What is Love? (20 page)

His voice wasn’t
very reassuring and Sam couldn’t help but wonder what he wasn’t saying, what he
was afraid to say. She felt nauseous. Sam tried to open her eyes. “My eyes
 …
I can’t see
 …”

“You will, dear. You
will,” he said stroking her hand. “The important thing is that you rest. Get
strong again.”

Sam lay quiet for a
few moments. Would she get better? God, she had to. There was no way she would
spend her days like this. No way!

She thought about
everything she remembered up to this point. “These strange people came in—they
told me they were my children. Can you imagine?” she said, trying to smile. Her
face wouldn’t cooperate, still frozen and tight.

Jonathan set her
hand down by her side and held it, stroking her cheek with his other hand.
“Listen
 …
you focus on feeling
better. We are all anxious for your recovery. Now rest, dear
 …
just rest.” He placed her hand back
on her chest and released it, then he gently kissed her forehead and patted her
shoulder with reassurance. She heard the click of heeltaps as he walked away.

If nothing else, she
felt relief knowing she was well, and most important, not injured. She tried to
move again, but this time her body ached with mind-numbing pain, like she had
been dropped from a building and scraped off the sidewalk. The oxygen tube in
her nose pressed deeper as she tried to turn her head. She called out, her
voice sounding like a cackle as she attempted another cry. A chill raced
through her body and the cold reality of fear flooded into her heart. Suddenly,
cool hands touched her briefly and a nurse told her to relax, that everything
was going to be all right. Then the pain faded, slowly into a gentle haze.

Why couldn’t she
see? Was he telling the truth? He sounded distant and cold. She tried to put it
all together in her foggy brain. Over and over, the questions surfaced,
continually failing to meet with answers. She thought of nothing else as she
slipped into a deep sleep.

***

Ellen spent the next
ten days working long hours and trying to escape boredom, frugally avoiding
spending any money, which, when living in New York, was nearly impossible.

After getting paid
last Friday, by the time she cashed her check, she was already broke, and that
was before paying anyone back. She thought again about her phone call with
Jonathan and how angry he sounded. Asking him for money was a big mistake, but
she assumed Jonathan had always kept his ladies in style and gave them money.
This situation certainly wasn’t the kind of style she could continue to live in—something
had to be done.

And she was angry
that he didn’t want to see her now, and why didn’t he? To be with his wife!
Now, after all the trouble Ellen went through—now
she
gets his
attention. Was this to be her curse? And now, what if she lost him completely?
What
if I am stuck as Samantha forever? What if my old body died? Or worse—what if
my body stayed in a coma?
Could he even divorce her like that? And what
about her children? Would she ever see them again? Would they speak to her?

Ellen thought about
how harsh Brianna was in the hospital, but she couldn’t blame her. In fact, she
was proud of her, so protective of her mother. Yet, it’s heartbreaking to have
your daughter hate you like that—not that Ellen was immune to having her
daughter hate her. Like most teenagers, Brianna had her vocal moments of hating
her mother.

And yet, even though
they could never agree on anything, Ellen loved her.
Why was it so difficult
when all I want is their happiness?
Had anyone ever thought about her
happiness?
My entire life up until this point had been in the pursuit of
making others happy, only to have those others turn on me and blame me for
their unhappiness
 …
and as a
mother and wife, never once ever thinking about my own happiness or the lack of
it.

The loud ring from
the phone interrupted Ellen’s thoughts. She reached over to the nightstand and
picked it up.

“Hey Sam, it’s
Rebecca. We’re all going dancing tonight, wanna come?”

“Dancing?” Ellen did
want to have fun, but dancing at a club? “No, I don’t think—”

“Oh, Mr. H tonight?”

“No, but I—”

“We’ll pick you up
at nine for cocktails.”

“Nine? That late?”

“Come on working
girl, it’s Saturday. We want to get into Jax, so dress hot.”

Ellen hung up and
tried to imagine dancing in a club. She had no idea what to expect or how to be
hot
. She could try to relax, enjoy herself, and for the first time in
her life, no one would know she’s Mrs. Jonathan Horvath II. No one would judge
her every move or mistake.
I’m Miss Nobody now and no one will care what I
do.

Sienna poked her head
into the doorway. “Going out?”

“Yes,” Ellen said, “to
Jax with Rebecca and the gang.”

“Ooh, fun, wish I
didn’t have to work.”

“I need to look
 …
hot. Any suggestions?”

“Mmm, yes. Take off
your unhot clothes and—here,” she reached into the closet and pulled out a
bustier corset trimmed with large, fake colored gemstones.

Ellen wrapped the
black satin bustier around her, hooked up the front and studied her reflection.
It was pretty, but her breasts pushed out of the top, exposing far too much
skin.

Sienna grabbed a
small skirt covered with sequins and handed it to Ellen. “Here.”

“What about on top?”
Ellen asked as she stepped into the skirt.

“That’s it.”

“But this is just a
bra—I need to cover these
 …”
Ellen pointed to her cleavage.

“Ha-ha! Oooh, those
gold shoes with the chains—perfect.” Sienna grabbed a pair of very tall pumps
and set them at Ellen’s feet. Ellen sat on the bed to put them on.

“I’m not comfortable
looking like a hooker,” she said as she stepped into the shoes.

“You never used to
be uncomfortable.”

“Well, I am now. I
don’t need to get attention and lower myself by looking like a tacky slut for
men to ogle and—”

Sienna rolled her
eyes and laughed, covering her mouth with her hands. “Yeah, right.”

“I need respect.”

“Respect?” Sienna
stared at Ellen for a moment, as if determining if she might actually be
serious, then shrugged her shoulders. “Okay, here
 …”
She pulled out a cropped jacket with large shoulder pads
and puffy sleeves that covered her arms but not much else. “Feel better?”

“Much.” Ellen looked
at her reflection. “Maybe I should just wear a dress, like this one.” She
pointed to a black dress hanging on the door.

“Maybe not,” Sienna
said with a depreciative laugh. “You want to get in, don’t you?”

Ellen nodded, unsure
why
getting in
was such a big deal.

“Then take my
advice.” Sienna grabbed a wide belt from a hook and turned to face her. “It’s
in the warehouse district, that means tough chic, not glam or elegance. You
need to look like you belong, like you’re somebody, that you deserve to get in.
Remember, getting in is everything. If you can’t get in, no one else gets in.
Now, take this belt
 …
and you
need another tattoo.”

“I don’t have one of
those tramp marks; that’s for trash girls.”

“Then what do you
call that?” Sienna pointed to her back.

Ellen grabbed a hand
mirror and looked at her backside, as Sienna lifted up the bolero and pulled
the bustier down to reveal a tiny motif in the small of her back, just below
the bra line. “Good heavens,” Ellen cried out.

“Yes, Princess, you
have one.” Sienna smiled and pulled Ellen to the bathroom. “Let’s do a henna
tattoo on your chest.”

“No way,” Ellen
covered her chest in protest.

“What’s the big
deal? Why are you acting so uppity lately?” Sienna asked.

“It’s so
 …
trashy.”

“And?” Sienna put her
hand on her hip.

“And it says
something about you—I mean
 …
me.
I don’t want to say—”

“Fuck me?”

“Sienna!”

“Listen prude,
that’s why you go to clubs in the first place. You don’t fool me with your new
prim stuck-up attitude, not for a minute.” Sienna searched through the medicine
cabinet.

“Besides,” Ellen
said as she adjusted her bustier and put on the belt, “I already have
Jonathan.”

“Yeah, in the palm
of your hand, you lucky girl.”

“Actually, not
anymore.” Ellen turned away.

“What d’you mean? He
was ready to fling the wife out with the trash.” Sienna sat on the toilet.
“What’s happened?”

Ellen picked up a
comb and started to style her hair. “Well, he doesn’t seem as interested now. He
has his
 …
his wife’s in a coma,
and now I’m on the backburner.”

“Screw him!” Sienna
yelled, jumping to her feet. She stood next to Ellen, taking the comb from her
hand and teasing her hair higher. “Here, I’ll fix it. You’ll look so hot, every
man will want you. They’ll fight over you.”

“Now, that would be
a real treat. I can’t remember the last time I had that happen to—”

“I can. Exactly two
weeks ago at Freeze.” Sienna laughed. “Face it, Sam, you’re beautiful, and men
can never get enough of you. Never!”

Ellen studied her
reflection. Yes, looking like this, she could get any man. But she didn’t want
any man. She wanted Jonathan. And now—finally in this position, she wasn’t even
sure if he actually wanted her.

***

Ellen awoke to pain
and noise—a loud, harsh, grinding noise. The pulsating raw metal screeched at
random intervals. A blender. Her head moved side to side, as her brain played
bumper car with her skull. It hurt to move forward.
Slosh, bang.
It hurt
to lay back.
Slosh, slosh, bang.
What happened?

She put her hand
over her eyes to block out the excruciating light. She remembered going to the
club with Sienna and Rebecca and the long line wrapping around the building.
They had walked to the entrance, past everyone in line, and with a wink and a
smile, the bouncer opened the velvet rope and let them in right away. Entering
the vintage club, they walked up the dark stairwell to the top floor, the music
pounding a strong rhythm into her bones, vibrating every cell in her body into
frenzied anticipation. It was electric. She danced. She remembered dancing all
night. Every boy in the place had hit on her and bought her drinks. So many
drinks. Such sweet, delicious drinks.

What a night.
A smile broke across her face. She hadn’t allowed herself to enjoy herself like
that in years—no, decades. She was about to attempt to roll over when she heard
a moan. Her heart froze as she looked in the direction of the low rumble.

Beside her, tangled
in her sheets, was the unmistakable naked flesh of a man.
A stranger.
And in her bed! What had she done? She frantically searched her soggy brain for
clues. Nothing. She was blank. She had no memory of arriving home. No memory of
leaving the club. No memory of being with a man
 …
this
 …
young
body
 …
this muscular body
 …
this beautiful muscular body, who,
whoever he was
 …
clearly wasn’t
Jonathan.

“Stop calling me
Ellen!” Sam yelled. “My name is Sam!” She pushed the tray aside and threw her
water cup across the room. It bounced a few times, splashing water across the
floor. “Call Johnny, he’ll tell you. He knows who I am. And don’t call me that
fucking name again.”

The nurse moved
closer and spoke. “Listen, it says here Ellen Horvath, if you want, I’ll call
you Sam, just don’t be all upset if the others call you Ellen—your husband
checked you in here. He found you on the floor of your bedroom—says here you’re
Mrs. Ellen Horvath, born June twenty-first, nineteen twenty-eight.”

“No! No! No!” Sam
held her head with her hands, covering her ears. “That’s impossible! Where’s the
phone?
 …
I need a phone. I can
fix this screw-up with one call.”

“I can have one
brought in. It will take about an hour.”

“Good.” Sam sat up
and adjusted the thin, matted blanket. Her hand couldn’t reach very far with
the IV attached. Through the fuzzy haze, her hands looked puffy and weird, all
discolored and knobby
 …
and they
hurt. She couldn’t even close them into a fist. Someone had better start
explaining what happened to her and when it would be fixed.

As the nurse tugged
on her IV, adjusting the bag from the metal stand, Sam turned her head toward
the door and noticed a tall, dark-haired lady dressed in a cream suit entering
the room. The woman moved closer, stepping around the water puddled on the
floor.

“Darling, glad to
see you up and spry,” the tall woman said in a loud, throaty voice.

“Excuse me?” Sam
strained to make out the face.

“It’s me
 …
Patty.” The woman set her purse on
the chair and leaned toward her. She grabbed her hands before Sam could pull
away and placed air kisses on her cheeks. “You don’t seem very happy to see
me,” the woman said, her hand waving the air. “No matter.”

Sam stared at this
woman. Now that she was closer, and in sharper focus, she did look vaguely
familiar. She was old, at least fifty, but looked good for her age, with high
cheekbones, bright red lips and dark hair swept up like a forties’ lounge
singer. She tried again to place the face. “Who are you? Have we met before?”
Sam asked.

“Only about ten
thousand times,” the woman laughed. “You don’t remember me? It’s Patty. Patty
Anderson.” She put her hands on her hips and leaned closer. “Your best friend
 …
and partner in crime.”

“Sorry,” Sam said,
shaking her head, unable to recall any Patty.

“Wow,” the woman
cried out in alarm, raising her hands to her head and adjusting her hair. She
sat in a chair beside the bed, pulling her purse beside her. It looked like one
of those fake brown purses with LVs all over, the kind everyone bought in the
alley at lunchtime. This Patty woman leaned back in the chair and looked up at
the ceiling for a moment. “I don’t believe it
 …”
she said slowly, as she shook her perfectly styled head. “Do you even remember
what happened?” she asked in a low voice, then leaned inquisitively forward,
stroking Sam’s arm.

“No, what did
happen?” Sam asked, trying to get the woman’s face in focus. Her eyes were
lined with thick, black liner and had lashes so thick, they had to be fake. “No
one seems to have any idea. I sure as hell have no clue.”

“They haven’t told
you? Darling
 …”
She stopped
petting Sam’s arm and sat back, folding her arms across her chest. “No, of
course not! They don’t even know. How could they?” She smiled and leaned
forward, grabbing the bed rail. Her eyes seemed to glow as she raised her
eyebrows and whispered, “Well, you went to my special doctor and got the powder
 …
the prescription
 …”
She nodded and gave what looked
like a wink. “And it worked!” The woman sat back, raising her hands as if this
cleared everything up.

“Worked? What
powder? What prescription?” Sam had no clue what she talking about.

“Did the trick.” She
gave Sam another wink, this one more obvious. “Jonathan’s been here a lot,
hasn’t he?” she said as she flashed a devious grin.

“I—I’m not sure. I
just came out of a coma yesterday. He was here briefly.”

“Well, my dear, you
have been in a coma for over two weeks now—or something like that
 …”
She counted on her fingers for a
moment, then quit with a dramatic wave of her hand. “Anyhow, it made Jonathan
crazy. He’s been pacing up and down here, like a
very
concerned husband
 …”
She leaned in closer. “He’s even
put the divorce on hold.”

“The divorce!” Sam
covered her mouth. She had forgotten about all of that. “Oh my God, the
divorce, he stopped it?”

“Yes, you see, it
worked, and beautifully.” The woman smiled and sat back, appearing satisfied.

“But I
want
the divorce.”

“No!” The woman
cried out. “No, you don’t.” She leaned forward and put her hand on Sam’s arm,
softening her tone, “You certainly have forgotten a lot, haven’t you, Ellen
darling.”

“God, stop calling
me that!” Sam snapped, putting her hands over her ears. “Why does everyone call
me that? I hate her!”

“Okay, okay. Calm
yourself. What do I call you?”

“Sam, I’m Samantha
Miller.”

The woman let out a
loud piercing laugh that filled the room as it reverberated. The nurse at the
monitor turned away. The man mopping the water cringed forward and continued
his work, keeping his head down. “Why on earth would you want to be that little
bitch? You hate her—remember? In fact, you despise her.”

“I don’t. You’re
crazy.”

“No? I’m sorry.
Okay, S-a-m. I’ll call you whatever you want—you want to be her, fine, you’re
her.” The woman leaned forward and looked both ways, as if checking for spies.
“But I wouldn’t let anyone else know that you want to be her. They’re already
concerned because of the
 …”
she
whispered, “suicide attempt—”

“Suicide! Suicide?
What the fuck?” Sam yelled.

“Ellen
 …
er
 …
Sam. You don’t know?”

“No! I don’t know!”

Patty hesitated
until the nurse and the man left. “The powder. The whole point of all of this
was an attempt at suicide.”

“Holy shit! They
think I tried to kill myself?”

“Yes
 …
yes.” The woman motioned for her to
lower her voice. “They all do—your family, the doctors
 …”
she nodded, “everyone.”

“But I didn’t
 …
I wouldn’t
 …”
Sam shook her head in disbelief.

“I know. I know.
Believe me, I’m completely on your side, but listen, if you want to make this
work—you can’t appear crazy.” She grabbed Sam’s hands and held them tight. “Do
not let them think for one minute you are crazy. They will lock you away, you
hear me? You want to have Jonathan and your house and the money, right?”

Sam nodded.

“Right! Now please,
act like Ellen
 …
and quit
telling them you are not Ellen.” The woman released her hands and sat back in
the chair.

“But I—”

“Look, I don’t know
what the stuff did to you—it may take some time to fix things. You may be
supremely messed up, who knows. Anything is possible, and this may just be some
weird side effect. You may actually think you are Sam. I get it. But trust me
 …
hang in there. Be cool.”

Tears rimmed Sam’s
eyes, then spilled down her cheeks. “I don’t understand what has happened.” She
wiped her cheek with the back of her hand. “I wake up and the skin on my arms
and hands is old-looking, and no one can tell me why—or when it will go back to
normal. And I feel sick and I hurt all over. My voice has changed, too.”

Sam tried to
restrain her tears. “Everyone thinks I’m Ellen Horvath, but I’m not. Don’t you
see? I’m not Ellen. Look at me—I’m Samantha Miller. I was born May 22, 1959 in
Great Falls, Montana. My mother is Suzy Miller. I have a brother Benny—” Sam
stopped and wiped her eyes. “Wait, grab my purse. Is it in the locker
anywhere?”

“You poor darling,”
the woman whispered aloud as she stood up to get Sam’s purse. She came back
with a purse that Sam didn’t recognize.

“That’s not my
purse,” Sam said, pushing it aside.

“Well, let’s
see—here’s your wallet.” The woman opened it and looked at the driver’s
license. “See?” She held it out to show Sam.

Sam looked at the
license and squinted. “I can’t see.”

The woman handed her
a pair of reading glasses, the kind old ladies wear at the end of their noses
and hang from their necks. Sam slipped them on, read the license, then tossed
the glasses aside and pushed the license away. “It’s not mine. Someone planted
it there.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know! I
don’t care. Maybe it was Ellen. She hates me. Maybe she wants me to go crazy—I
don’t know.” Sam lay back on the bed. “I only know that I’m not her. I’m not
Ellen Horvath, no matter what anyone says. How else could I know all this stuff
about Sam Miller?

“I hate to play
devil’s advocate here, but you did hire the private eye to find out all that
information. Remember?”

“No,” Sam lied,
fully aware of the stupid investigation. “Did she?”

“Well, anyway, he
did give you a very thorough report. I imagine all that info got wedged
somewhere in your brain
 …”
The
woman tapped her forehead with a finger. “That’s why you know so much about
her. Perhaps that’s even why you mistakenly think
 …
why you feel like you are her. Who knows what happened.
Maybe it’s a strange side effect?”

“That’s bullshit.
I’m Samantha Miller, always have been—”

“Darling,
have
you
looked
in the mirror?”

“No, they won’t let
me out of bed.” Sam covered her mouth. “Oh God
 …
my face
 …
it’s damaged.
What’s happened to my face?”

“
You
need to
see this.” The woman rummaged through the purse and retrieved a gold compact.
“Here. Now don’t be too alarmed, nothing has changed.” She opened the mirror
and handed it to Sam.

Sam held it in front
of her face. It was worse than anything she could have imagined.

“Nooooo!” The force
from Sam’s loud, piercing scream carried all the way to the floor above and the
floor below them, and as she fell back against the pillow, the compact dropped
to her side. Unable to breathe, her chest cramped with pain.

“It’s not me!” she
cried. “It can’t be. I know who I am!” She wiped the tears with her hands.
“What’s happening? This isn’t real. It can’t be.” She sat up and opened the
compact again, slowly bringing it close to her face. She touched her face as
she looked into the horrid reflection staring back at her. “I’m old! Oh my God!
I can’t be
 …
I’m old and
wrinkled
 …
and ugly. It’s
impossible—”

“Now, now dear, it
is a shocker. We all feel it.” The woman handed Sam a tissue.

“But you don’t
understand,” Sam cried. “
This
—” Sam pointed to her face, “is not me.
It’s not—”

“Yes. Yes, you’re
right. It’s not. And it’s not fair—I understand. Absolutely. You have been
through a lot. We’ll get you all fixed up when they let you out of this
dreadful hospital. Perhaps I could have Andre come here and redo your hair. A
facial would be good, too.”

“No. I’m talking
about all of this—” Sam pulled on her cheeks, stretching the saggy skin. “This
 …
is not
 …
my face. I am Samantha Miller. Something’s happened.”

The tall lady sat
down again, folded her arms and crossed her legs, her top leg swinging wildly.
She smiled at Sam. “Ellen, I will call you Sam, but you must promise me you
will stop insisting you are Samantha to everyone else. They will think you are
insane. Do you understand? You know what they do to people who are insane?”

She leaned forward
and put her hands on Sam’s arm. “I say this with love because I want to help
you accept yourself, for now. You can’t fix anything from a mental
hospital—think of Jonathan.
Who
will he be with?” The woman nodded, her
perfectly arched eyebrows rising. “Yes, that’s right. You know exactly who—”

My body!
Sam
panicked.
Where was my body?
If she was stuck in Ellen’s ugly, old body
 …
where was Ellen? Was Ellen in hers?
“Oh my God, what the hell happened?” Sam cried out. She wanted to throw up. Sam
picked up the compact again. “I can’t be. I just can’t be her,” she said to the
ugly face staring back at her. “I can’t be old. I’m dreaming. I will sleep and
wake up and this will all have been just a horrible dream.”

As Sam lay back,
dropping the compact to her side and closing her eyes, she prayed. She prayed
that she was herself again. Desperately. With every ounce of her being, as she
never had before, she prayed she would wake up and be herself. Her thin, young,
beautiful self.

***

Sam awoke from her
sleep and felt the gold compact still lying beside her hand. She fumbled to
pick it up and carefully opened it, afraid of what she’d see. Her eyes were
clearer now, though up close everything was still blurry. She looked at her
reflection.

Not blurry enough! She
hated what she saw—still old. Still ugly. Still someone else. Still the someone
she hated more than anyone else in the world. “Damn it!” she screamed aloud in
the quiet, empty room. “What the hell can I do? How can this even be possible?”

Sam looked around
the room. In spite of an obvious attempt to make it cheery, it reminded her of
a cheesy motel room. The stupid pastel flowered prints didn’t fool anyone. The
place smelled like a hospital, that toxic air freshener combined with
antiseptic cleaners. She noticed the phone on the stand beside the bed and
leaned over, pulling it onto her lap and dialed.