by Amber Kay
As Vivian shuts off her engine and turns her body around to face me, I'm not sure what she’s planning. She begins sobbing and throws her arms around me. Oh no. Not this. I can't do this. She knows that this is my weakness. And I know that she’s exploiting it.
“Vivian, please don’t cry,” I say. Her arms weave around me, reeling me in, pulling me so close that I feel the pulsations of her heart, beating in tune with mine. I, the moth, falls prey to her flame.
My arms mold around her waist, timidly responding to her frantic embrace. When she pulls away, releasing me, I brush my thumb beneath her eyes to dry the mascara tears streaking her face. Vivian’s face is a mess of smudged make-up and tears that swell in her blue eyes.
“You’re trying to force an arranged marriage on me. I can’t just say ‘yes’ to that.”
“I have less than a year to live,” she reminds me. “The least you can do is humor me.”
“Why are you so hell-bent on convincing me to do this? Can’t Adrian find his own wife without your matchmaking services?”
“This isn’t even just about Adrian,” she says.
“What does that mean?”
“You’re all I have,” she says. “I was never given the chance to raise any of my biological children. I’ll never have that chance. Don’t take this away from me.”
I look at her in this pitiful state and I want to reject her. I don’t want to be involved with a middle-aged couple’s grimy affairs nor do I want to be the third spouse in their dysfunctional marriage, but Vivian has eyes that could coax the venom from a python.
“Stay with me Cassandra,” she cries. “I need you.”
I sigh and offer her a mollifying smile.
“What will the terms of this internship be?” I ask to wave the metaphorical white flag. As usual, she’s broken me. Guilted me. I am gooey fucking putty around this woman. A jar of Play-Doh has more of a spine than I do right now.
“You’ll help organize fundraisers, handle the money spent and raised. You’ll attend charity events and occasionally act as my spokesperson at those events. It’ll look great on your resume for the world to know that you served under Vivian Lynch and I will of course write you glowing references for the future. I could even talk to your dean about allowing this internship to offer you college credit.”
“Vivian, that’s incredibly generous,” I say. “Do you really mean that?”
“Yes.”
“What about Adrian?” I ask as my gratitude turns to gradual disdain. “If I agree to this internship, you’ll expect me to spend time with him. What am I required to do around him?”
“Nothing that you’re uncomfortable with,” she says. “My minimum requirement is that you talk to him. See what kind of person he is. Spend time with him. Put forth an honest effort to consider accepting my proposition.”
“Do I have to let him touch me?”
“Adrian might insist on that, but no you don’t have to allow him,” she says.
It feels like I may swallow my tongue, but I know the question I must ask next—the most important one. “Do I have to sleep with him?”
“I’d rather if you didn’t,” she replies. “I have placed a clause in the contract that forbids sex until after I'm dead. The last thing I need is the knowledge that my husband is fucking another woman as I lay in my deathbed.”
“Wait,” I say. “There’s a contract?”
She reaches into the glove compartment and removes a large manila envelope. I watch as she unfolds the papers inside then hands them over to me.
“This is a nondisclosure agreement that I had notarized by my lawyer a few months ago, just after I received my prognosis and decided to find Adrian a replacement wife,” she tells me. “I can give you a short summary of it.”
I glance at the papers, thumbing through the stapled packet, skimming the words. The legal mumbo jumbo printed on each page isn’t outright readable, but I can make some sense of most of the language.
Atop the front page are a couple blanks lines intended for my signature and the date. Beneath this is a long, extraneous explanation of the contractual terms printed in small font.
“It states that you are legally bound to keep everything you hear and witness as my intern a secret,” she says.
“Why do you need a nondisclosure agreement for something like this?” I ask.
Her eyes flit nervously over my face. In this light, they look dark, but not dangerous. Just wary.
“You might overhear or see some things that can be taken completely out of context. This contract is to ensure that private matters remain private,” she says. “Don’t take offense to it. It’s just a precaution. I require all of my employees to sign an NDA. I need to be able to trust you, Cassandra.”
“Ordering me to sign a contract doesn’t instill trust,” I say. “What kind of secrets require me to be contractually bound to keep them to myself?”
Vivian places her hand atop my trembling shoulder and squeezes. It’s oddly therapeutic for some reason. I can’t explain why, but it does begin to relax me. I face ahead, staring at the windshield, at condensation coating the glass. The faint outline of passing cars fade in and out of the background.
“This is the only way,” she says. “Just sign the contract, Cassandra.”
“No,” I retort. “There is something you aren’t telling me. I'm not signing anything until I know what it is.”
She glares at me and those eyes provoke chills in places I wasn’t aware existed within my conscience. “Okay, fine,” she replies in an unusually passive voice. “Then I guess I’ll have to resort to plan B.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask.
She scoots backward against the car seat. Her eyes flicker to the windshield, staring listlessly at the cars passing us by on the freeway.
“Vivian, what is plan B?”
Vivian cracks a smirk that ignites a deviant spark in her eyes. She doesn’t answer my question.
11
Vivian pulls into the parking lot of my apartment complex soon after 8:00 pm.
The sun is long gone, stolen away by nightfall. A hazy overcast remains, luring fog into the humid atmosphere, making the air reek of dew. The clouds promise rain. Morning is bound to be the start of a soggy day. As she pulls into a spot between my Honda and Sasha’s Corvette, I take a deep breath to calm myself.
Even after Vivian shuts off the car engine, I don’t move to leave. I stare at the apartment windows on the third floor, praying that Sasha has fallen asleep on the sofa again in front of the television. I’m too exhausted with conversation to discuss, explain or excuse myself for coming home late.
Vivian hasn’t spoken. Playtime is over. She glares at me and I know she’s thinking: Get the hell out of my car.
The air seeps from my throat. With my hand gripping the car door handle, I stagger outside, each of my legs numb. Just as I do, it begins to drizzle. I scurry across the parking lot then up the stairs to avoid the oncoming downpour.
My hand trembles as I attempt to get my key into the door to unlock it. Before I can twist the key, the door jerks open. Sasha stands on the other side with her hand on her hips, frowning at me. I feel like a teenager scolded by her mother for coming home past curfew. Sasha steps aside to let me into the apartment and slams the door behind me.
“How did rehearsal go today?” I ask to clear the air and kill some of the silent tension engulfing the room.
After heading into my bedroom to undress, Sasha remains in the doorway, watching me. I sift through my dresser drawers for a clean pair of pajamas and find some flannel shorts. I can’t find the shirt that matches so I just slip into a random camisole.
As I sit in front of the mirror to inspect myself, I realize that Sasha still hasn’t said a word. I brush out my hair, freeing the strands from a ratty ponytail to fluff them out along my shoulders with my fingers.
“You’re not going to tell me where you were all afternoon and evening?” Sasha asks in the voice o
f a jilted lover.
I glance at her, wondering how much I should tell her. Anything I leave out, she is bound to fill the blanks with her own answers. I'm not sure how much I'm comfortable with leaving to her imagination. Telling Sasha the bare minimal of what she needs to know is the only way to keep us both happy.
“I was with Vivian,” I say. “You encouraged me to leave with her, remember?”
“Yeah, I told you to bum a ride from her, not go on a damn date with the woman.”
“Relax, Sasha. I probably won’t see her anymore.” I continue brushing my hair until every matt is detangled. I hear the rain pick up, beating on the window like thousands of tiny fists. It’s perfect background noise for the storm brewing in the pit of my stomach.
Sasha’s eyes narrow. She must already sense the bullshit coming out of my mouth, but accepts my answer nonetheless. She enters the room and sits along the edge of my bed as I continue facing the mirror, dealing with my hair.
“So, what’d she want?” she asks.
I shrug. It’s not worth explaining, but Sasha orchestrated this entire incident to ensure she’d get some juicy gossip out of it. The only way to kill this situation before it can breathe is to tell her what she doesn’t want to hear.
“She’s dying,” I say. “Lung cancer. Inoperable.”
“Oh fuck. I figured the woman just had weird crush on you or something.”
I roll my eyes, completely unsurprised by her assumption. Of course, she’d want this to turn into some surreal Single White Female scenario. Sasha watches too many slasher flicks.
“Nope. She isn’t a lesbian. She isn’t in love with me. So, sorry to disappoint you. Can I go to bed now?”
Sasha’s face practically deflates with a look of instant dissatisfaction. As she gets up to leave my room, she walks with her head down, shoulders drooped. Then I'm alone. But I don’t sleep. I climb into bed, find a comfortable position and stare into the ceiling. Light from outside peers in between a crack in my curtains.
I roll over, then back. The mattress springs wail beneath me. The only time I close my eyes, they pop right back open. A single question swirls in my head, making soup out of my thoughts. What is Plan B?
* * *
I'm late for class in the morning. Vivian calls. I don’t answer. She leaves three messages, ordering me to call back. In the middle of breakfast, I delete the voicemails and remove my cell phone battery when the phone won’t stop ringing.
I stagger into the British Lit classroom midway through a lecture.I move toward the back with my head down. No one turns to notice the limp in my gait or my disheveled hair and bloodshot eyes. I carry on, pretending that I'm not a walking mess of exhaustion, as if I hadn’t spent the entire night lying awake listening to the rain beat against my window.
“Miss Tate?” Professor Andres calls at me from across the room. I'm sure that she’s said my name at least twice. The third time it clicks. I look up into the face of a gangling woman who wears too much make-up. Burgundy lipstick slathers her pencil thin lips; some spills onto her coffee-stained teeth.
If she were less theatrical with the amount of rouge and concealer she wears, I'm sure she’d be someone almost attractive. Instead, she could be mistaken for a drag queen, mannish in both height and appearance.
“Cassandra? Are you listening?”
I glance at the blackboard, reading her chicken scratch handwriting to refresh my memory of the lecture. The words blur together, doubling my vision, making my skull hurt as my brain chugs to process them. I grip my head, pressing deep into my temples with my fingertips, wishing it would all stop.
“Cassandra?” Andres approaches me, exposing concern through her fretful eyes.
The words escape before I can say them aloud. As I recover, the timer on Andres’ desk goes off, indicating the dismissal of class. Everyone else gathers their books and bags to leave; I'm the last to move.
* * *
When I arrive to the Music auditorium, I hear the muffled whine of a violin from outside the door. I know that it’s Sasha playing because I recognize the song playing. I step into the auditorium quietly and spot a small group of students sitting in the first few rows up front.
Sasha sits on a bar stool atop the stage, playing a sorrowful tune on her violin. Her eyes remain closed so I don’t expect her to notice me sitting in the back of the auditorium, behind the other students. After her performance, she stands and takes her bow. As the rest of the students applaud her, she spots me and waves.
The professor goes off on a droning monologue about her performance with a mix of complimentary remarks and a laundry list of constructive criticism. Sasha and I saunter away from the music hall after the rehearsal and toward the North Square to catch some downtime between our next classes.
“So what did you think?” she asks me once we’re halfway across the courtyard.
I shrug halfheartedly. “About what?”
“About my performance, Cass. That piece you just heard was my audition to play first fiddle at the summer concerti. I almost didn’t choose the Wolfgang piece, but it totally fits, don’t you think? Professor Reight was a bit of a hard ass, but he’s too bias so I need your opinion.”
My body is still abuzz with the same frenetic energy I’d generated from the earlier scene I’d made in class. I am a livewire—perpetually on edge.
“Cass?” Sasha says. I realize that I’ve stopped walking. She’s several feet ahead of me in the crowd, staring disconcertedly at me.
“What?” I say.
“You’re spacing out on me,” she replies. “Not a good sign.”
I shake my head to disarm her concern, but the elephant neither of us can ignore is the most obvious one.
“There’s something you aren’t telling me…isn’t there?” she asks. “I knew you were holding back. Holy fuck, this is big. You’re holding back because this is big.”
Sasha, please, I’d like to say. Just shut the fuck up. Then I hate myself for being so bitchy, for getting pissed off at her because she’s worried. Reminds me of Mom—she who shall not be named. No matter the circumstance, Mom always knew. She just…knew. I could never lie to her, never sugarcoat or omit things. She had a radar to know I was keeping something from her.
Maybe I'm just too easy to read. My face can never keep a secret for long. Something always blurts it out. Usually my eyes betray me. Stupid eyes.
“Vivian is having marital problems,” I say and what an understatement that is! Most married people argue about money or work or who’s taking the trash out? I imagine Vivian and Adrian’s arguments as grand scale debates with each of them behind a podium.
I can’t even begin to compare them to my parents who only ever argued when they thought I couldn’t hear. Dad, with his strong chin and pride, surrendering to the same disease I suffer from: Chronic Passive Aggression. Mom, with her always-need-to-be-right attitude. No wonder they didn’t work as a couple. Mom was too hard. Dad was too soft.
“She asked you for marital advice?” Sasha laughs.
“Guess she just needed someone to talk to,” I say. “To get it out of her system. Now, you can get it out of yours.”
I walk ahead of her. She soon catches up and thankfully changes the subject. She mentions something about a “cute skirt” she wanted to buy. Something about a C minus on her last English exam. Something. Something. Then nothing. This is the extent of a conversation with Sasha Hawthorne. She can talk for hours about these something-nothings.
We amble across the courtyard en route to the student parking lot. I notice her head toward a silver mini cooper. It induces a double take from me. Sasha Hawthorne is driving something cheap? Hell has surely frozen over!
“A mini coop?” I note. Sasha blushes then tries to shrug it off. I can tell by the scowl on her face that hearing it aloud incites some revulsion from her.
“This is my father’s way of economizing. Bankruptcy isn’t doing my family any favors. Never thought I’d ever drive a used car. Da
ddy’s lawyer fees come first,” she mutters after clicking the button on her key remote to unlock the doors. As Sasha adjusts the rearview mirror, I settle into the passenger seat and pop the seatbelt buckle into its corresponding slot.
She suggests coffee at an off-campus café. With no interest in arguing, I agree. We sit for an hour chatting over macchiatos, gossiping about classmates and professors. Somewhere between our third cups and a mouthful of blueberry scone, my phone rings. Vivian, I'm sure.
I glance at the screen. The number staring back isn’t one I recognize.
“Hello?” I answer, hesitant.
“This is…Cassandra, isn’t it?” asks a small voice. A voice so small that it’s barely a whisper.
“Yeah, um, who is this?”
“You might not remember. Amelia. You know, Vivian’s maid?”
Ah, that’s right. The frail looking girl with the squared shoulders. Of course, I remember her. She never said a word, but I remember her. Mainly because of that god-awful porno maid uniform, she’d been forced to wear.
“Yeah, I definitely remember you,” I say. “Why are you calling me? How’d you even get this number?”
“It was programmed in Vivian’s phone. You should come over to the manor,” she says.
I sigh. What kind of drama is Vivian causing now?
“Amelia, I don’t know what Vivian told you, but we’re not…I'm not her babysitter.”
“Cassandra, please, she’s not doing too well.”
I lurch forward in my chair, causing Sasha to take notice.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, suddenly sounding maternal. “Is she okay?”
“She’s locked herself in her bedroom and won’t come out,” Amelia says. “She’ll only talk to you for some reason. Can you come over? I don’t know what she might do if you don’t.”
I end the call without saying goodbye. Out of my chair, I fling my backpack onto my shoulder and make a beeline for the café exit. Sasha follows me to the parking lot, close, concerned while rummaging through her purse for her car keys. I hear her quick, labored footsteps behind me.
