What is Love? (38 page)

“What? Impossible.”

“I am.” Her nerve
instantly melted into putty.

“Must be a mistake.”
Jonathan’s voice was stark, filled with anger.

“No mistake, the
doctor tested me.”

“You’re telling me
it’s mine?”

“How can you even
ask that? Of course it’s yours. Who else—”

“Aren’t you on the
pill?”

“The pill? No. I use
the diaphragm
 …
it’s not a
hundred percent.”

“Well
 …”
Jonathan sat back and crossed his
arms. “You know what we have to do. I’ll make the arrangements, if you prefer.”

“Arrangements?”

He leaned forward,
his voice barely audible. “Abort. We’ve discussed this before.”

“No. We’re
discussing this now.”

“I made myself
perfectly clear that the one thing I do not want at this stage of my life is a
child to worry about. You know the trouble I went through to ensure this
doesn’t happen. End of discussion.” A dark cloud suddenly hovered over
Jonathan. A storm had moved in and all the sunshine, that warm radiant sun that
Ellen had just felt was now replaced with cold darkness.

“But Jonathan, there
are other options.”

“Not for me. Sam,
you agreed to
 …
abortion if need
be.”

“But I can’t, not
now.”

“You can and you
will. What’s the problem?”

“I just thought,
well, that I could go through the pregnancy and then give it up.”

“Hah! That’s what
all women think. They say, ‘Oh, I’ll just give it away and never see it again.’
Gone. Poof. Problem solved.” He leaned closer. “Let me tell you how it
works—you carry the baby, it’s alive, it’s inside you, it’s part of you—you
bond. Sam, you bond, whether you want to or not. It’s not anything you can
control,” he rumbled. “It’s your damn biology.”

Ellen’s eyes stung
with the threat of tears. She strained to hold them back.

“So, let’s say you
actually give it up,” he continued. “Scenario one: closed adoption. You wonder
about it—is it okay? You worry. You pine for answers. You feel guilt. You worry
your entire life. Is it in a bad home? What if it isn’t loved? Why did I do
this? Then you resent me for making you do this. Somehow, the wedge between us
gets bigger and bigger.”

Ellen shook her head
in disbelief.

“Or scenario two:
you give it up and have an open adoption. You have contact with the new mother
and child. You hear about it. You worry about it. You want to see it. You get
jealous because someone else is raising your child. You don’t like the way she
raises him. You don’t think she’s a good enough mother, you would do it better.
You try to win your child’s love. You and this mother compete. It’s an endless
battle of worry and neurosis. Trust me, Sam—you lose either way. There is only
one answer.” He sat back and took a deep sip of wine. “I don’t want you to go
through any of that and I sure as hell will not go through it again.” He leaned
back. “It’s best. No worries, no strings and no complications. Abortion is the
only answer.”

Again? Again.

The words replayed
over in her head, like clanging bells, louder and louder.
How many? Just how
many?
Her stomach churned to bitter acid. How could she have been so naïve?
So foolish? Of course, this had happened before. Pain stabbed her from all
directions and she leaned forward, holding her insides together with her arms.
She couldn’t move. She couldn’t speak. She couldn’t hear. Her mind raced
backward, skipping back to all the lies, lifting up the covers and searching
for answers. When? How many? With which ones?

She wanted to
scream. Her eyes filled with tears as her emotional dam burst, destroying her
strength and calm and smashing it uncontrollably into a thousand pieces.

“This has happened
before?” Ellen cried out. Jonathan nodded. “How could you,” she wailed. “How
could you lie all those years? How could you keep this from me? Your own wife!”

“It would only have
hurt her. I was protecting her. It would have destroyed her.”

Ellen’s hands were
shaking as she reached for her purse. “I can’t believe what a monster you are,”
she blurted, her hands shaking.

“Sam,” he pleaded,
grabbing her arm. “Come on, Sam
 …”

Ellen pulled away
from his grasp, unable to look at him. She stood and dashed to the bathroom,
hurling her body weight against the solid wood door. Inside, she sat in one of
the stalls, crying as a continual stream of tissue pooled at her feet. After
endless minutes of self-pity, she straightened her back and took a few deep
breaths to see if her tears would stop.

I am fine. This
was in the past. I can’t undo it. I am fine. I am
 …
he is
 …
he’s
such a liar.
It hurt all over and the flood of tears returned. Ellen
finally stood and took several deep breaths. She smoothed the wrinkles in her
dress and wiped her wet cheeks, then shimmied through the tissue and out into
the glaring light of the bathroom. Gazing into the mirror, she saw someone
else’s face. A stranger’s. Not her own. She was not this person staring before her.

He had not hurt this
person. She tried to smile as she wiped the rivers of mascara off her cheeks.
The flash of her diamond reminded her of who she was now. This person wouldn’t
care what he had done.
Why can’t I be this person? I have this body. Why can’t
I have a blank slate? Why can’t I let go of all the wounds and scars?

As much as she was
angry with Jonathan, he was her lifeline. She needed him now. She needed him
more than she ever did before. She was adjusting her sash when her hand brushed
against her belly. She froze. Losing him now would ruin everything. She would
be alone. Her worst fear suddenly materialized—she would be a single mother and
broke
 …
or worse, a welfare
mother. She crumpled the towel in her hand and tossed it. She knew what she needed
to do. The million-dollar question was whether she could actually do it.

Sam could and Sam
certainly would, but could she?

She left the
bathroom feeling bruised and muddled, like mint leaves in a julep, beaten but
intact, pulverized but still whole, floating in the cloudiness of uncertainty
and confusion.

***

Sam looked up and
saw Brianna approaching. “Hey Brea,” she called out.

“Hi, Mother.”
Brianna leaned over and kissed Sam on the cheek. “How are you?”

Sam looked at her,
then glanced away. “Oh
 …
not
good. Not good at all. I hate this place.” She turned to Brianna and grabbed
her sleeve. “You have to get me out of here. Help me.”

“Mother, I wish I
could. I would, but you know I can’t.”

Sam stood and walked
to the window, reinforced with security wire. The view from her room was a lush
garden, bursting with color, a calico of shades of green. “Can we go outside?”

“Of course.” Brianna
put her hand on Sam’s shoulder.

As they walked
outside, Brianna held Sam’s hand. It was good to have some comfort, even if it
wasn’t real family. The sun was casting long shadows that stretched across the
vast lawn. They walked in silence for a while, ignoring any conversation as
they passed flowerbeds filled with riots of color, all fragrant and in bloom.

Finally, Brianna
spoke. “Mother, I think the best way for you to get out of here is to start
accepting what is happening and demonstrate your acceptance to the doctors and
nurses, and more importantly, to Dad. Maybe you should start going back to
church. You used to love going. If you started behaving like everything is
normal, start acting more like you used to, more—”

“You mean, fake it?”

“Yes, if that’s what
it takes.”

Sam sat on one of
the benches. Her legs were aching lately; the arthritis in her hip seemed to be
getting worse. She looked over at the patients sitting in their wheelchairs.
Will
that be me in a few years? Will I ever get out of here? Will I ever live a life
of adventure again?
She thought about all the traveling she and Jonathan
had planned. All the dreams
 …

“Mother! Did you
even hear me?”

Sam snapped back to
attention from her haze. “Yes
 …
yes,
I did. Act normal. Go to church. I can’t imagine going to church, what a laugh
that would be.”

“After that? What
did I say after that?”

“Mmm
 …
sorry.”

“I was saying that
it’s very important that Dad believes you won’t be a threat to him or to his
new wife, Samantha. He needs to trust you, do you understand?”

“His new wife? I was
supposed to be his new wife. I was the one he loved.” Sam’s voice rose as her
arms trembled. She clenched her fist. “That bitch!”

“Mother, that’s
exactly what I’m talking about.” Brianna grabbed Sam’s hands. “You have to stop
this talk. Don’t you see you make things worse for yourself? Let Dad be. He’s
an ass, and he deserves that tramp. Let this go. Let him go. You still have
your life ahead of you. You can do other things, meet other people—you’re
shaking—Mother, what’s wrong?”

Sam pulled her hands
away. “I’m scared
 …
of being
alone and unloved
 …
of
 …”

“I love you.”

Sam looked into Brianna’s
eyes, touching her face with her hand. “Thank you.”

“Is it the hit you
keep talking about, is that it?”

“Yes, partly. That
and
 …”
Sam sighed. “I thought my
life would be different. I thought men would love me forever, that if I lost
one,” she snapped her fingers, “I would instantly have another. I expected it.
I had no idea that being old was so depressing. I never, ever imagined being
stuck in a body like this.” She pointed down to her body.

“That’s a state of
mind. You are as young as you feel.”

“That’s what young
people say—that’s what I used to say, as well. Inside this body, the machinery
is worn out. It aches. It’s slow and unable to do so many things.” Sam started
to cry. “I had dreams, you know. Big dreams. I had so many things I wanted to do
 …
and now, now I
 …”

Brianna’s eyes
filled with tears. “Mother, I’m sorry. I had no idea you felt this way.”

Sam waved her hand
with a shrug. “What’s the difference? I can’t do anything anyway.”

“But you can. If you
at least try. I’ve always admired your strength. You have always been the
bravest and toughest woman I’ve ever known.”

“Me?”

“Yes.” Brianna held
her hands again. “Mother, you endured a lifetime of living a lie, of pretending
everything was fine, of moving ahead in spite of everyone. I used to think you
were
 …
well, pathetic. I thought
you acted like that because you were insecure, a doormat. I thought you stuck
by Dad because you were weak. I never realized how hard it was for you. I never
realized how much the gossip and society would have ruined everything
 …
how we all would have suffered had
you not lived your lie. I see all that now.”

Sam looked up into
her eyes and felt a kind of love. She realized Ellen’s daughter really did love
her mother. Sam’s thoughts turned to her own mother. She missed her. Would she
ever see her again? “You’re a wonderful daughter. Any mother would be lucky to
have you.”

Brianna laughed. She
put her arm around Sam. “I love you, Mother.” Sam turned and looked at Brianna.
“I love you, too,” she said quietly.

They sat for a few
minutes watching as others walked past. Brianna turned and faced Sam. “There is
something you need to know. I think it’s better if it comes from me
 …
now, please don’t panic when I tell
you.”

“What?”

“I
 …
well, got a call from a friend
who’s a waiter—anyway, Samantha’s pregnant.”

“What? She can’t be.
She’s
 …
she’s
 …”
Sam bit her tongue.
Old! God,
she’s an old woman,
was what she wanted to scream.

“I know. She’s only
twenty-seven. Dad and a baby! What a joke. Serves him right.”

A dark shadow passed
over Sam, and another chill rushed through her body. Pregnant! Her body
temperature increased as blood pulsed angrily through every vein, her ears
burning, her head ready to explode. “Pregnant!” Sam stood, unable to contain
herself. “That does it, doesn’t it? That means it’s over for me.”

“Yes, but that’s
good, really.”

Sam paced in front
of Brianna. “Johnny wouldn’t want a baby. He told me. No babies. Absolutely no
babies! Is she having it?” She turned away. “Of course she’s not having it.”

“I don’t know.
Sounds like they are fighting about it.”

Sam sat down. “Good.
It would ruin things for her if she has it. I know him. He’s scared to death of
being an eighty-year-old dad.”

“Mother, I’m telling
this to you, to help you let go, not to give you false hope.”

“But don’t you see?”
Sam looked at Brianna and smiled. “There is a chance
 …”

“Mother! You’ll
never get out here if you keep thinking this way.”

Sam clasped her
hands together. “Brianna, tell me what you know. Whatever you hear. Okay?” She
grabbed Brianna’s hands and held them. “Keep me posted, okay? Promise?”

“Yes, Mother.”

“Can you see if you
can get him to come see me?”

“I’ll try—but will
you be on your best behavior?”

“Of course.” Sam
raised her hand as if swearing allegiance in a courtroom. She sat staring out
at the clear blue sky. She could see for miles. She could see something she
hadn’t seen since she arrived. Hope was on the horizon.  

Ellen found the bar
Samantha’s mother had chosen —a dive called Bud’s Tavern located in Jersey, near
Linden, half an hour outside the city and adjacent to a decaying industrial
area. After the fifty-minute bus ride to get there, and the unnerving six-block
walk through desolate streets, she would be taking a cab back, no matter what
the cost.

Approaching the bar,
she heard “Hey, baby!” and “Want some of this?” called out from the motley crew
of bikers hanging around outside. Criminals. She should have asked Rory to
bring her here. Her heart thundered as she passed them, trying not to make eye
contact. She pulled on the heavy, solid wood doors to the bar, wondering why
the men that cattle call at women never seem to open doors for them.

The bar inside
looked like an old medieval dungeon, dark and grim, the air dank, like rotting
wood. Waiting for her eyes to adjust to the low light, she scanned the room for
anyone who looked like the woman in Samantha’s baby pictures. Aging rebels and
out-of-luck gamblers sat scattered around the room, no women in sight.

Ellen slipped into a
tattered vinyl booth near the front and kept watch for anyone looking like Mrs.
Miller. After two cups of coffee and a dish of nuts, finally a woman arrived.
She was small and withered, carrying a large motorcycle helmet under her arm.
She was trying to tame her out-of-control hive of wiry, auburn curls with her
free hand as she surveyed the room.

“Sammy!” she yelled,
her voice rising above screeching rock music in the background.

“Hi,” Ellen replied,
with an awkward wave.

“Let me look at
you.”

Her “mother” reached
over and pulled Ellen out of the booth. “So pretty. My baby is all grown.” She
cupped Ellen’s cheeks with her nail-bitten fingers, patting them gently. “Still
a firecracker, aren’t you?” She laughed and reached over, hugging Ellen.

Ellen wrapped her
arms lightly around the worn jacket, inhaling a combination of stale cigarette
and cigar-infused leather. Mrs. Miller set her helmet down and unzipped her
jacket. A metallic tank top burst out of the heavily zippered and fringed
enclosure. Unable to avert her stare, Ellen studied the tattooed arms.

“Noticed my new one,
didn’t you?” Mrs. Miller sat down, admiring the dragon. “Yup, got it last
month.” She leaned back in the booth and looked for a waitress. “I need a
drink. The ride here was damn dusty.”

Ellen sat and
struggled to think about how to begin the conversation. The waitress appeared
and Mrs. Miller ordered a beer and a scotch, straight up. “So, how’s that rich
beau of yours?” she asked, reaching for her cigarettes from one of the many
pockets in her jacket.

“Jonathan. He’s good.
In fact—”

“He better be good
to my baby,” she said, pulling a cigarette out, setting it between her thin
lips. “I’ll fix him if he hurts one hair on your head.” Mrs. Miller smiled,
exposing the gaps in her teeth, the cigarette dangling precariously, barely
attached, save for the spit on her lip.

“He’s the best.
Don’t worry.”

Mrs. Miller pulled
the cigarette out of her mouth as the drinks arrived.
Mother
drained the
glass of scotch in one quick movement and slammed the glass down as she reached
for the beer bottle. “Ahhh!” she moaned and then smiled. “Better already. Did
you bring my stuff?”

“Sorry. I couldn’t
get any,” Ellen lied.

“Fuck!” she slammed
the table with her hand. “Shit. Shit. Shit. I’ll have to go see Bob.”

“In prison?”

“Yes, in prison.” Mother’s
voice bristled in angry frustration. “Where the hell else?”

“Can he help you?”

“Yeah.” She slumped
back against the padded vinyl and opened her cigarettes. Her voice returned to
its original, hoarse calm. “He’s connected in there. I’m supposed to stay away
in case they’re watching him.”  

“Who is?”

“Guards.” Mrs.
Miller raised her overplucked eyebrows, nodding. “And the police.”

“Why?”

“God, you’re so
fuck’n innocent.” Mrs. Miller rolled her eyes and laughed. “Cause they haven’t
found the money. They’ll listen in. Tape conversations. Makes it real hard to
get stuff.”

“Oh.” Ellen felt the
sting of her stupidity in this foreign world.

“That’s why I didn’t
want to mention the plan
 …”
Mrs.
Miller gave her an exaggerated wink. “On the phone,” she nodded with a sly
smile.

“The plan?” Ellen
tried to think what the “plan” could be. She looked at Mrs. Miller’s bloodshot
eyes, searching for her meaning—
the hit!
The hit Samantha keeps talking
about.

“Oh yes, the
plan
.”
Ellen nodded in agreement.

“Well—hey, wanna
another drink?” she turned and called the waitress over.

At least Mrs. Miller
had some manners. The waitress approached the table and Ellen asked for a wine
list. The waitress raised her eyebrows and grinned, then looked at Mrs. Miller,
who let out a loud cackle. “Ooh! Aren’t we fancy now?”

The waitress
slouched, unable to hide her disdain. “Listen, we got white and we got red
 …
in a big box in the back.”

Ellen smiled. “Then
I’ll have a gin and tonic, with a twist, please.” The waitress nodded, then sauntered
away. “Tell me about this hit again,” Ellen asked, sipping her coffee.

Mrs. Miller leaned
low, exposing a stripe of black roots, her frizzy hair wiping the tabletop as
her head turned side to side. “Remember when we was joking about his bitch
wife?”

“No, I—” Ellen shook
her head.

“At the wedding
 …
after
 …
in the motel room
 …”
Mrs. Miller’s hands were rotating, prompting her to remember. “Come on, with
Bob and Amy—Rory was there, too. Remember?”

Ellen tried to
pretend recognition and nodded. “Oh, yes. Yes, of course.”

“Well, we was drunk,
but not so drunk that Bob didn’t get to thinking
 …
thinking ’bout what a good idea it was.”

“What was?” Ellen
needed to hear her say the words.

Mrs. Miller had her
head practically on the table as she leaned closer, covering her mouth. “Wiping
out the old lady,” she whispered, barely audible.

It was true!
These bottom-feeders actually planned to kill me. Unbelievable! Absolutely
unbelievable.
Ellen cleared her throat. “What type of wipe-out had you
planned, exactly?” Ellen asked, summoning her calmest voice. She braced herself
for the answer.

“Not me.” Mrs.
Miller raised her hands in protest. “I would never
 …
I wouldn' hurt a fly. Nooo. It was Bob. Bob got hisself
all worked up on it. After that, he started reading and planning. I never seen
him so busy before—like he was possessed or something.”

Ellen nodded, unsure
of how to respond.

Mrs. Miller took
another gulp of beer, then continued. “So later, when he cooked up this plan,
we was over at Bill and Amy’s and he laid it out
 …
I told him I didn't want no part of it. You being my
daughter, I didn’t want you impl
 …
well,
no part of it.”

“Implicated?”

“Yup. If you was
implicated
,
we’d all go to jail. I couldn’t stand for my baby to be in jail.” Mrs. Miller
reached out and rubbed Ellen’s hand. “You’re too good for that
 …
you’re the only decent thing I
done.” Mrs. Miller reached for another cigarette. “So anyhow, I told Bob forget
about it. Said it was a dumb idea and besides, you was getting married anyways.
Bob forgot all about everything until he heard the old lady tried to kill
herself. Well, after he heard they was back together—remember you phoned and
said the wedding was off for a while?”

Had she? She
couldn’t remember discussing it, but Samantha must have. The waitress appeared
with another round for Mrs. Miller, and Ellen’s drink. Ellen pushed the drink
aside.

“Anyway, so Bob
figured that if she was wanting to die anyways, he could help her along
 …
kinda speed things up
 …
then you’d be sure to get
everything. In fact, he mighta even helped Mr. H be richer with a big ol’
insurance policy.”

Ellen sat back in
disbelief. This low-IQ excuse for a man would kill her, just so his
stepdaughter
could profit—
unbelievable!
Ellen stared as Mrs. Miller gloated over the
brilliance of the plan.

“That’s a terrible
plan. For one thing, suicide doesn’t pay any insurance.”

Mrs. Miller’s face
dropped.

“Everyone knows
that. For another, this
Ellen
is onto you guys, and it could completely
ruin my chances of getting anything. She went to the police and hired a private
detective—”

“Damn!” Mrs. Miller
slapped the table. “She done that before, too. That bitch! She was snooping all
around, looking for any dirt on you she could find.”

Ellen blushed. Yes,
she had.

“Well, she didn’t
find any, did she now?” Mrs. Miller smiled back.

Ellen smiled. “No,
she didn’t. But you see
 …
you
need to call this whole thing off.”

“I already did.”

“Good.” Ellen sat
back in her chair. “Well, that’s a relief.”

“Just one hitch.”

Ellen looked up and
stared at Mrs. Miller’s crooked smile. “I can’t stop it now
 …
too late.”

“What?” Ellen sat
up, leaning forward. “Why? But, you have to.”

“Can’t.” Mrs. Miller
shrugged. “Bob paid a guy, who paid a guy, who paid another guy. Hell, it’s way
too far gone to stop now, and with Bob in prison and all—it’s unstoppable.”

Ellen went blank.
“Unstoppable!” she said aloud. “Oh, no
 …
it can’t be.” Her brain scanned all the potentials. If Samantha dies,
would she also die? What would it mean? Would they switch back? Could they?
Samantha would marry Jonathan if they switched and Ellen would be out of luck.
Or if Jonathan found out about this hit, he’d dump Samantha so fast. Samantha
could end up in jail.
Oh no, I could end up with nothing and in jail. In
jail!

“I would lose
everything
 …
everything!” Ellen
yelled, causing Mrs. Miller to wince. “You have to stop it. You have to find a
way.” She leaned over the table. “My own life depends on it. Don’t you see what
this could do, how it will ruin everything? Do you want to destroy me?”

Mrs. Miller raised
her hands in surrender. “Okay. Okay. I’ll go and talk to Bob. It won’t be easy,
you know, they tape the whole visit, every word. They’re already suspicious.”

“It’s extremely
important that you try. Please Mrs. …
.
Mom,
say you’ll try? Promise?”

“Yes. Yes, I
promise.”

“And try to find out
how they planned to do it
 …
if
you can.”

“Poison, remember?”
Mrs. Miller whispered, her index finger covering her mouth.

“Oh my God!” Ellen
cried. “Why poison?” Ellen asked, trying to mask her shock.

“It’s easy.
Unnoticeable
 …
No one ever
suspects cuz it takes so long—months even.”

Ellen felt a
sickening knot growing in her stomach. “Could it look like food poisoning?”

“Course it could,
depends how you want it. A little bit—wouldn’t even notice you was sick—just
feel rough is all. Probably think you got the flu. Then two, three weeks
later—pow! You’re dead as doornail. Or you make it stronger, more like bad food
poisoning
 …
just depends.”

Ellen sat too
stunned too speak. When she first heard Jonathan mention a hit, all she could
think of was a tacky Hollywood plot with cartoonish hit men. Hearing about the
poison, realizing that not only is it real—that it was meant for her, that she
would be dead right now if it hadn’t been for Sam’s suspicions, her inside
knowledge of the whole, crazy, stupid plot. Ellen shuddered at just how
dangerous it all really was and how now, she appeared to be the only person in
a position to do anything about it. She thought of Samantha’s treachery, how
pathetic her own life is now, dealing with criminals and druggies, murderers
and crazed trailer trash.

She stared at Mrs.
Miller, who relit yet another cigarette.
How far have I fallen? I was queen
of New York society, a respected mother and wife, a philanthropist and now,
here I sit, pleading with the lowest of low lives imaginable, and for what? For
the life of a woman who wants me dead. These people wanted me dead! And this
Bob, he’s crazy
 …

“Sammy
 …
Sammy, What did Rory say?”

Ellen snapped back
to attention. “Rory? He never said
 …
we
aren’t talking.”

“Good.” Mrs. Miller
took a swig of beer. “It’s time you got that no-good kid out of your life. He’s
trouble, I could see it when you first got sweet on him.” Mrs. Miller bit her
lip. “He’d do anything to see you break from your rich man. Don’t trust him
none. Never have, never will. He’s trouble if ever there was some.”

“I don’t see it
 …
he’s—”

“You better.” Mrs.
Miller shook her index finger at Ellen. “See here, I didn’t raise you to fall
for no sappy love puppy, did I? Hell no! He’s a nobody, a loser—always will
be.”

“But you did, didn’t
you? You fell for a loser.”

“That’s none of your
beeswax.”

“This Bob, aren’t
you stuck on him? He’s not rich, and he’s a criminal and he’s in jail.”

“Listen here, Missy,
that’s my concern.” She pushed her frizzled bangs out her eyes. “All I can say
is you can’t help who you love and I love him.”

“But he’s a loser.”

“Not to me. He’s
ambitious. That’s how people get ahead. I can’t meet no fancy rich guy like
you. You seen the guys I hook up with—sorry ass cases, stealing my money and
lying around all day, drunk and high, waiting for me to hand over any money I
make. No thanks.”