by Amber Kay
Vivian deliberates in silence while staring intently at the traffic flow. I brace myself for the backlash, wondering how she’ll react. She and Sasha have made no secret of their disdain for each other. I have no idea how to react.
“Hmm, I like that,” she says. “Good girl, Cassandra. You’d be an excellent publicist.”
At some point, I exhale. She’s never been so easily appeased. I’ve finally discovered how to outwit the queen. We stop for lunch where she orders for us both at some other beachfront eatery with fish cooked fresh in front of the customers atop a grill sitting in the center of the restaurant.
It’s a show, watching the chef toss and flip his spatula into the air while cutting, dicing and sautéing several fish at once. Vivian selects a booth for us, near a window in full view of the ocean. I watch seagulls glide toward the beach. Some are already onshore, pecking at the insides of discarded food wrappings littering the coastline.
It’s a cool day, much too cold for the usual herd of beachgoers that often congregate on the shore this time of day. No one wearing a bikini or swim trunks is out there today. For now, the beach belongs to the birds and it is beautiful. Sandy white shore. A backdrop of cerulean sky with just a smudge of white masquerading as clouds overhead.
I almost can’t focus on eating because of it. Neither can Vivian who hasn’t touched her food at all. I mostly drink lemonade after an occasional nibble of bread. Vivian makes waves with her silence. She appears steady and focused, observing me like a panther assessing potential prey.
“We should talk about something,” she announces. I don’t like these words. They never mean anything good for the person hearing them. I guzzle the rest of my lemonade and stiffen in my seat.
“About what?” I ask.
“To be honest, I’ve been trying to avoid this, but…I knew I would have to bring it up eventually,” she says.
I swallow a bite of salmon and shift my focus to her. “I don’t like where this is going.”
“After lunch, I’d like to take you someplace important,” she says.
“Um, I'm not sure how to feel about that,” I say with my head down to keep from having to look her in the eye. I poke a piece of fish with my fork, saturating the meat in tartar sauce before tentatively swallowing the bite.
“Cassandra, please,” she replies and before I can reply, her hand wraps around mine as I clutch my fork. I finally look up, locking eyes with her. Something in her eyes dims, like a faulty bulb. She reaches for her fork gradually, making me wonder if she’ll snap and attempt to lodge those prongs into my throat. I move back with careful precision, sliding my chair away one subtle inch at a time.
“Please,” she says after stabbing a lima bean on her plate. “I need you to trust me.”
“Vivian, I really have to get back to work. I don’t know if I can get Frank to agree with—”
“I’ll handle Frank,” she interjects. “I know how to handle men.”
“That’s something I don’t doubt.”
She smirks and releases my hand to slip the lima bean into her mouth.
“Just say ‘yes.’”
Saying “no” to her has never gotten me anywhere in the past, so I nod. And she smiles.
* * *
In the car, as she drives, she applies a coat of coral lipstick. She slathers her lips with the stuff and puckers up to examine the color. At the next red light, I turn and ask, “What’s with the coral lipstick?”
“Hmm?”
“That’s the only shade you ever wear,” I say. “Is there some significance?”
The car propels forward, corresponding to the green light. Vivian allows herself some contemplation as if she must really consider the answer she’ll respond with. We drive for many silent minutes before she replies, “I believe that there is some spiritual significance in all colors. They say black means death. Red means passion. Blue is sadness. No one has ever provided a proper definition for Coral.”
“I always thought it was the second cousin twice removed from orange,” I joke.
Vivian allows herself a wisp smile, but retains a deadpan expression as if she’s deep in thought.
“Coral is such an unrepresented color. To me, it means renewal or rebirth, like the color of a phoenix bird’s flames,” she says. “The Phoenix dies, flames out and is reborn from its own ashes. I’d like the think that the same could happen for me.”
“You believe in reincarnation?” I ask, though the answer to me is a no brainer. Her obsession with converting me into a younger version of herself by dyeing my hair and teaching me her many philosophies and mannerisms, can’t be coincidence. She doesn’t just want a successor. She wants a clone.
“Not in the literal sense,” she replies. “I believe that one can project the quintessence of themselves onto another to emulate the appearance of reincarnation, sort of how kings sought male successors to their thrones in the 17th century. It’s silly, I know, but don’t think me crazy. I have my reasons for thinking the way I do.”
“That sounds like something a narcissist would say,” I mutter.
After a moment, she replies, “I have never denied my narcissism.”
We stop for gas at some point, but ride mostly in silence with backdrop traffic noises. I don’t ask questions, knowing she won’t answer them. Vivian remains in her focused state with a familiar meditative expression on her face for the duration of the drive.
At the two-hour mark, I doze off, no longer able to retain consciousness. Occasionally, I wake to the sound of soft music humming from the radio before dropping back off into a deep sleep where dreams and nightmares collect themselves in my head. The next time I open my eyes, we’re parked and Vivian is staring at me. Can’t tell how long she’s been watching me sleep.
“Ah, you’re awake,” she says. “Finally.”
“How long have I been out?” I yawn and stretch my cramp arms overhead.
“An hour, maybe. I didn’t want to wake you. You looked peaceful. I could tell that you needed the rest,” she says.
She removes the key from the ignition and drops them into her purse. I rub my eyes with my fists and turn my focus toward the window to pinpoint where we are. A small quaint building labelled: Flint’s and Family Funeral Home.
“Why are we here?” I ask, though I’ve already surmised a few conclusions of my own. Vivian faces away from me, casting a forlorn gaze at the windshield.
“Vivian?”
Finally, she turns, looking at me as if I haven’t said anything at all. “Hmm?”
“Why are we at a funeral home?”
“Because I…figured that…” Her shoulders tremble, rocking forward then up. Eyes dart downward, searching for something in the air only she can see. “I’ve been putting this off for far too long. It’s time I commence the preparations for my funeral.”
I’ve never heard her say the word until now. Funeral. Now that she has, I realize why she hadn’t. Then it occurs to me. How often does she lie awake at night thinking about the end? Does it invade her dreams? She’d mentioned one such dream to me before and the look her face as she described it was pure terror.
“It took a lot of hell for me to even get myself to say the word,” she says. “It’s tragically hilarious. I mean, I know I'm dying. I accept that. I'm not even bitter about it anymore. I just…it never processes in my mind. The concept of the death just doesn’t seem real. I keep forgetting that when one dies, there has to be a funeral.”
“Vivian, why are you doing this now?” I ask. “You should be resting.”
“There won’t be time later!” she retorts then the usual tears pall her face in a wet curtain, flowing from beneath her glassy eyes. “I can’t believe I'm planning my own funeral. I’ve been putting it off for so long, I guess I just hoped it would go away, prayed that this is all some horrid dream, but…I'm not waking up, Cassandra. No one can wake me up!”
I resist the knee-jerk reaction to change to subject, to crack some lame joke to lighten the
mood. Vivian is imploding from within. I can’t imagine a suitable way to respond to this or a way to rub it like some bruise. Kiss it. Make it all better. I'm not good at this. How? How am I supposed to make this easier for her?
“Vivian, what do you need me to do?”
“So,” she says in a calm, less theatrical voice. “I need you to help me prepare to die.”
I nod, trying to be supportive, but this is the most morbid favor anyone ever ask me to do.
“Of course, yes.”
She inhales. Stray tears streak down her face, bringing her mascara down with it.
“We’ll go into the funeral home and look around. I'm thinking of something elegant and classy, you know? Maybe um, gardenias for the flowers and uh…mahogany wood for the casket. What do you think?”
“You’re asking me?” I ask, my voice a nervous squeak. “I’ve never had to do this before. I don’t know how much I can even help.”
“Cassandra until now, I’ve so much time sorting out the posthumous finances that I haven’t paid a single dime toward the actual funeral. I can’t put it off any longer. Carrick has given my final expiration date. January is the target month. I need your input, not just as an employee, but also as a friend.”
“Not just Gardenias,” I say after a contemplative pause. “Dahlias too. To maintain some sophistication, you should wear white. It’s an innocent color. You’d look beautiful.”
She offers up a small smile and takes my hand to give it a gentle squeeze. With a deep breath, she exits the car. I follow, remaining behind her like a wagging tail, ready to take notes during the most morbid chore I’ve ever had to do.
Sliding doors open for us. Inside, a massive showroom floor of caskets sit as models all over the room. Reminds me of a furniture store or a used car lot. Walk in, look around, pick out your deathbed and try it on for size like a new blouse. Sounds more than morbid. Sounds almost masochistic.
Overall, the whole place has an oddly jovial feel to it, which is weird considering that it a business that specializes in death. A few other customers circle the room, whispering about the merchandise. A salesman wanders the showroom, searching for someone to sale something to.
Vivian saunters to the front desk and greets the young cashier who gives her a look of sudden adulation.
“Oh my god,” the cashier says. “You’re…are you Vivian Lynch?”
Vivian reacts with a broad smile, polite and sociable. I almost expect her to curtsey. It’s odd how she can turn her emotions on and off the way she does. Less than five minutes earlier, she’d been blubbering over her inevitable demise. Now, she’s chatting up fans and practically signing autographs. What the hell?
“My mother spoke nothing, but good about you,” the cashier adds. “Thank you so much for visiting her at the hospital. You made her last few months…her best.”
“It was my pleasure,” says Vivian. “I felt better just being around her. Really put my condition into perspective.”
The cashier shifts a brief, but forlorn glance between Vivian and me. “So I guess you not in remission?” she asks.
Vivian looks over at me, grabs my hand and shakes her head at the cashier.
“No, I’ve decided against chemotherapy so…it looks like I’ll be passing soon. I want you to know that your mother gave me so much hope, taught me so much. She helped make it easier.”
The cashier nods, her face straining to retaining some composure. “You hang in there, Mrs. Lynch. You have my prayers.”
One collective nod later, Vivian leads me away from the desk. She grabs a pamphlet from one of the magazine racks sitting in the aisle before hiding into the jungle of caskets decorating the showroom.
“You know that cashier?” I ask her.
She nods while perusing the pamphlet. “Yeah, her mother was a dear friend of mine. The poor thing passed from ovarian cancer a few months ago. Truly broke my heart, believe it or not.”
“Why wouldn’t I believe it?” I ask. She doesn’t answer my question, though it’s a valid one. Why would she assume I’d dispute her on something like that? It’s as if she’s just given herself a disclaimer.
“We’ll start in the back,” she announces. “I see the better quality caskets.”
We move toward the back of the room, bouncing ideas back and forth. I jot down notes. Vivian insists on a big extravagant event for the day of her passing. I'm not surprised. A woman like her with so many fans, must need a venue big enough to seat thousands. I suspect she’ll need a fucking stadium.
“Streamers and fireworks,” she mentions at one point. “And a hollow ice sculpture filled with wine. Did you write that down?”
I nod. “Of course Vivian.” I write, collecting all of her fanciful funeral whims on paper. I’d like to say I don’t believe she’s serious about having streamers and fireworks, but I swear she is. Vivian seems like a go-big-or-go-home kind of woman. Nothing she plans as an event is ever going to be quiet or modest. In her head, I'm sure she’s queen of her own world. Thus, she should be celebrated like one!
“Good girl,” she tells me, falling just short of patting me atop like head for being a good dog. Before she can, her cell phone rings. She scowls at the sound until she looks at the screen to see who’s calling. Her face lights up then.
“I have to take this call. It’s business. Apparently, none of my other employees can do without me,” she says, but her urgency to take this particular call leaves me to wonder if she’s as begrudgingly obligated to tend to this as she makes it seem.
I watch her sashay away, answering, “hello” before disappearing somewhere as far away from me as possible. Strike two. Why is she being so secretive about her phone calls now? At Carrick’s office, she blabbed for an hour muttering obscenities with me in the room. Now, she protects that phone like it’s her lifeline. She returns twenty minutes later after finishing the call. Returns with a giddy smile.
“Did you handle the business?” I ask, trying not to sound suspicious.
Vivian shrugs. “It was just my publicist, Judy, calling to get a rundown for tomorrow’s chore run.”
“You have a publicist?”
“Someone has to keep my social affairs in order.”
“Then what’s my job?” I ask and I can’t believe I'm actually almost offended. “Seriously why do you need me when you have her?”
“Judy was a suggestion made by Adrian,” she says. “Several years ago, many of our personal disputes and martial altercations became a little too public. Judy kept the media at bay when the situation became a feeding frenzy.”
“You mean she does damage control anytime you or Adrian fuck up?” I correct her.
Vivian almost glares at me, but it’s like she readjusts her expression to adopt something more passive. I get the feeling she’s debating whether to punch me. I step to one side, bracing for something I'm convinced is inevitable.
“Cassandra, do you have something you want to say to me?” she asks in a forcibly polite voice. I debate now. Inciting a fight with her could lead to more than I can handle. I’ve already seen too many instances of Vivian’s temper when shit hits the fan. The woman can be a hellcat if you piss her off, but I’ve held my tongue about this for too long.
“You spent so much time telling me about Adrian’s indiscretions and all the sins he’s committed during your marriage, but you never mentioned any of yours,” I say. “That’s called a lie by omission, Vivian.”
“I have never lied to you or made you think I'm something that I'm not,” she retorts. “I accept the consequence of my mistakes. God delivered it to me in a big box with a red ribbon and called it cancer.”
“You weren’t gonna tell me about the assaults on your rap sheet?”
Her brow furrows, lips pinched into tight scrunch.
“Where did you hear this?”
“I Googled you,” I say. “You know what’s funny? The internet has an amazing memory.”
Her eyes narrow. She’s not fighting that infamous t
emper anymore.
“Did the internet mention that those charges were dropped?” she remarks. “Or that two of those cases were false accusations? Cassandra, I thought you were smarter than that. Adrian and I are two of the most influential and affluent people in this country. Everyday we’re targets for the money hungry con artists of the world. People deliberately seek us out to pick fights so they have a reason to sue. If I’ve attacked anyone, assaulted anyone, it’s because they deserved it. I will not be browbeaten by anyone, certainly not you. So, are you done being accusatory toward me? I’d like to finish planning my funeral.”
I stare abashedly at her, feeling a familiar heat permeate my face, luring sweat from my hairline. It drips down the nape of my neck. Then I nod, feeling like a dog with his tail tucked between his legs.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m done.”
Vivian puts on her phoniest Barbie doll smile. “Good.”
Her phone rings again. This time, she doesn’t even look at the screen before answering, “Sorry dear, I'm afraid I’ll have to call you back.”
22
When Vivian drops me off back at my apartment, she hasn’t said a word.
She doesn’t even acknowledge at me as I exit the car. I saunter up the walkway toward the building and Vivian pulls off in a cloud of smog, driving so fast that the stench of rubber from her tires loiters in the air in its absence.
I'm not sure what confines me where I stand. All I'm aware of in this exact moment of uncertainty is that I don’t like the way she left. I have had my share of the silent treatment. The alienation doesn’t alarm me, but from Vivian, this kind of silence could mean anything.
My next thought is a forbidden one. I considered it twice during lunch, but swore it off, wanting to convince myself that it would do more harm than good. If I’ve learnt anything at all from this fiasco, it’d be that trying to deal with Vivian Lynch on my own has never yielded many great results.
I reach into my purse fishing for my cell phone, instead finding Adrian’s business card.
His so-called private line, reserved solely for me. I’ve resisted this phone call, often found myself in the middle of the night debating whether to dial the number.
