What is Love? (18 page)

It was disgusting to
use someone else’s things, to see bits of their dirt and remnants of hair and
dead skin. She couldn’t use her toothbrush and would need to buy another soon.
Sienna had kindly given her a new one, but it was such a stiff bristle that it
hurt her gums.

And her panties! Not
only was it unimaginable to wear someone else’s panties, but there wasn’t a
decent pair in the drawer. They were either thongs—which she couldn’t begin to
imagine how anything that absurd could be comfortable, cutting into you with a
thick chunk of fabric that wedged right into your butt. Or there were the tiny
little thigh-high briefs that barely covered anything and a couple of pairs of
crotchless panties—no thanks! Another much-needed purchase to add to her
growing shopping list.

At the thought of
shopping, Ellen reached for Samantha’s purse, sitting on the floor beside the
dresser and opened it, looking for a wallet. Inside, she found another package
of cigarettes and a lighter. This time she lit the cigarette and took a deep
drag. It must have been over thirty years since she smoked. As she inhaled the
smoke, her nerves calmed and she relaxed, taking a few more puffs, then stubbed
it out, unsure why she had felt the overwhelming need in the first place.

She continued
searching the purse, finding lip gloss, eyeliner, earrings, gum, countless
folded receipts and a wallet. Inside the wallet, she found her driver’s
license. She checked the date and laughed.
I’m now a Gemini. I’m twenty-seven
years old and a hundred and twelve pounds. Wonderful.

There were various
store cards: Saks, Macy’s, Bloomingdales, Visa, Sears, a fitness studio
membership, expired coupons. Twenty-three dollars and change. And a debit card.

“Pin number,” Ellen
said aloud. She would need to get her pin number.
And I will need a lot more
than twenty-three dollars, that’s for sure, she told herself.
The first
thing will be to get some comfortable shoes and a more appropriate wardrobe,
including underwear.

Ellen grabbed the
appointment book on the desk and flipped through the contacts to see if any
numbers listed might be her pin number. Nothing. She would need to visit the
bank, explain how she can’t remember, and have the pin number changed. Looking
through the rest of the calendar, there were appointments sprinkled throughout.
Nails, hair, waxing, drawing class, Mom’s birthday, dentist, doctor. Nothing
important. Nothing interesting. Nothing compared to the life she left behind, a
life filled with friends, parties and luxury.

She tossed the book
aside and a knot twisted in her belly as she imagined living as Samantha
Miller, in this squalid place and working, with nothing interesting or important
to do and no one significant to talk to. Nothing to do except work and pray for
more. Ellen stared at the pretty face in the mirror, but somehow, it was little
comfort now.

***

Sam awoke again but
couldn’t open her eyes. How many hours had passed? The world was brighter, she
could tell lights were on above her, yet her eyes were still glued shut. As she
strained to open her eyes, she listened to noises all around her.

Beeps and bumps,
talking and whispers, and squeaks, lots of squeaky wheels and shoes against
polished floors. A hospital. She knew she must be in a hospital, but why? She
prayed it wasn’t a car accident, a hideously disfiguring or paralyzing
accident. Her head still pounded in an agonizing rhythm, with painful pressure
where it touched the pillow. It hurt to try to move it from side to side. She
moaned as she attempted to raise her hand.

“Oh thank God!” a
male voice cried out.

“Nurse! Nurse!” the
voice called out as it faded into the distance, along with footsteps.

She heard the hustle
of footsteps coming closer. Then she felt the warm touch of a hand slipping
into hers. A large strong hand. She tried to grab it but her muscles wouldn’t
cooperate.

“Oh my darling, we
were so worried,” the voice said. It was Jonathan.

She smiled, or at
least tried to smile. Was she smiling? She couldn’t feel her face. Why couldn’t
she feel anything? A scuffle of more shoes and a murmur of voices rose in the
background and she struggled to hear their words, but couldn’t.

“Relax, the nurse
should be here soon,” Jonathan said in a reassuring tone.

The warmth of his
hand touched her again and she tried to squeeze it—his reassuring hand. She
didn’t want him to let go; she needed his strength and support, his
steadfastness. She tried speaking, but nothing came out except a dry gasp. Then
she tried to cough, to clear her throat. Nothing came out but a huff of air. It
hurt. Her body was completely overtaken in pain. She let out a cry that sounded
like a weak groggy moan, nothing more. She wanted to scream, to say, ‘let me
out of here and release me from this aching and lifeless body.’

“Don’t speak now.
It’s going to be okay.” A hand touched her cheek and forehead.

More voices
surfaced. A hustle of activity was followed by more beeps and clicks.

She tried again to
speak. Her lips would not cooperate, her body too exhausted. She could feel
herself slipping again, like sliding into a dark hole—faster and faster. Deeper
and deeper.

Back into dreams.
Back into slumber. Away from the pain. She struggled to stay, but eventually
let go and slipped back into the deep void of darkness.

***

Inside the hospital
room, Jonathan stared at Ellen lying in the bed in front of him, her body
motionless and silent. She looked peaceful. Jonathan had sat there for thirty
minutes, trying to imagine what was she was thinking or feeling.
Could she
hear?

“Ellen? Are you
there? It’s me; it’s Jonathan.” He stood and reached for her hand; it was cool
and lifeless. The doctors had so much hope after she made a brief response two
days ago. But since that initial moan, there was nothing, and now the doctors
cautioned him about false signals, about twitches and moans that were merely
reflexes or muscle spasms, nothing more. They warned him against getting his
hopes up before any significant proof indicated she was truly awakening.
Apparently, she was as much in a coma as before.

Leaning over her, he
said, “I’m here, don’t worry. I’m here now.”
Don’t worry? What a stupid
thing to say,
he scolded himself.
Of course, she’s worried. That’s why
she did this. How could I tell her not to worry? She’s in a coma, for Christ’s
sake.

He sat down again,
still holding her unresponsive hand. Part of him wanted to kiss it, another
part of him wanted to slap it. “I should be angry at you for doing this. I am,
in fact—angry, that is—you shouldn’t have done this. The kids—they love you so
much. They are worried sick about you.” Jonathan squeezed her hand. “Hang in
there, Ellen.”

What about me?
He let go of her hand and wondered—
do I love you?
Jonathan couldn’t say
the words. Whatever feelings he had for her, they were also mixed with anger
and frustration.
She did this to hurt me, to make me feel guilty, to control
things. This is the very thing I should have wanted. After all, this is the one
thing that would simplify everything—all the money, all the hassles—gone. Just
like that. In one quick moment, all my problems would evaporate and disappear
forever—and leave everything
 …

He looked at her
again. In one quick moment, it would all be fixed
 …
if
she died.

If she died. He
looked up at all the equipment beeping and blinking, straining in a concerted
effort to keep her alive. Could she die? What incredible guilt
 …

If she did die, he
would have to carry that guilt forever. Yet, what if she stayed like this?

God, what if she
was a vegetable forever? Then what?
He felt guilty just thinking about it.
Worried that she would read his thoughts, he stood and walked toward the door.
He stopped and said, “Get better, Ellen. Get better. Your family needs you
 …
think of them.” Then he turned and
quietly closed the door, still unsure of what he actually hoped would happen.

Ellen spent the next
day cleaning the apartment. She lifted the ruffle of the bed skirt and
discovered several cardboard boxes, which she slid out and opened. Inside the
large boxes, she found a camera and several large albums filled with black and
white eight by tens and stacks of loose photos. Ellen picked up a stack of
photos; some presented store windows while others showed everything from
gargoyles from churches and cemeteries to biker bars and pawnshops with barbed
wire and guns. She grabbed another stack with what looked to be naked body
parts, hips and buttocks, shoulders and breasts, wet skin with close-up
sections covered in lace. Several looked like bondage scenes, with ties and
chains or leather strapping. She tossed the stack back into the box. Nothing
but a collection of tawdry sex, bordering on pornography. Certainly not art.

She picked the
camera up and looked through the lens. She thought about all the photos taken
over her lifetime: tiny hands and feet, fingers and toes, smiles and laughter,
birthday candles and Christmas gifts—a legacy of family, of love, of values. As
she thought about her children, she longed to feel their love again. She missed
the laughter of children and their carefree, uninhibited nature, their complete
lack of judgment.
They loved you as you are, pure and true, without
manipulation, without force, without effort. As natural as smiling, that’s how
they loved.

Ellen looked again
at the stack of photos filled with sex and violence. Was that what Samantha
Miller thought of love? Was it tied to sex and gratification? Filled with games
and pretense? She pushed the boxes back under the bed, determined not to look
at them again.

She continued to go
through drawers, boxes and closets until she found enough about Samantha’s life
to make her sick. More to the point, she found a pay stub from Horvath
Industries.

April 25 - May 9
Eleven-hundred dollars, minus taxes.
Nine hundred dollars!

Two weeks’ pay.
Unbelievable.
How on earth can I live on this?
Ellen closed the
wallet and remembered her own mad money stash. If she could just get back in
her house, there was enough—enough for a little while, at least. And her
clothes, if she had access to her clothes
 …
but then again, they wouldn’t fit—not this thin body. She looked at the
closet and all the unwearable clothes.
I have to redo this entire wardrobe,
and that will take some money—a lot of money.

The bills she kept
finding distressed her. Debt, debt and more debt. There had to be a way to
clear this entire mess up. She decided the only sensible thing to do was to
make a list of her basic requirements, then go to the bank in the morning and
meet with the manager and ask for an advance or a loan. She made the list as
lean as possible, trying to eliminate unnecessary luxuries.
How do people
live like this?
Finally, in frustration she quit trying and threw the list
aside.

She closed her eyes
and imagined her life improving once she remarried Jonathan. She couldn’t wait
to see him and show off the new body. It would be strange to have the man who
ignored you for so long suddenly attracted to you again, suddenly touching you.

“Hey, feeling any
better?” Sienna appeared in the doorway eating a piece of cake.

“Oh, good, you’re
home.” Ellen stood and cleared the bed. “Here, help me lift this mattress.”

“What for?” Sienna
asked, as cake crumbs fell to the floor.

“I need to flip it
over. It sags in the middle and I can’t sleep.”

Sienna stepped into
the room, wiping her hands on her sweatshirt. “Why bother?” She shrugged and
looked around at the disarray. “I thought you were going to rest. You should
be—”

“How on earth could
anyone rest with these dirty sheets and stained carpets, I shudder to imagine
what they are from—not to mention the disgusting cockroaches. I can’t live with
this filth, no one could.”

“I can. You could.”

“Well, not anymore.
I need to get the superintendent to come and spray—the roaches are everywhere.”
Ellen pointed to the floor. “And you, dropping food everywhere doesn’t help.”

Sienna laughed and
continued eating. “This is New York. God, you’re funny.”

“But they’re out of
control. We’re not talking a couple here and there. There are hundreds of them.
They’re under the sink, in the drawers, in the boxes, even in the shoes. It’s
disgusting.”

“So shake them out
before you wear them.” Sienna let out a chuckle and bent down, picking up her
crumbs and tossing them into the trash.

“I’m serious. It’s
unhealthy. There are tenant rules of some sort to prevent this. No wonder I
can’t sleep at night, knowing those horrible pests are crawling around in the
dark.”

“Do what I do, spray
a ring of that bug stuff around your bed and all over the headboard—they won’t
jump onto your pillow that way.”

“Oh no!” Ellen’s
face scrunched in horror. “They jump? Now I feel sick.”

“I’m kidding
 …
but the entire building would
probably collapse if they got rid of them.”

“I don’t find your
humor amusing. I will get this place sprayed. I refuse to live like this. Now,
help me with the bed.” Ellen reached toward the mattress.

“Okay, princess. I
admire your new enthusiasm for clean.” Sienna bent down and grabbed the
mattress. “Just remember me when you move into that big bug-free mansion.”

Ellen smiled at the
thought of being back in her house, her beautiful house with her pretty things
and staff to take care of everything
 …
“Yes,”
she said. “I will be there soon, won’t I?”

They lifted the
mattress and had it on its side when something shiny and red, in the center of
the box spring caught their eyes.

“Your diary!” Sienna
called out. “Not so secret now.” Sienna reached for the book and let go of the
mattress. It fell toward Ellen, pinning her against the wall as the nightstand
knocked over and the lamp and ashtray flew off, crashing onto the floor.

“Sienna!” Ellen
yelled, trying to push the cumbersome mattress off her body.

“Sorry, sorry.”
Sienna lifted the mattress to help free Ellen. “Crap, that’s heavy,” Sienna
said, unable to hide her laughter as they set the mattress back on the bed.
“Anything about me in here?” Sienna asked, as she grabbed the diary and opened
it, pretending to read it.

“Only that you’re a
snoop, a liar and a slob,” Ellen said with a laugh as she snatched the book
from Sienna’s grasp.

“
That
sounds
more like Johnny than me. Better get a new hiding spot.”

“Close the door as
you leave.”

Sienna closed the
door mumbling, “Thanks, Sienna.”

“Yes, thanks,” Ellen
said, as she opened the red diary.

It was a large,
hardcover book full of doodles, clippings and photos interspersed with sloppy
handwriting. Samantha had taken markers and drawn hearts and flowers
everywhere. Some pages, colored in a rainbow of pinks and purples and greens,
made the whole thing look like a kindergarten scrapbook. But did that really
surprise her? Did anything anymore?

Ellen flipped to the
section from a month ago.

May 10th, 1986 - Johnny
told me again how much he loves me and how hard it is to be away from me all
the time. He is finally serious. He hates his stupid wife and his boring life.
I really think he’ll leave her. She drives him crazy with her complaining. What
a dumb bitch!

“No, you’re the
bitch,” Ellen muttered.

I hate her, too.
She’s like, completely clueless. This poor guy’s so friggin lonely. I got new
lingerie again. It’s sooo fun to shop with him. He has so much money!!!! He’ll
buy me anything. I love him. I know I do. I gave him a blowjob the other day in
the fitting room and I thought he was having a stroke or something he was so
excited.

Ellen’s face flushed
with heat as her temples pulsed. “Could you be more of a slut?”

Then he came all
over my tits just as the salesgirl knocked on the door.

“Oh, God help me!”
Ellen yelled and flung the book across the room. It bounced off the closet door
and fell to the floor with a thud.

“Everything okay?”
Sienna yelled through the wall.

“Fine,” Ellen
replied. “Just fine.” She lay back and looked up at her constellation of
glow-in-the-dark stars. Did Jonathan really hate her, or was it just that
bimbo’s ignorant opinion?

Am I that bad?
She thought about their life. There had been fun times. Lots of fun times.
Mostly in the past. How could she know he was unhappy if he never complained,
if he appeared happy? She wasn’t a mind reader. No woman is.

Except her—the
foolish tramp. She seemed to know how he felt. Ellen thought back to the
disgusting scene she read, of the two of them in the fitting room. Part of her
wanted to ignore it, to convince herself it never took place, but another part
of her wanted to see why it happened, to understand what it was she gave him
that made him love her so much. Ellen would never—not even if she drank too
much—could she ever imagine doing such a thing, and in a public place. Why?
What part of her couldn’t behave like a tramp? And why was it so easy for this
little bimbo to behave so badly? What switch allows her to forget propriety and
lose control of common sense and values? Upbringing. It all comes down to
upbringing and class.

Ellen rolled to her
side. Most of the sex acts Jonathan wanted were perverse, and she was happy to
allow someone else to perform them. And besides, she honestly thought it was a
passing phase, a midlife thing that he would get it all out of his system and
eventually return to the beautiful lovemaking they shared when they were first
married.

Ellen wasn’t frigid.
She wanted sex. Sometimes she fantasized about him coming to her and taking her
into his arms and kissing her with such passion that she would collapse in his
arms and he would carry her to their bed and make love to her in the most
tender, satisfying way, the whole time telling her how much he loved her and
needed her, hungered for her.

Her body tingled as
she imagined the scene. The kisses—deep savory kisses. She found herself
touching the new breasts, feeling the pleasure of strokes and caresses, getting
excited. She imagined his hands touching this delicious skin and hungering for
more. Her hands slid down her flat stomach toward her smooth thighs, searching.
Tingles surfaced, tingles in an area that had lain dormant for too long. She
wanted him, her body wanted him, she was filled with such desire, her hand
exploring unfamiliar regions when suddenly, she heard—

“Hey, wanna go to
the bank now—”

Ellen pulled her
hand away and bolted upright with alarm. “Don’t you knock?”

“Oh shit, sorry,
guess you’re busy,” Sienna giggled and shut the door.

Ellen sat mortified,
unable to move.
What had Sienna seen?
Where were her hands? Ellen pulled
the crumpled bed sheet from the floor, covering herself as she lay back.
Whatever pleasure she might have felt a moment ago, embarrassment had
completely erased any trace of it.

***

“Miss Miller, do you
realize how far over your overdraft limit you are?” the scrawny woman stated,
in a voice implying this was not a question.

Ellen studied the
account manager, praying she could figure out how to fix all this and make it
go away. “I don’t know, actually. That’s why I’m here.” Ellen adjusted her
shirt, trying to appear self-assured. “Where do I stand in all this mess?”
Ellen asked, trying to force a smile.

“You have five
thousand dollars in overdraft and you are at your maximum. Your credit report
shows over fifty thousand dollars owing—”

Ellen’s stomach
dropped. Why should she be responsible for this idiot’s bad debt? “What about
my savings account?”

“There is no savings
account,” she responded with a stern glare. “Not here. Do you have an account
at another bank?”

Ellen opened her
wallet and searched for an imaginary bankcard. “Do I have any money here,
anything at all?” Ellen suddenly realized just how desperate her situation was.

“No, I’m afraid
not.”

“What about a line
of credit? Could I apply?” Ellen smiled and tried to act confident. “I have a
good job,” she lied, forgetting they have access to her salary.

“Yes, but with your
delinquent payments, your credit score wouldn’t be high enough, even if you
tried to pay some of this off.”

“I see.” Ellen’s
face blushed. Credit score? When had she ever worried about a credit score? She
had no idea how to get one, let alone make it higher.

“I’m afraid you are
out of options. Credit collection agents will soon be at your door, if they
aren’t already.” The woman glared at Ellen, convicting her with her eyes.

“Yes,” Ellen said,
her face overcome with heat. “I will sort this out.” Ellen looked at her wallet
as she closed it. She glanced up at the woman, aware again of her massive,
growing debt and the guilt flooding her thoughts. “I get paid on Friday. I will
have more money to start paying off the overdraft—”

“We’ll look forward
to it. May I suggest our debt counseling service? You can book an appointment
with Mary at the front counter.”

Debt counseling?
Ellen thought of all the money they had, of all the savings and trust funds.
She thought of what others would say—a Horvath in debt
! As if I would ever
attend debt counseling.
She looked at the woman and grinned. “Thank you,”
she said in a sugary voice, still trying to impress this brittle woman. “You
are most considerate. Good afternoon, Mrs. Bryce.”

“Good day, Ms.
Miller,” the woman replied, her lips in a tight smile.

Ellen had thirteen
dollars left. Payday was still one week away. Perhaps Sienna would help, or the
old boyfriend, this Rory guy. Thank heaven for the charge cards—at least she
could still buy something. Only four days had passed since she woke from the
fever and already she was sick of this dismal existence. It sickened her to
imagine a life filled with this frustration.