completely emasculated or dehumanized everyone in her life.”

  “One thing you should know about working for that woman is to always watch your back,” she says. “She’s smart. She can really get inside your head and ingrain herself there. Don’t let her play on your emotions. If you’re not careful, she’ll bleed you dry.”

  “Amelia, why do you work for her? You’re much more levelheaded and sane that mostly everyone else around her.”

  She hesitates, appearing to contemplate my words as if I’ve posed a philosophical question.

  “After my sister died, life wasn’t so good for me,” she says. “She was the only family I had. I was lost for a while. Vivian gave me a job. That’s pretty pathetic for a med-school drop out to take a job as a maid.”

  “You went to med school?” I ask, surprised by how far she’s fallen. From aspiring doctor to housemaid.

  Once more, she hesitates, fumbling with words that cause her visible discomfort.

  “For a while, yes,” she says. “Long story short, it was nothing that few months of rehab didn’t fix. I'm five years clean now.”

  I want to say more, but before she can offer a proper response, an unfamiliar woman rounds the corner, carrying a tray of hors d'oeuvres, glowering at us both.

  “Amelia!” she snarls. “Why are consorting with the guests?”

  Amelia stands, bowing meekly toward the woman. “I’m sorry ma’am, I just—”

  “Do you want Mrs. Lynch to see you?
”

  I rise next, feeling an insatiable need to defend her.

  “It’s fine,” I say. “Amelia wasn’t bothering me. I was a little nauseous. She was checking on me.”

  “It won’t happen again, ma’am,” says Amelia as the woman gradually relaxes.

  “Just get back into the kitchen. Mrs. Lynch expects dessert to be served soon and the champagne needs to be refilled.”

  Amelia glances at me over her shoulder with a timid smile before following the woman down the hall. I exhale before moving, stopping midstride to ingest the sedative she’d given me and wishing it will kick in soon.

  One foot in front of the other and my weak legs propels me toward the banquet hall backdoor. Outside, there’s a mild breeze, stirring the night air. I grip my arms, rubbing them to protect against the chill. Why hadn’t I brought a jacket? I hadn’t expected spring temperatures to drop to the mid-forties.

  I saunter down a small staircase, freed of the foreboding barricades of the walls. I might be mistaken or maybe the sedative has finally kicked, but I swear I’ve ventured out into a large garden. At night, it’s hard to see all of the usual spring colors. The hues of red, yellow and blue are one with the night, a backdrop of subdued colors, swaying in the breeze.

  I wander further into this floret wonderland, deeper into the confines of shoulder-high hedges woven like a thick jungle around me. These manicured bushes reek of fertilizer, freshly trimmed and shaped into perfect upright rectangles.

  My senses disband, melting like molecules in the air. Any inhibitions I’d felt before dissipate, leaving me feeling as though I'm weightless and freed of every anxiety. I’ve never taken a sedative that made me feel like this.

  A massive ornate fountain centers the hedge maze. Surrounded by several sculptures and patches of blooming gardenias, this structure ensnares my focus, cementing me where I stand, in awe of the sight.

  The fountain takes the form of a lagoon with several nude sculptures of women in various poses, spouting water from their hands. I see them as water sprites, delicate creatures in their own little sanctuary. In my current state of relinquished inhibitions, I marvel the sight, wanting to become one with these sculptures.

  I kick off my stilettos, padding my bare feet against the cool concrete. The sensation that befalls me, injects me with a touch of childlike wonder, making me feel invincible. I rush toward the fountain, climbing atop the edge then plopping into the water.

  The feel of this cool water against my skin livens my nerves, opening my pores. I swear I'm flying. I outstretch my arms to capture this feeling, closing my eyes to imagine the wind lifting me up, up and away.

  This tranquility is interrupted by the sound of approaching footfall. I don’t open my eyes instantly and hope it’s simply a figment of my imagination. This footfall loudens then stops until I feel the shadow of a person looming in front of me.

  “I'm beginning to wonder if this is serendipity,” he says and I know the voice instantly.

  27

  Adrian peers at me, standing barefoot in the fountain.

  If not for this sedative, I might actually care that he’s judging me with those eyes. I outstretch my arms, splaying my fingers as the breeze blows through them, making me feel like I’ll take flight.

  “Oh, it’s such a beautiful night!” I coo, hearing my words slur. Adrian lurks outside the fountain, hands tucked deep into his pockets.

  “You are mighty chipper,” he remarks. Like a child, I twirl rambunctiously inside the fountain, kicking and splashing water onto his pants. In an instant, I am drunk with joy, feeling the effects of this sedative kick into overdrive. I could run a 12-meter race in this state, lift an eighteen-wheeler and pitch a homerun ball.

  Instead, I stumble backward, nearly falling onto my ass before gripping the forearm of the nude fountain sculpture to prop myself up. It does no good to keep me steady for long. Sudden nausea sets in, spilling me forward, tumbling into Adrian who catches me in time, preventing impact. Almost simultaneously, I realize what I'm doing and I quickly shove away from him to collect my coherency.

  “I'm sorry,” I say while catching my breath. “I might be a little high.”

  Adrian chuckles then grips my chin to examine my face.

  “Yep. Dilated pupils. Feverish skin. Cool sweat. You’ve been slipped a roofie,” he says.

  I pull away, breaking from his grasp. Something in my body disperses, stripping me of my balance. I stagger backwards once more, this time allowing myself to plop into the water, soaking my dress and hair. Adrian sits along the edge of the fountain, observing me like I'm some barricaded animal behind cage doors, amused by my state of disarray.

  “I should have known that this sedative was too good to be true,” I say.

  “Do you often make a habit out of ingesting pills some random person at a party gives you or is this a one-time occurrence?”

  “I needed to forget about reality for a while,” I mutter, scowling at him. “If you don’t mind.” Because if I were sober, he’d already know about Vivian and Carrick.

  “Am I allowed to make a hypothesis?” he says. I don’t answer, but he replies anyway, “Could the catalyst for your sudden rebellious behavior be Vivian?” I don’t reply. Again, he continues talking. “No worries. I'm not judging you,” he says. “I have had my share of drunken episodes while trying to survive these abhorrently boring parties. Your only mistake is doing it in public. Do you really want to see a drunken picture of yourself front page on The OC Express tomorrow? Vivian has a lot of reporters and magazine editors on retainer.”

  “Don’t worry,” I say while pulling to my feet. “Vivian hasn’t seen me yet. She has no idea that I got high at her stupid party. Most likely she’s still inside pretending to be something she’s not while all of those idiots fawn over her.”

  Adrian chuckles then stands and removes his suit blazer. I watch him meticulously smooth the wrinkles with his hands, grazing his fingers over each button with care as if he’s stroking a puppy. Those hands capture my focus once more, holding me in a state of momentary fascination.

  “Here,” he says while handing me his blazer. “It’s a chilly night and you’re really wet. Can’t have you catching a cold.”

  “If that was some perverse innuendo, I swear to god that I'm punching you,” I say.

  “I’m not flirting with you, Cassandra,” he chuckles. “Not this time.”

  I hesitate, assessing his gesture, wanting to pinpoint some sort of ulterior motive. I see nothing at first, nothing to discredit his chivalry and no tangible reason to outright accuse him of anything so I take his jacket and drape myself in its hold.

  My body melts inside this jacket, the plush fabric so warm and inviting that I’d like to dissolve into the sleeves. It reeks of him—a heady musk of whiskey, sweat and a mild cologne with Adrian written all over it. As we sit side-by-side along the fountain’s edge, neither of us speak. Adrian soon busies himself with his trusty flask, gulping liquor in mouthfuls.

  “I don’t usually share my booze, but you look like you could use a swig,” he says while pointing the flask in my direction.

  “I’m already coming down from a high,” I say. “I don’t need to be drunk too.”

  He shrugs in a noncommittal fashion then continues downing the rest of his booze.

  “How much of that stuff does it take for you to get drunk?” I ask out of curiosity. “Your tolerance for liquor is one for the record books.”

  “I’ve been drinking since I was ten,” he says. “Liquor is water to my body now.”

  “Your mother let you drink at ten?”

  “My mother has been dead since I was eight. What she does or doesn’t think about my drinking is completely irrelevant,” he retorts.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t know.”

  “Ah, so Vivian didn’t tell you everything?” he mutters derisively. “I was under the impression that you two had discussed me in explicit detail.”

  I sit stunned, r
endered speechless. “I said I was sorry. You were right. I am judgmental and neurotic and I do have an inferiority complex,” I say. “Is that what you wanted to hear? I’m certainly not perfect, but I’ve never murdered anyone.”

  He scoffs and steals another swig of liquor. While wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he abruptly turns to me, making me flinch away.

  “I'm not going to hurt you Cassandra,” he says. “If I wanted to, I would have already done it.”

  “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

  “No, it’s supposed to make me feel better,” he replies. “I won’t be responsible for another woman’s death.”

  I watch his expression change, his eyes watery and doting. I can’t help wondering what’s behind them, what makes them so sad. As I observe him guzzling that liquor like water, I realize what I didn’t see before. He’s utterly pathetic.

  He may be able to wear the most expensive suits and run one of the most successful businesses in the country, according to Forbes. In reality, he’s nothing but a sad drunk. That thing when his hands isn’t some perverse nervous tic. It’s a symptom. Years of alcohol abuse has rewired his body.

  “How the hell did I end up in this position?” I ask myself aloud. “I used to scold Sasha for this kind of behavior. During freshman year, she’d overdue it with the partying and come home every night drunk off her ass, dry heaving in the kitchen sink. I’d have to hold her hair back and she’d spend the rest of the night snoring with her head on my shoulder.”

  “Not all of us have your impeccable willpower,” he mutters sarcastically.

  “Don’t mock me,” I say.

  He grips my hand and shoves the flask into my palm.

  “Take a sip,” he orders. “You clearly need it more than me.”

  I glance at his hands, watching those fingers quiver as I finally realize what it means. He may like to believe that the alcohol doesn’t affect him, but his motor skills are obviously impaired. He can’t even hold himself steady enough to hand me a flask. Still, those hands hold my attention. I can never look at those hands without thinking unruly things.