by Leslie Glass
"I didn't." Marsha turned around, lifting those shoulders again.
"What?" Cassie took a step, tripped again, and fell on the bed. It was a king. "I thought these pajamas were a gift from you."
"Well, Mom. They're very nice. I wish they were, but they aren't."
"Well, where did they come from?" Cassie was puzzled.
"Aren't they yours? The package was in a drawer in the dressing room," she said slyly.
"What? Uh-uh. Not one of my drawers!" Cassie protested heatedly. She was so careful with her spending. She would never be so irresponsible.
"Well, I don't know which drawer." Marsha made a little noise. Cassie didn't know why she should be impatient.
"It wasn't in my drawers," she insisted again, then collapsed against the pillows. A package in the dressing room that she didn't know about, impossible. She was furious because the doctor hadn't taken out the staples. Why hadn't he told her how many staples there would be? She would never have done this if she'd known what was involved: the procedures, the pain, the awful results! She'd rather be dead than look and feel like this.
"Well, maybe Dad bought them." Marsha sat down next to her. "Wouldn't it be a hoot if he knew what you were planning and-?"
Cassie raised her hand to stop the speculation from going any further. Her head throbbed. Her eyes throbbed. Her cheeks and neck and chin felt like those of someone who'd been firebombed in the Blitz. Mitch didn't believe in plastic surgery. That's the reason she'd planned to be completely healed before he found out. One thousand eighty dollars? For pajamas? Would he do that? She considered it. He used to spend on her. Back in the old days. She lifted a shoulder. Maybe…
Marsha rolled her eyes, then changed the subject. "Mom, remember what the doctor said. You need to be drinking something all the time. You're dehydrating."
"No, no. I'm fine." Cassie's eyes were dry and irritated. The nurse had told her she needed to hydrate them, too, with fake tears no less. She couldn't even cry anymore.
"You're not fine. You need to talk to someone."
"I'm talking to you," Cassie told her.
"Yes, but you're not saying anything. You're not talking about this, This thing. This-" she resorted to body language to describe the mess her competent mother had become.
"You're depressed. You're withdrawn. You're-I don't know-out of it. I think you need a professional. Maybe medicine would help." It was clear what she meant.
"I'm taking penicillin," Cassie told her.
"Not that kind of medicine, Mom."
"Oh, you mean Prozac. Thanks a lot! Now I'm crazy." Real tears finally arrived, filling Cassie's eyes. They spilled over. She felt so sorry for herself. Her formerly impossible daughter, who'd been so much trouble over the years and now was a wonderful dream-child-come-true, didn't approve of her. It really hurt.
"Well, one wonders about the self-esteem of someone who-you know-can't accept life's natural progression."
Oh, now they were on aging gracefully. Cassie wondered how this insensitive social worker wanna-be was going to do with prostitutes, drug addicts, and child abusers if she had no compassion for her very own mother's feelings of loss and loneliness at impending old age. She was too upset to reply.
"Let's face it, Mom. You're not taking this well." She was just like her father. Now that Marsha had gotten started, she wasn't going to stop.
Cassie stared up at her through the tears in her eyes. So what if she wasn't taking the ruin of her life well? Why should she take it well? She'd read all the self-help books. She was trying to better herself, not get left behind. She'd trusted a board certified doctor to give her a little lift. She'd done exactly what the books told her to do: Assert herself to look better and feel better. This wasn't the time to question her self-esteem. This wasn't the time to be a good sport or an obedient soldier. She was indignant at her daughter's unfeeling and cruel reaction. Now the truth was coming out. After all the love she'd gotten as a child, Marsha had the nerve to disapprove of her.
Well, so what about that? Cassie wasn't just some dying breed, some housewife gone to seed, some squaw who'd numbly grind the corn until she dropped dead! This was one squaw who wasn't grinding the corn anymore. She didn't want to be the sensible one, the prop and moral center for the whole family. She could have a breakdown, if she wanted to. Why not?
"Fine. Fine. Don't face it. Don't talk to me." Marsha clicked her tongue and left the room.
Cassie heard the stairs creak as the wonderful rehabilitated daughter she now thought of as the hurtful know-it-all went downstairs. Her finger stroked the satin of the aqua pajamas. In spite of herself, she perked up just a little. Maybe she was being unfair about her neglectful husband, who traveled all over Europe, Australia, Chile, and South Africa visiting wineries, tasting, tasting, tasting, eating, eating, eating, bidding, bidding, bidding at wine auctions and never never never taking her. Maybe Mitch had thought of her and bought the pajamas as a surprise. He had to be making tons of money. He had to be feeling older and older. Maybe secretly he felt as bad about the gaps in their marriage as she did. Maybe the pajamas were a very meaningful-indeed, symbolic-gesture and there would be love in the night again, after all. Oooh.
It occurred to Cassie that she should take the gorgeous pajamas off and rewrap them in the tissue so Mitch could make the presentation himself. A thousand dollars was a lot of money. She didn't want to spoil his surprise. She was stroking the satin and thinking about this when she heard Marsha's urgent voice downstairs. She must have hit the intercom button on the phone. Cassie sat up in shock at the sound of her voice.
"Dad, why don't you just sit down and relax a little. I'll give you some chicken soup."
What? Mitch, home? Naah. In all the years of their marriage, Mitch had never returned home from a business trip early.
"I don't want fucking chicken soup. I want to go to bed." His voice sounded peevish and angry. Cassie's stomach knotted at the familiar sound of her husband grumbling.
"Why do you have to go upstairs this minute?" Marsha was wheedling. "Sit down, have a drink with me. Let's talk for a moment, catch up."
"I don't want my daughter drinking. Since when are you drinking?" He was whining.
"Dad, I'm twenty-five."
"I don't give a shit. You know how I hate drunks." This from the man who made his fortune on drinkers.
Cassie heard Marsha click her tongue some more. Both parents crazy as loons. "Have some orange juice then, Dad."
"I don't want orange juice. What's going on here? I bet you're up to something."
"Okay, okay. To tell you the truth, Mom isn't feeling well." Cassie sat there paralyzed, listening to Marsha trying to help her out.
"What's the matter with her?" Mitch asked irritably.
"She has the flu."
"Well, Marshmallow, I don't feel well either, and I've been on an airplane for ten hours. I need to go to my room and get in bed."
"She has a bad flu, Dad. I don't think you want to see her right now."
"You know what? I know you're up to something. I bet your mother isn't even here. What are you doing, having some kind of pot party? Some kind of cocaine orgy?"
"Oh Jesus, Daddy. Don't even go there. You know I don't do that stuff."
"I don't know that. I bet you do. With you I wouldn't be at all surprised. I foot the bills for everything around here and this is how you repay me. It makes me sick." He went on muttering, inaudibly now.
"Oh, Daddy, be reasonable." Marsha laughed.
"This is my fucking house. What are you talking about, reasonable? I can go anywhere I want."
Cassie couldn't hear anymore. They must have left the room. She sat on the bed dazed, waiting for the ax to fall. It was Friday afternoon. Mitch must have flown in from Rome. He was in a bad mood. He wanted to go to bed. What was she supposed to do, jump out the window?
She was thinking about jumping to avoid his anger when he strode into the room. He took one look at her, his mouth fell open just like in th
e movies, and he stopped dead a few feet from where she sat paralyzed on the bed in the aqua pajamas. He was a tall man, beefy from a lifetime of the very best wine and food the world had to offer. He had a full florid face, plush pillow lips that were the envy of women, and tense brown eyes that captured rather than saw. He had an eye for detail, and a full head of hair. The hair had been black but was steely now. He was proud of his hair and his taste. The man was always impeccable. At the moment he was wearing his travel uniform of Gucci loafers with tassels, a navy Ferragamo cashmere jacket with brass buttons, black silk turtleneck. There was a maroon and navy silk square in his jacket pocket.
"What the fucking hell is going on here?" he shouted.
"I-I-I-" Cassie's heart thundered. She couldn't say anything else. But then she was nearly always mute when he was around.
"She was in a car accident," Marsha said quickly.
Mitch took a step forward to get a better look.
"I had my face lifted," Cassie corrected quickly. She'd never been able to lie.
"What? Are you crazy?" His face changed. His eyes narrowed with fury. "Where'd you get those pajamas?" He glared at her. Then his full face took on an odd expression. He looked surprised, puzzled. "I feel funny," he said.
His fine tan paled to putty. "Something's wrong." It was the last thing he said.
Before she was aware of moving, Cassie was up, jumping to his aid. She touched his forehead. His skin was wet and cold. His eyes pierced her for a moment, demanding one last thing of her that she couldn't fulfill. Then she saw his powerful personality leech out of his body. His eyes lost their focus. He staggered. He reached out his hand for the bedpost, missed it, and pitched forward. His loafered feet stayed on the floor, but the rest of him toppled like a tree. His forehead smacked the bedside table as he went down.
"Daddy!" Marsha ran to him.
"Mitch," Cassie cried.
The two women tried desperately to revive him, but he wouldn't wake up. Frantically, Cassie called 911.
CHAPTER 3
"MOM, PUT ON YOUR CLOTHES. Mom! Come on, Mom. Get up." Marsha pulled on her mothe r's arm. "I'll stay with Daddy until they come."
"OhymyGod! OhmyGod!" Cassie whimpered, listening to her husband try to breathe. Her forehead was pressed against the carpet at a lower level than it should be. She could feel the blood pulsing in her face. Her surgeon's warning about blood clots and hematomas flashed into her mind. She pushed it away. None of that mattered now.
"Maybe you should get some ammonia to wake him up. He's okay. It's a cut, right? It's a just a cut. He hit his head." Cassie kept trying to reassure them both.
"Mom!" Marsha spoke sharply. "Get up! I'll stay with him."
"Marsha, do you think he's drunk? Did he seem drunk when he came in?" Cassie couldn't put this thing together in her mind. Could Mitch have been that shocked by seeing her like this? No, it couldn't be. He just fell over all of a sudden, so he had to be drunk. That had to be it. Mitch had toppled like a tree several times in the last few years. She'd never told this to the children, or anyone else, but he'd been a big drinker for at least five or six years. Maybe more. Big.
She blamed all those Syrahs he'd been slurping up. The finicky Pinots, the grapes that make the headache wines. Oh, and the zinfandels-so rich, they tasted like jam. The gamays, low in tannin with a grapey taste: the grenaches light colored, high in alcohol and not so great as reds went. But the best were like raspberries. All these he'd guzzled, and the whites, too. Chardonnays, the great universal white with the oaky flavor. They called the taste oaky because of the oak barrels in which the wine aged. The reislings were dry, light bodied, and fresh, never oaky. The Cabernet Sauvignons, fairly tannic, rich and firm, with great depth. Oaky, she'd always liked the word. Oaky, oaky.
She tried to remember all the grape names Mitch had taught her when she was young. Wine had seemed so innocent then, so promising. Not a drug at all. Wait a minute, there were so many names she'd banished over the years. Some wines were place-names, like Bordeaux, like Rhone. Like Haut Medoc. But some were grape names, like Chardonnay, Cabernet, Merlot. The Loire valley. One side of the river or the other? Quick, which side of the river was which? She used to know it all. And the blends, sometimes nine grapes to a label, the Graves, the Pomerols. Mouton something or other… Those wines had stolen him from her.
"Oh God. Mitch, you idiot. You're drunk! You're supposed to swish and spit. But you always have to swallow, don't you. Shit you always swallowed, swallowed a lot." She chafed his hands. "Come on, baby. Wake up. I forgive you."
"Mom! EMS is coming, put on your clothes." Marsha couldn't budge her. "Come on, help me out, here," she pleaded. "You have to go to the hospital with him."
" Medoc," she whispered. Place-name, not a grape. La Grande Dame Champagne, Le Grand Cru of Perrier-Jouet, right? Nine grapes or only three? The one he'd planned for their son, Teddy's, wedding.
"Come on, Mitch. Come on, baby." Cassie couldn't get off her knees. Mitch was her other half, the man to whom she'd been faithful all her life. Practically the only lover she'd ever had, except for Matthew Howard. And look at what Matthew had become: owner of a cruise ship line! Tears flooded her swollen eyes. What had she done? He looked so pathetic, lying there in his Gucci loafers and cashmere jacket, his ruddy face blue as skim milk. Had she done this, felled the captain of their ship with a face-lift?
"OhmyGod." She kept chafing the lifeless hand, terrified that she and Marsha had done the wrong thing when they thumped on his chest and breathed into his mouth. They had no idea if the CPR they'd seen on the TV show ER was the right procedure. It certainly didn't seem to make any difference. His heart had kept on beating throughout their ministrations, and he was breathing on his own. Porto, Portugal. Madeira, the longest-lived wine of all. It could keep practically forever. But it wasn't really a wine, more a fortified wine. That's right-right, Mitch?
"Oh God." Their failure to revive him made Cassie think he had to be drunk. His mouth against hers brought back all the memories, all the familiar smells. The dominant one right now was not wine at all. It was whiskey. Under that, the stale emanation of Havana cigar. Tobacco smoke, like the air in a musty old attic, was deep in the fabric of his jacket, in his hair, in his hot breath. Under that cigar smoke was sweat. Musk male and unusually strong this afternoon. And under all those masculine aromas, a peculiarly sweet cologne that didn't match any of the above, or indeed the man himself. None of the smells were reassuring to Cassie. All were dangerous in their ways. The cologne teased her nose. It was not his brand. But maybe he'd been trying a new one. The idea of a new cologne was too painful to linger long. Instead of getting up, Cassie collapsed further. She laid the ruin of her face on the carpet near Mitch's large, cauliflower ear that suddenly seemed not ugly and wrong on his handsome head, but dear, inexpressibly dear.
He lay on his back, conscious, but not conscious. It was odd. He didn't seem connected. He stared straight up, his eyes unfocused. The white fingertip towel with the gold embroidered sun on it that Marsha had used to swab the cut on his forehead was now soaked with his blood. So was the hand towel that replaced it. The cut where Mitch's head had hit the side table didn't seem so bad. Not bad at all, but it was still seeping red. Blood trickled down the side of his head into the thick pile of the carpet in a steady stream. It wouldn't stop. It was a beige carpet. He'd chosen it himself. A shocking thought paraded in and out of Cassie's head. If he died, she could get a brighter one.
"Where are they? Why are they taking so long?" she cried.
"It's been less than five minutes. Come on, Mom. Get up. You can't go to the hospital like this."
"Oh God," Cassie cried. "Maybe he's just dazed. Don't you think so? It's nothing more than that, is it?" She held on to his hand, trying to reassure herself like all the times recently when his plane had been delayed or he'd been late getting back from a tasting or a dinner in the city. She'd wish that plane had gone down or his car had crashed. So small-minded, she'd wished him de
ad for the petty reason that her kids didn't need her anymore and he, too, had left her behind. Then, full of remorse, she'd frantically reassured herself that he was fine, probably fine. And he always was. These sad and panicked feelings she had were such a cliché, she was afraid to tell a single soul.
"I don't know." Marsha was dressed in her new uniform, a little cashmere sweater twinset, this one baby blue to complement her lovely eyes. Her short black skirt ended just above her knees. Her sheer black panty hose set off her lovely legs, as long as her mother's and just as nicely formed. It occurred to Cassie that maybe Marsha had planned to go out. She'd always been something of a freak in high school, never had any fun. She really deserved a break. And now this, poor girl. Cassie's heart broke for her former loser of a daughter who so deserved a dashing suitor.
The heavy chimes of the doorbell resounded throughout the house. "They're here," Marsha screamed in relief, and ran out of the room. Cassie put her lips to Mitch's ear.
"Help is here," she whispered. "Champagne. You're going to be fine." She let go of his hand and pulled herself to her feet. Her head throbbed as she dragged herself to the bedroom door. Her face felt unbearably tight. No part of her body felt like it belonged to her. She went out of the room to the hallway and leaned over the banister. When she heard Marsha speak, she was overcome with dizziness and had to hang on for dear life. She wished she could just topple over it and break her neck.
"It's my dad. Up here." Marsha marched up the stairs with two odd-looking people behind her. They were dressed in gray pants and nylon zip jackets with the logo of their service on the front. The man was wearing Birkenstocks and orange socks. Cassie swooned as those socks moved up the stairs under a long graying ponytail. Oh God! She realized he had an earring in each ear. The woman with him was much bigger than he was; her hair was very short. It appeared that the two had switched genders. Cassie's vision blurred as she thought of a man in a ponytail touching her darling husband, the virulent homophobe.