What is Love? (26 page)

“I’m impressed. Not
much point showing, if there aren’t buyers who can afford them.”

“At four hundred dollars,
there are always a few who can.”

“Four hundred?”
Ellen laughed. “That’s nothing.”

“No. It’s something.
It’s showing. It’s selling. What’s wrong with you?” He stared at her, making
her feel uncomfortable. “I thought you’d be happy for me.”

“But the
supplies—you can’t be making a profit.”

“It all works out.”
He pushed his cup aside and clasped his hands together into a fist. “I just
want to show my work. I care more about giving people the opportunity to see
the pieces, to experience them, to think about them, than I do about making
money.”

Ellen was about to
say,
what was the point if you don’t sell? Buyers let you know your work is
relevant. Buyers are what make the whole system work. And the more they pay,
the more you are revered.
Instead, she just smiled as he motioned for her
to open his portfolio.

Ellen pulled the
portfolio closer and turned the black cover to see the first page. “Rory,” she
said, unable to hide her surprise, “these are good, I mean they’re
exceptional.” She studied each page, noticing the movement, the fluidity of the
colors. His work was a combination of abstract expressionism with figurative
imagery and had a dreamlike feel, a haunting beauty that seemed to express
sadness as well as passion. She didn’t know what to say, astonished that his
oil paintings were such an impressive quality. “Why aren’t you in more
reputable galleries?”

He looked at her.
“It’s not that easy, you know that.”

“If you aren’t
talented. But when you’re talented—if you show your work to the right
people—they’ll support you. You need to meet some people of influence, real
money people. The wealthy patrons of the arts, they turn ordinary artists into
great ones. In fact, most overnight sensations are discovered by society people
 …
you’re wasting your time with—”

“Sam, I know how it
works. You don’t need to lecture me.” He pulled on his portfolio to take it
back, but Ellen held tight.

“I don’t think you
heard me. They’re good—really good. You should be making serious money with
this. You need high-level players to buy—”

“I guess you know
some, right?” His tone was jagged and harsh.

“I do, actually. I
want to help.”

“Right. You want me
to make money, to be rich. I’m no good unless I’m successful. You can’t be
friends with me if I’m just a lowly house painter. Now that you’ll be one of
them, you need me to be acceptable. I get it.”

“Why are you upset
with me? Rory, I’m on your side.”

“Look, forget it.”
He stood to leave.

“I want to come to
the opening—I do. When is it?”

“Maybe you should
bring Mr. Money and some of his fancy rich friends.” He grabbed the portfolio
and zipped it shut. “Excuse me, but I have business
 …
small-fry business to attend to.”

Ellen watched him
walk away and meet his friends. As they talked and laughed, the young girl
rested her hand on his shoulder. Ellen turned to leave, still unsure why he was
offended by what she said. What did she say
 …
except that he had talent?

She shook her head
and walked outside, forgetting her friends at the table. Her mind filled with
the images of his work and she thought about how easy it would be to help him.
As Ellen, she could have helped turn him into a star overnight. As Ellen, she
could have done almost anything. She put her hands into her pockets and
wondered what she could do as Samantha Miller, a young girl without
connections, without money and most important, without influence. Sam didn’t
have anything going for her except her looks—looks and Jonathan.

Ellen was beginning
to realize how blessed her own life had been and why this young girl with
nothing would fight and do anything
 …
anything
at all, to have it also.

The waiting area of
Dr. Sutton’s office was fancier than any doctors’ office Sam had ever gone to,
and unlike the typical HMO doctors’ offices with bad chairs, dirty carpets and
lots of people coughing and sneezing all over you. Instead, this office had
dark wallpaper and fancy, old-fashioned furniture and paintings of dogs, which
gave it a formal appearance, including the receptionist and nurses who wore
suits instead of the weird printed scrubs that nurses now wear, making them
look more like clowns than nurses.

Sam sat holding
Jonathan’s hand, but he kept pulling away to fidget with his watch. She had
never been to a psychologist before. The only people she knew who saw
psychologists were criminals or addicts. They considered this routine after a
coma and suicide attempt, but somehow, there seemed to be a lot more pressure
to be normal than anyone was admitting to.

“Now Ellen, this is
routine—just a follow-up. No one is looking at you and making judgments.”
Jonathan said, trying to sound reassuring. He patted her hand.

“Why would they?”

“Well, if you
exhibit signs
 …
er
 …
tendencies, that would mean they—”

“They would think
I’m crazy? I’m not. You know I’m not.”

Jonathan paused.
“No, of course not. This is just routine, nothing to worry about.”

“Of course. I’m not
worried, are you?” Sam glanced at him, wondering what he believed.

“Mrs. Horvath?” a
voice called out.

Sam let go of
Jonathan’s hand and stood. “Yes,” she called out. She leaned over and kissed
Jonathan on the cheek. “I’ll only be a few minutes.”

As Sam walked into
the room, her stomach churned. She didn’t want to do this, wasn’t sure what to
say or how to sound convincing. It was a lot of pressure. She stared at all the
books lining the walls of the office. “You didn’t actually read all of these,
did you?”

Dr. Sutton rose and
held out his hand. “No, Mrs. Horvath, a lot are for reference.” He smiled and
shook her hand. “Please have a seat.” His hand pointed toward a chaise lounge
and Sam sat down, adjusting her blouse. He motioned for her to lay back and she
did, staring up at the ceiling, trying to calm her jittery stomach.

Dr. Sutton sat in
front of her and picked up a file. “Now, it’s been a while since I last saw
you, but I see you have had a good recovery. Your MRI scans show healthy
tissue. That’s excellent news
 …
let’s
talk about how you feel.”

“Old. I hurt
everywhere. My knees, my elbows, my fingers and my feet. God, my feet hurt a
lot. No one told me being old was so painful. Could you write any prescription
for the pain?”

“Um, yes
 …
well, we can discuss that with your
physician. I will make a request. Now how are you feeling—aside from the pain,
how is your well-being?”

“Well-being?” Sam
laughed, trying to hide her tension. “I being well
 …
berry, berry well.”

Dr. Sutton did not
smile, but scribbled on his notepad. He seemed dull and humorless, like flat
paint. Not a sparkle of a smile seemed possible with him. Even his skin was
colorless.

Sam’s nervousness
increased as she fidgeted on the chaise, trying to get comfortable in spite of
its slippery leather. “I mean, I am well
 …
all things considered.”

“As in?”

“As in
 …
for someone who tried to kill
herself and failed, I mean, is here now—you know, didn’t croak, I’m doing
great, aren’t I?”

“That’s what I’d
like to know
 …
are you?” he
asked.

“Yes—I mean, what
could I be upset about, really? I have a big house and servants. I can buy
whatever I want. I have no debt or bills. My husband is famous and we are
perfect.”

“Are you? Are you
perfect, Mrs. Horvath?”

“Yes—well no. Not
really. But I’m trying. It’s all so new, this change. There is so much that is
different. So much that I can’t change.” Sam strummed her stomach with her
hands.

“Why would you
change anything?” Dr. Sutton’s hand was busy making notes.

Sam exhaled, saying,
“Oh my God, what wouldn’t I change?” She sat forward, leaning toward him. “I
can’t live with this disgusting body. Men do not think I’m pretty. Hell, I know
I’m not pretty, not with her face, and I’m so wrinkled and saggy. No wonder she
tried to kill herself.”

“She?” More notes
scratched on the yellow pad.

“Me. I meant me, of
course. Why I did it.” Sam played with her collar and smiled at Dr. Sutton, but
he didn’t look up from his notes. He read them quietly for a few moments.

“Was that the
reason?” he asked in a cold monotone voice.

“The reason?”

“Was the concern
with your body, the disgust as you put it
 …”
he glanced back through his notes. “Was it the reason for the suicide?”

“Oh, hell if I
know,” Sam said rather flippantly. She shook her head and looked away.
What
does he care anyway, this is just routine.
She glanced back at Dr. Sutton
and his eyes narrowed. Sam sighed and thought for a moment, trying to come up
with a good answer.

Why did Ellen do
it? What would Ellen say?
Try and be Ellen, she scolded herself. “I mean,
there was so much going on. Johnny was leaving me. I was old. I was boring. He
was tired of me. He wanted someone young and exciting, full of fun, and someone
who appreciated him and could make him feel important. Someone sexy and hot—he
loved sex with—”

“Did he tell you
this?”

“Like, all the
time.” Sam held her hands out, as if to say,
no kidding, moron
.

“And this made you
feel—?”

She lay back in the
chair. “Bad, really bad, I guess. So
 …
I
guess that’s why I wanted to kill myself. I couldn’t take it.”

“Did you discuss
your feelings with Mr. Horvath or anyone else?”

Sam bolted up again,
leaning forward. “Yes, I told Johnny. He said it was too late.” Sam twirled her
hair, staring at Dr. Sutton’s books lining the wall behind him, which were
probably every bit as dull as he was. “He was in love with
 …
this girl, Sam
 …
and he was leaving and that was
that. He was going to marry me
 …
um,
her and there was nothing going to stop him.”

“And now? How do you
feel now?”

Sam let go of her
hair and faced him. “Weird?”

“How so?”

She lay back again.
“Weird, that
now
the shoe is on the other foot.
Now
I’m here—I
mean
 …
now
 …
I’m not the way I was. I’ll never
be boring or frumpy again. Johnny loves me
 …
see, I’ve changed.”

“Has he talked about
the future?”

“No, we don’t talk
much. I’ve only been home a month. He works late—a lot. It’s no wonder Ellen
went crazy, with no one but the staff to talk to, and they are about as much
fun as a funeral. Except Maria, she’s funny, but she talks so fast, I can’t
understand half of what she says. Mostly I think they are afraid of me because
of what
 …
well, I mean, I
changed.”

Dr. Sutton nodded
and made more notes, then flipped back a few pages. Sam studied the top of his
head. His hair swirled around a thinning bald spot toward the back, like water
disappearing down a drain. She wondered if he knew about it.

He glanced up at
her. “This new you, how do you feel about it?”

“Great.” Sam turned
away, avoiding his gaze, those penetrating little mouse eyes. “I am changing
everything. Surgery as soon as I can, then I am going to buy all new
clothes—smaller ones, sexier ones. I can’t stand all those big-girl clothes. I
want to look hot.” She stood and pointed to her body. “I can remake this body
into a totally sexy—”

“Is being sexy
important to you?”

“Of course, who
wouldn’t want
 …?
” This was such
an absurdly stupid thing to ask, that Sam studied him to see if it was a trick
question. “Every woman wants to be sexy, to have men look at you, to know they
want you and that they fantasize about fucking you—”

“Do you fantasize as
well?”

“Oh yes, all the
time.” Sam stood and walked toward his desk. “I’m walking along the beach and
all of these hot guys with big biceps are staring
 …”
She leaned against his desk, running her hand along the
surface. “They get so turned on that they get hard just looking at me—”

“Then what happens?”

She picked up his
stapler and held it between her breasts with her palms, then slapped it
together several times, releasing staples all over his carpet. “Then I see my
reflection and realize that no one is looking.” Sam tossed the stapler aside,
dropping her head. “No one will ever look at these
 …”
she said in a quiet voice and pointing to her chest.
“How do women stand it?”

She walked to the
chair next to his desk and sat. “I mean, it’s horrible.” Tears formed in her eyes.
“No one should have this happen to them. It’s so unfair. I was young and
beautiful, when suddenly, I wake up and I’m this—this old body. No one thinks
I’m attractive. I can’t even look at myself. I look hideous. It makes me want
to kill myself—I mean, I wouldn’t—not really. But I have to do something, or
I’ll die—well, not die—but go crazy—I mean
 …
not go crazy, like crazy—wooh-wooh, crazy
 …
but, I would be
 …”
Sam looked away, wiping the tears in her eyes.

“Yes
 …”
he said, handing Sam a tissue.

Sam shrugged. “I
would be sad. Very, very sad.” Sam dabbed her eyes and reached across the desk
to the tissue box, then blew her nose.

“You said you were
young one minute and suddenly you woke up old. Was this before or after the
coma?”

“Yes—yes, exactly.”
She pulled her chair closer to him. “After, right after. I was happy and in
love and everything was perfect. I was perfectly normal and then I woke up—and
this
.”
Sam pointed to her body. “And then this happened. It was a total shock.”

“Yes, go on.” His
hand and pen raced across the pad.

“I didn’t know what
to do. I cried for the first week. It was hard to accept, you know?”

“Yes
 …”
He nodded. “Go on.”

“Everyone not
knowing me—and people I don’t know, knowing me and telling me things, and I
have children now, old children—how screwed up is that? Shit, me?
 A
mom? And people treating me
different and just weird stuff. Then this woman, Patty, came and told me to
smarten up and deal with it.” Sam leaned forward and whispered, “She was right.
I can’t change my situation, but I can change my attitude and hopefully, it
will get better.”

“And has it?”

Sam sat back. “In a
way
 …”
She gazed up at the
ceiling again. “God, I miss my old life so much. I really miss so many things
that I never thought I would—”

“Such as?”

“My friends, Rory
 …
and Sienna, and my mom and Benny
 …”
Sam realized she was blabbering
into dangerous territory. “I just missed lots and I can’t do anything to bring
it all back. I don’t know how to, anyway, so I will have to make this work.”

“How? How will you make
this work?”

“I will make Johnny
love me like before.”

“How was it before?”

“Oh, he adored me.
Before,
he couldn’t keep his hands off me. He was so attentive and he spoiled me. God,
I miss that. I’ll get him back. I have to—I’m not letting this beat me.” Sam
sat back, pulling on her sleeves. “Over my dead body—I mean, no way
 …
that’s all.”

“What do you plan to
do in the future?”

“Have a blast. I’ll
show Johnny how fun it can be to be married to me. He’ll see.”

“Mrs. Horvath. How
old do you feel now?”

“Twenty-five.
Really, I feel like I’m twenty-five and ready to take on the world. My body
feels ancient, like it’s a hundred-years-old, but inside—inside I’m young.”

“And do you still
feel like you are Samantha Miller?”

“I
 …”
Sam stopped. “I was
 …
I mean
 …
I did. I know I said before I was, but now
 …
she’s
 …”
Sam’s eyes started to tear again. “She’s gone. I’ve
tried to forget about it—I have to, you see. I can’t be her—not now. No one
understands. Maybe something will happen.”

“Happen?”

“Yes, and I’ll
become her
 …
um
 …
me again. But until then, I’m Ellen
Horvath, old wrinkles and all. That’s me. I’m not Sam. No. I’m Ellen
 …
see, I’m normal.” She leaned even
closer, touching his knee. Her hand fell as he crossed his legs. “Aren’t I?
Aren’t I normal?”

“Yes.” He cleared
his throat with a grinding sound, like a stalled-out blender. “We have various
degrees of what we consider normal. I will, however, give you a prescription,
for now.”

“Just you wait, Dr.
Sutton, you won’t believe how good I will become, or how beautiful.”

“That’s very good,
Mrs. Horvath,” he said, and stood, setting his pad on the table beside him. “Oh
 …
one last thing, I understand you
visited Horvath Industries last week.”

Sam’s face flushed
with heat and she tried to appear calm. She hadn’t told Jonathan about it. “I
had business there, so what?”

“Yes, well
 …
under the present circumstances, I
must advise you against going there. Your husband informed me and voiced his
concerns. I happen to agree with him. The woman, Ms. Miller—the one you are confused
about being—she works there, correct?”

“Damn it.” Sam
shifted her purse off her shoulder. “Yes, she works there. So what?”