by Amber Kay
I find a browser and log into the first search engine I find. In the little search box, I type: Vivian Lynch. Just as I expected, an infinite amount of pages pop up with potential inquires. Google images has a massive album of her pictures. Each one shows her wearing something that looks more expensive and lavish than the picture before it.
I'm not surprised. Vivian’s “job” per se reminds me of what Sasha was in Montana—Queen Bee. She doesn’t have to work. She glides through life on the coattail of a man who exists solely to ensure her welfare. Vivian has Adrian. Vivian doesn’t have to lift a finger with Adrian’s endowed wallet to fall back on.
I catch myself sounding petty, jealous even. And I hate it. I'm silly for letting something like this get the best of me. So what if everyone around me is richer than GOD? Money clearly did Vivian no favors. Cancer doesn’t take a toll fee before deciding to go away. Money won’t make her healthy again.
I scroll down the search engine results. The first few articles are nothing but headlines about some fundraiser Vivian held or some charity she gave oodles of money to. Pictures show her smiling with terminally ill kids at some hospital event, or cutting ribbons to grand opening stores. Vivian isn’t just Adrian Lynch’s wife. She’s her own entity. A powerhouse.
Of all the pictures I find of her, I can’t find a single one featuring Vivian and Adrian together. It’s always an article about one or the other. Vivian did this… or Adrian did that…
It’s never they or them. These two seem to go out of their way to avoid each other.
The marriage Vivian described to me appears to be accurate from what I can tell. No love lost. Perhaps, at one time, they married for the right reasons. What they have now is a marriage of convenience. A partnership for business only.
After skimming the complimentary articles about Vivian’s contributes to society, I spot one that says otherwise. The headline reads: More Trouble for Orange County “Queen,” Vivian Lynch. I click on the link. The first thing that appears is a picture of Vivian in handcuffs. I scroll down to the article, a full webpage spread that reads:
Back from another stint in county jail, Orange County socialite, Vivian Lynch has
arrived to court to answer for another alleged assault. Officials report that on June 15th, Mrs. Lynch was apparently at a bar with husband, Adrian when she “punched and scratched” a female bar patron. Later in the night, witnesses say they overheard the couple engaged in “an intense argument” that ended with Mrs. Lynch allegedly attempting to “run her husband over with his own car.” When bystanders stepped in to help, Mrs. Lynch’s erratic behavior escalated. She and husband Adrian were last seen driven away in a silver Lamborghini with Mrs. Lynch “striking her husband repeatedly.” This is the fourth assault that brings Vivian Lynch before a judge. Officials can’t account for what triggered this particular episode, but a spokesperson for the Lynchs insists, “The Lynchs are just like every other married couple. They fight, they argue and sometimes the altercations are heated. Vivian Lynch is not a criminal. She’s a troubled soul struggling with martial problems anyone else can sympathize with.” Sources say that Mrs. Lynch intends to plead not guilty, but only a jury can decide her fate.
Several other articles mimic this one. Over the past ten years, Vivian has assaulted or attempted to assault anyone who’s ever pissed her off. Including Adrian. I click off from the webpage, wanting away from the propaganda. My stomach upchucks, inciting a touch of nausea.
I curl into bed, pulling the covers over my head. Sasha was right. Something is wrong with Vivian. It’s not just the bedsores or the fact that she pissed on herself tonight. I’d seen it in the way she looked at me in that bathroom. It’s like a small storm had brewed in her eyes. Vivian’s always had that effect on me. Always been able to stop me in my tracks with just one look. If those eyes were weapons, she’d be lethal with a single glare. The truth of the matter is, of course, that Vivian is lethal.
* * *
The next morning, four unheard voicemails are on my phone. Vivian text twice. In frantic ALL CAPS: GOOD MORNING MY DEAR! HOPE YOU SLEPT WELL! Her next text isn’t as friendly: Not answering my calls? Cassandra, I swear to you if you’re avoiding me…
The ellipsis, I suspect were on inserted purpose. An unspoken threat leaves a lot more to the imagination. One can always fill in the blanks for themselves.
Sasha’s in the kitchen again with the Food Network channel on, trying to sauté an omelet. She’s doing good for a while until she attempts to do what the chefs on TV do by flipping the omelet into the air. I watch as she frantically scurries to catch the thing mid-air in the skillet, almost setting her apron aflame in the process.
Sasha’s at her most adorable self whenever she tries something new. Reminds me of a fawn standing for the first time to walk.
“Don’t put your eye out, Sas,” I tease while sauntering into the kitchen. Sasha continues sliding the fried eggs around in the skillet, paying me no mind. I squeeze between her and the stove, toward the refrigerator.
“I’m gonna get this right if it kills me!” she proclaims in a come-hell-or-high-water tone of voice. As I sip milk from the carton, Sasha turns, facing me. “Look, I'm sorry for last night,” she says. “I totally wasn’t trying to pick a fight. You know that, right?”
“Sasha, it’s cool. I actually kind of saw your point,” I say. “There is something wrong with Vivian.”
She drops her omelet onto a plate and splits it down the middle with a butter knife. She slides one-half onto a plate for me and saves the other for herself. As we prep our drinks, Sasha drops the plates onto the table and settles into a chair at our cheap dining table.
“I Googled Vivian,” I say while raking my fork through the eggs on my plate. “She has a rap sheet of assaults under her name. On top of all of that, she and Adrian are possibly the last two people on earth who should ever be married.”
“Shit, how deep did you dig?” she asks.
“They married for business purposes,” I say. “Or at least…that’s what I think it is. Those two don’t act like a normal married couple. They’re fake. Icy. The first time they were both in the same room together, all the air in the room felt weird.”
“What, you think they’re hiding something? Like some dirty family secret?” Sasha asks and I can tell by her puckish tone that she’s craving some kind of a gothic scandal from all of this. The girl would probably eat that kind of shit up.
It’s sustenance in the form of human drama—Sasha’s favorite appetizer. What better soap opera is there other than a real life one? Who needs an episode of Knot’s Landing with the Vivian Tribulations broadcasting live shows every day? This would be better than cable!
“They’re more like overcompensating for something,” I say then I stuff my mouth with omelet.
Sasha picks through her breakfast, making screeching sounds with the fork prongs against the plate. She stuffs a forkful of egg into her mouth, chews and sighs, “What are you going to do?”
I laid awake all last night pondering an answer to this very question. If I were being technical, the truth would be that Vivian hasn’t ‘technically’ lied to me. Sure, she omitted the things that made her look bad, but never actually lied. In her defense, we’d only just met when she decided to thrust me into the saga of her dysfunctional marriage.
No one introduces themselves to strangers with the truth. If that were the case, instead of giving her my name, I’d have said: Hi, I'm the antisocial bitch who talks shit behind all of her friends’ backs. I also secretly sometimes hate my own mother and pity my father. That poor bastard should have annulled her much sooner than he did!
So yeah, of course Vivian may have intentionally failed to mention the dirty little parts about her life. Who doesn’t? Deep down, there’s something dirty about all of us. I’m sure even the Pope fucks up every now and again.
“I promised I’d stay with her,” I say. “This is gonna sound pretty horrible, but she’ll be dead by the end of the y
ear. I can deal with her until then.”
Sasha’s expression disapproves. When I replay the words back through my thoughts, I realize that I don’t believe any of it.
14
It’s my turn to drive Sasha and me to campus.
We leave after toasting milk over her surprisingly decent tasting omelets. She made me admit that her cooking was improving before we got in the car. I held out for a while until she gave me some pseudo cold shoulder with a babyish pout-face. Then we were on the road.
My old Honda moves chugs with a rattle, rattle sound coming from the engine. It’s always done that. One of the speakers has gone bad, distorting the radio voices so they all sound like white noise poltergeist sounds.
Sasha cracks a window to let the wind hit her face. The weather is a thick, hot day. My air conditioner coughs some sickly gag sound from the vents. We pull into the lot around nine AM and as Sasha preens her hair in the rearview mirror, I rummage through my backpack, checking inventory.
“British lit exam, Calculus at ten and Chemistry at noon,” I sigh. “I can remember why I thought college was a good idea.”
We gather our things. Sasha walks ahead of me. I eventually catch up. En route to the campus courtyard, we cross the parking lot. Sasha prattles about something. I half-listen. She asks for my advice about some Trigonometry problem. I turn to glance at the piece of paper in her hand and she abruptly stops walking. All the color drains from her face.
“What’s wrong?” I ask. She gestures at the familiar blue Porsche parked in front of the university lawn, against the curb, straddling a sign labeled: Guest Parking Only. It only takes me a second to comprehend.
“What the hell is Vivian Lynch doing at our school?” Sasha whispers.
I shake my head, responding with deadpan neutrality.
“Guess I gotta go ask her.”
“I bet she followed you,” Sasha says. “That woman would probably get a collar placed around your neck if she could.”
“Shut up,” I mutter. “Listen, just go to class. I have to see what she wants.”
“You sure about that?” she asks.
I nod, though I'm not so confident in my answer. “I can handle Vivian Lynch.”
“Alright,” Sasha replies in a wary, singsong voice before tentatively leaving.
I pace myself and take a deep breath before approaching the Porsche. Vivian exits the car the exact moment I'm heading toward it and she’s wearing the skimpiest cocktail dress I’ve ever seen on any woman. The sequined skirt reveals too much leg. The low-cut bodice exposes too much cleavage. The six-inch heels adds nothing subtle to the look and her hair is a tousled mess of auburn strands. She’s even neglected to wear a scarf. The ligament scars around her neck from last night’s “incident” are exposed.
I move faster toward her after noticing a few passing male students whispering and staring. In that dress, she’ll attract too much attention. This woman is enough of a spectacle.
The last thing she needs is more negative publicity. She acknowledges the male onlookers with a coquettish smirk, seemingly oblivious to the fact that her breasts are practically spilling out of her dress.
“Vivian, come with me now,” I order while sneering at the boys that won’t stop staring. After draping my jacket around her, I pull her aside, away from the spectators. “What are you doing here?”
She wraps her arm around my shoulders, ignoring my attempts to shrug away.
“Today is the first day of your internship,” she says. “You’ve been ignoring my calls so I decided to retrieve you personally.”
I duck beneath her arm to free myself of her forceful embrace. “I have class in less than ten minutes.”
“Not anymore, you don’t,” she chirps ecstatically.
“What?”
“I talked to Dean Whitman,” she says. “You are free for the rest of the afternoon.”
She drops her car keys into my palm. “Get in the car. You’re driving today.”
“Vivian,” I call while following her to the Porsche. “You can’t just rearrange my schedule without asking me first.”
She spins toward me abruptly, nailing me with an apathetic glare fashioned to appear subtle, but I can distinguish this trademark expression from a plethora of others. Of the many faces of Vivian Lynch, this one scares me the most.
“Cassandra, get in the car and don’t make me say it again,” she says. Vivian claims the passenger seat, leaving me to dawdle behind like a stray kitten. After convalescing what little dignity I have, I obey her orders and climb into the driver’s seat.
Vivian gives me directions to some place I’ve never seen before. It’s a modest health clinic downtown. So low-key that I'm not sure what it is until I pull into the lot and spot the small wooden sign hanging over the glass door. It must be a private facility.
“I have an appointment,” she says. “You’ll be accompanying me. I wouldn’t ordinarily be here, but Carrick refused to prescribe me any more painkillers until I agreed to the check-up. You know how doctors are. Even if you’re already one foot in the grave, they still insist on trying to find something else wrong with you.”
“Carrick? Isn’t he the doctor that came to the house last night after…your ‘accident’?”
She nods. “Carrick is my personal physician. He’s a total godsend.”
“Well, he barely even spoke to me,” I say as I recall his cold shoulder. He’d looked at me like I was something gross stuck the bottom of his shoe.
“Nevermind him,” says Vivian. “Carrick is a bit…brusque with people he doesn’t know, but once he warms up, he’s a complete sweetheart. I'm probably one of the only patients that he’ll make house calls to for free.”
I'm not feeling his warmth through Vivian’s words. He brushed me off like I was a pesky child in the way. Warmth? Bullshit. That guy wanted me as far away from him as possible.
Vivian saunters ahead of me into the clinic and confers with the receptionist at the front desk. I don’t hear much of their conversation. I immediately take a seat in the waiting room and plug my ears with headphones to muffle the surround sound of the lobby muzak.
A small television hitched to a corner of the ceiling plays some rerun reality show on mute with subtitles. No one sitting in the lobby is watching aside from the only teenager in the room, a bald girl attached to a freestanding respirator. She catches my eye for some reason. Not only because of the tubes jutting out of her nostrils or because she’s bald as a newborn, but because she’s so…young.
“That’s Krista,” says Vivian, only now she’s sitting beside me.
“What?”
“That girl you’re staring at,” she clarifies. “Her name is Krista. Poor thing is only thirteen and she was diagnosed when she was nine. Leukemia.”
“Nine?” I glance once more across the room at the frail young girl, trying to visualize her in a younger body, a younger face. It does nothing to change my sensibility toward it all. In fact, the most it does is give me a sinking feeling in the pit of my gut. “How do you know her?”
“I met her mother, Lena, at a cancer support group meeting that I only attended once. Lena referred me to this clinic and introduced me to Krista. We’ve only spoken twice. She’s a shy child. Barely ever opens her mouth.”
“You never told me you attended a support group,” I say. “Why did you stop going?”
She shrugs. Her expression is flaccid and nonchalant.
“I’m not one for bullshit,” she replies. “Those meetings make everything about cancer sound like roses and sugar candy. It’s a poor vice if you ask me. Only children like Krista would get anything out of it. Children already see life in rainbows. I am far too old to learn how to accept death. Besides, I'm Catholic. I already know where my soul going.”
“That’s pretty morbid,” I say, but she doesn’t respond. She stands while rummaging around her purse.
“I need a cigarette,” she announces before exiting the clinic. I watch her leave and ling
er outside the glass door, lighting her cigarette with trembling hands. That woman can act brave all she wants. Those trembling hands say otherwise.
“Krista, honey, the doctor will see you now,” says the nurse that enters the lobby from a door behind the receptionist desk. Krista moves into an upright position, using the chair arms to prop herself up.
While lugging her respirator toward the door, the nurse meets her halfway to grab the machine and wheel it in behind Krista. That girl is a sight I’ll never be able to expunge from my memories. I try to relax, but these surroundings leave me with no comfort. I hate hospitals. It’s selfish thinking, I know.
I just can’t stand the look of these places. White walls. Spongy blue carpeting. And the stench of Lysol in the air, maybe to keep the air sanitary. The last thing a roomful of cancer patients need is polluted air to contaminate what’s left of their immune systems.
I settle in my chair, molding my butt to the flattened cushion of the seat, feeling cotton worming out through a small hole in the leather. I don’t focus on the other patients occupying the rest of the lobby chairs. Most are either bald, missing limbs or eyes. I feel disrespectful for staring too long at them.
I scan an array of neatly stacked magazines atop the table, briefly noting the front page spreads. I notice one in particular, a local publication called The OC Express with a picture of Vivian on the cover and a headline that reads: Influential role model. Loving wife. Community Queen. Read her inspirational story here.
It makes sense that Vivian knows the Head Editor of this particular magazine. She likely paid them to do this cover story on her. A woman that organizes fundraisers for a living has to have something to do with her time after reading books to terminally ill children and feeding the homeless at the local soup kitchens.
