After Her (18 page)

“Good. Now drive me home.”

Adrian sighs. I feel him staring, but I don’t acknowledge him.

“Don’t abandon her, Cassandra,” he says. “Amuse her. She won’t be around for much longer. Do whatever she asks. Wear the clothes she picks out, go shopping with her anytime she wants and just…be her friend.”

I almost laugh at the irony of all of this. Yesterday, Vivian begged me to be Adrian’s toy. Less than twenty-four hours later, Adrian is pleading with me to be the same thing for Vivian. I scoff at these thoughts then scold myself for thinking them.

Somehow, I don’t feel like an intern, a friend, a surrogate daughter, or even a person anymore. I’ve become their coping mechanism and their captive marriage counselor. I am their hired marionette.

20

Sasha’s Corvette isn’t parked in its usual spot.

I sigh aloud the moment I notice her usual parking space vacant. At least now, she won’t be home to scold me for not returning to the apartment last night. Adrian pulls into the lot and parks in Sasha’s space. As he shifts the engine off, I exhale.

“You don’t want to be here, do you?” Adrian asks and I feel him assessing me from the driver’s seat.

“My roommate will give me hell for not coming home last night. I’m not ready to face her yet.”

“I can take you somewhere else if you’d like,” he says. “There are several nooks and crannies owned by the Lynch name that can hide you away.”

“Geez, how much of Orange County do you own?” I ask. “You have other houses?”

“And several apartment complexes, a few condominiums, two hotels in East LA and a couple ranches in Oklahoma
and
Wyoming. I’m on the lookout for some good vacation spots. There isn’t enough time to jet set as much as I’d like to.”

“You’re a real estate whore,” I joke. “What’s with all the houses?”

“Sometimes I need to be away from the city. Business can get hectic. Boardroom meetings are monotonous. Being Adrian Lynch isn’t the most exciting or rewarding reality sometimes.” 

There is something dejected behind his eyes as he says this. I don’t ask what it is. I'm not sure I even want to know.

“Are you sure it’s the city you want away from?” I ask. “Vivian has nothing to do with your insatiable wanderlust?”

“Being Vivian’s husband feels like a part-time job sometimes,” he says. “Can you blame me for wanting to be away from her a few weeks out of the year? Isn’t there anyone in your life you’d love a vacation from?”

Sasha immediately comes to mind. I feel horrid for allowing myself that thought.

“Yeah,” I say. “I never thought I’d find some common ground with you, but on this front, I understand.”

He smiles then reaches into his pocket. After fishing out his billfold, he removes a business card from inside then hands it to me. I glance at the printed words, finding his company name, its address and a phone number.

“What is this for?”

“Emergencies,” he replies. “I’m on call 24/7. Anything you need or want. Call and tell my assistant that you are top priority.”

“24/7? Yeah right. What if I call at 3AM begging for pistachio ice cream? You’d climb out of bed and rush to the market for ice cream just because your wife’s intern asked for it?” I joke, but he doesn’t laugh.

“You like pistachio? Hmm, I’ll have to remember that for future references.”

“Adrian, I was kidding.”

“Well, I'm not. As of now, you are an honorary Lynch and there isn’t a thing in the world that a Lynch can’t have,” he says.

I know he means that. History has proven that assertion true. Adrian and Vivian have made a life of getting what they want. I'm living proof of this assessment. Vivian wanted a successor so she bought one. Adrian wants a new plaything. By giving me this card, he’s solidifying his intent to get one.

What if I did call him at three in the morning? I doubt he’d expect me to be calling only for ice cream. There is no way Adrian Lynch is rushing to my apartment at dawn to deliver ice cream, not without expecting something of equivalent value in return.

“Thanks for the ride,” I say while stuffing his card into my back pocket. “Keep Vivian out of trouble.”

“Controlling Vivian is one of the
many
things I do best,” he replies. After another tentative glance at him, I gather the nerve to exit the car. I watch from the sidewalk as his Miata veers out of the parking lot then down the street.

For some reason, I don’t move from where I am. I feel his card in my pocket, reminding me of our conversation. I chuckle at myself for taking it so seriously. There is no way he has a private line reserved for me.

I'm sure if I called right now, he wouldn’t even give it a second thought. I glance into my purse and at my cell phone, listing the what-ifs and consequences of calling that number, but I resist the urge to dial.

“It was just a stupid joke,” I mutter to reassure myself. I have class in an hour. No more time to play games with Adrian Lynch. I saunter up the apartment complex stairs, stopping on the third floor where my apartment sits.

After disarming the deadbolt and heading inside, the first thing I see is the flashing red light on the answering machine. It can only mean one thing. I mentally prep myself for the onslaught of what’s to come. I toss my jacket across the living room sofa, grab the mail and pour
Fruit Loops
into a glass for a quick breakfast.

While nibbling on dry cereal one piece at a time, I head toward the answering machine and press the
play
button.

“You have 10 unheard messages,” the automatic voice tells me before proceeding to replay the voicemails. The first is some bill collector demanding $42.50 for this month’s WIFI fee. The second is some foreign telemarketer selling AVON products. The rest are of course from my mother—the
other
Vivian Lynch in my life.

8:45 pm—

“Sasha, why haven’t you called me back?”
Mom asks.
“Call me now or so help me god, I'm getting on the next plane.”

I laugh at my mother for being such a drama queen. I know I forgot to return her last call. This isn’t the first frantic message she’s left that turned out to be about nothing. I skip past it to hear the others.

9:30 pm—

“Sasha, please, just call me back,”
Mom says.
“I’m going out of my mind!”

I slip another
Fruit Loop
into my mouth.

“Mom, calm down and breathe,” I say then I press the button to hear the next message.

10:00 pm—

“Sasha, where the hell are you? Tell me what the police said. Please, please, god, just call me back!”
she says only now she sounds like she’s in tears.

What in hell has Sasha told her to rouse her? This isn’t unlike my mother, but certainly, one-step too far even by her standards. I pluck my cell phone from my purse and plop onto the living room sofa while dialing her number.

I glance at the wall clock. Mom should be awake by now. Judging by those messages, she probably didn’t sleep at all last night anyway. I gobble more
Fruit Loops
and listen to the ring tone while waiting for her to pick up.

“Hello? Sasha?” Mom answers. “Did they find her? God, please tell me she’s alright!”

“Mom, it’s me,” I say. “Calm down and tell me what’s wrong.”

“Cassandra? Is that really you?”

“Who did you think it was?”

She sobs into the phone, wheezing heavy gasps of weepy breath into my ear.

“Don’t cry,” I say. “Please, relax. Mom, talk to me.”

“Cassandra, how dare you do this to me,” she snarls. “I thought you were dead, lying in some alley.”

“What are you talking about?”

She stops crying long enough to sound somewhat coherent.

“What’s the matter with you? Erick nearly had a goddamn heart attack!”

I jerk forward, spilling my
Fruit Loops
onto the couch, between the cushions.

“What has Sasha been telling you?”

“Where
is
Sasha?” she asks. “She said she’d call me back with news.”

“News of what?”

Mom blows her nose. I imagine her with a wad of crumbled tissue to her nostrils, blubbering like a colic newborn.

“She called around 7:00 last night and told us that you hadn’t come home.”

I suddenly remember the rest of that last answering machine message.

“So she reported me missing to the police? I can’t believe she’d do that!”

“Don’t get angry at her. I told her to call them,” she says.

“You wasted valuable manpower that could have been put to better use on an actual crime,” I say.

“What else was I supposed to do? My only kid moved as far as she could away from me then decides that it’s a good idea to disappear without calling anyone for nine hours!”

I should be used to this by now. Nineteen years as Diane Tate’s daughter should have taught me one thing if nothing else. Jumping to conclusions is a family tradition. I snicker at myself for getting so peeved then at her for being such a helicopter mess of a mother.

“Are you
laughing
? I'm glad that you find my maternal agony so humorous!” she snaps sarcastically.

I cover my mouth to muffle the laughter, but I can't silence it for long.

“I’m sorry, Mom,” I say through the laughter. “I leave the apartment for a few hours and everyone assumes I’ve been murdered. Wow. I love you guys, but this is ridiculous.”

Mom is quiet for a minute before pulling herself together and replying, “Can you at least do me the future courtesy of calling the next time you decide to go joyriding in the middle of the night?”

“I’ll make sure to have Sasha extend my leash so that I don’t wander too far away from the apartment next time,” I mutter. 

“Cassandra, this isn’t funny,” she says. “I was worried sick.”

As I hear the concern permeate her voice, I draw back my sarcasm for some sincerity.

“I’m sorry Mom,” I say. “I don’t like you worrying. Tell Dad not to go into cardiac arrest. I love you and I promise to call twice a day for now on.”

“Baby, I don’t mean to hover over you like a second shadow,” she says. “I just…miss you so much. This house feels so empty.”

I smile, hoping she’ll feel my sincerity through the phone.

“Don’t waste so much time thinking about me. Your life didn’t end the moment I left home. You still have so much left to do and I will
not
let you spend that time mourning me like I'm dead.”

“I can’t wait to have you back home. Even if it’s just for a week,” she says.

“Go to work and think happy thoughts,” I say. “I love you and ditto to Dad. Keep him out of the hospital. Tell him to breathe and have a fresh batch of those honey biscuits ready for me when I get there. I have class in an hour so I have to go.”

“Bye baby.”

“Bye Mom.” I hang up after the dial tone and exhale to alleviate the ache in my chest. Just now, the door unlocks and Sasha emerges in the doorway. Upon seeing me, she instantly drops her purse and backpack onto the floor and rushes into the apartment. The moment I get up from the sofa, she hugs me.

“Finally,” she says then pulls back to scowl at me. “You couldn’t pick up a damn phone to tell me you were okay?”

“You called my parents and told them that I was dead?” I ask in the same icy tone.

Sasha steps back, defensibly folding her arms.

“The last time I saw you, you were getting into Vivian Lynch’s Porsche nine hours ago. People don’t always escape a Lynch’s custody unscathed. What was I supposed to do? That woman practically kidnapped you.”

She saunters back to the door, retrieves her dropped bags then locks the door behind her. I pluck the spilled
Fruit Loops
from between the sofa cushions and dump them into the trash in the kitchen while Sasha rummages through the refrigerator. After getting herself an apple, she turns to me, glaring.

“Well?” she says with mouthful of apple in her cheek. “Are you gonna tell me what happened?”

I pour myself another glass of
Fruit Loops
and proceed to eat them while debating about what to say. The truth deserves a fair chance. Knowing Sasha, she’d be on the phone with my mother in an hour to disclose every sordid detail. Either that or Vivian would have my ass for disobeying her “contractual terms.”

“I’m Vivian’s intern,” I say, choosing to play it safe. “She wanted me to do her a favor.”

“For nine hours?”

“We lost track of time,” I say. No need to explain why I instead was getting drunk with Adrian Lynch in the middle of the night. She’d fucking tie me down to hear the details about that incident. “I have a major favor to ask you.”

“What?”

“You don’t have anything important planned for the 23
rd
of March, do you?”

Her eyes narrow. “Why?”

“Because I have a gig for you and I want you to accept,” I say.

She saunters into the living room and I follow, stealing a seat beside her on the sofa.

“What is it?”

“You heard about Vivian’s fundraiser gala?” I say. “She has this scholarship program set up for students in dire financial need and wants me to provide the entertainment for the gala.”

“You want contact with some local bands? I can dig up some informants,” she says. “You have no idea how many grunge rock wannabes that would kill to entertain Vivian Lynch and her snooty cohorts.”