After Her (19 page)

I shake my head. “Um, Sas, do you really think that Vivian is a Green Day fan?” 

“What? Would she prefer some White Stripes? Arcade Fire?”

“No, to all of the above,” I say. “I'm thinking of something a bit more…classy.”

“So where do I fit in?”

“Sasha, you play the violin. Why don’t
you
entertain?”

Sasha’s expression falls and I can’t figure out what she’s thinking.

“Sas?”

“You want me to play violin for Vivian Lynch and her rich friends?”

“You’re the only person I know with her taste in music,” I say. “If I pick based on my own taste, she’ll get some crappy karaoke cover band singing alternative rock renditions of old Frank Sinatra songs. So will you play or not?”

Suddenly, she smiles and I don’t know what to think of this sudden whiplash of mood.

“Sure, but on one condition,” she says.

“What?”

“Tell me what’s really going on between you and those people.”

I stare blankly at her, unable to reply until I find a suitable enough answer to alibi myself.

“Nothing is going on.”

“We have been friends since sixth grade,” she reminds me. “You think I don’t know when you’re lying?”

I turn away and slip a handful of
Fruit Loops
into my mouth. Sasha tugs my shoulder, forcing me to face her.

“Cassie, since when do we keep secrets from each other?”

“I’m not keeping secrets.” Not technically since none of the secrets I have are mine. Everything I want to say belongs to Vivian.

“Would you tell Diane that if she asked you the same question?” Sasha asks. “Because I have a hard time believing that you would lie to your own mother to protect the Lynchs from their downfall.”

“You think this is about me wanting to
protect
them?” I say.

“Otherwise, you’d tell me the truth, wouldn’t you? You obviously feel some sick sense of loyalty to those people. Why else would you alienate me for them? Why else would you shut me out?” she says.

Sasha’s expression reminds me of a wounded puppy.

“Sasha, there is nothing wrong,” I say. “The Lynchs aren’t brainwashing me. They aren’t conspiring against you or my parents. I’m fine. I swear. There? Was that enough to convince you to chill out?”

I can tell that it wasn’t enough. Sasha’s never been good at hiding her worry. She always gets these frown lines on her forehead like a pug. When we were kids, I often resisted the urge to smooth them with my fingers, like she were a mound of unmolded clay waited to be sculpted and refined. Even now, I resist.

“Okay,” she sighs. “I’ll back off and I guess, I’ll be Vivian’s musical entertainment. I'm only doing this for you.”

“I know,” I say. “And thank you.”

She takes my hand and with a gentle squeeze, she suddenly cracks a clownish smile. 

“So,” she says. “What are we going to wear?”

I hadn’t thought much about that. The simple mention of formal attire makes my skin itch. The last time I even came close to playing “dress-up” was for my high school prom. Sasha’s eyes light up like beams of neon during a laser show.

“We need to go shopping, right?”

“Right now,
I
need to go to class,” I say. “Then I have to work. We’ll talk about it later. Just please, find a way to contain yourself until then.”

With my car keys in hand, I grab my backpack from my room and push my way out the front door. Outside, waiting in its usual spot, is my Honda with its mint green paint glinting in the sun. I slide into the driver’s seat and adjust the rearview mirror.

I quickly pull back my unkempt hair into a low chignon. I reach into my purse for my lip-gloss for a quick retouch. When I glance back into the mirror to apply a coat, I notice a man standing behind my car.

I quickly lock the door, unable to think of a better reaction. The man doesn’t move from where he is. He doesn’t react nor does he speak. He simply looms behind my car holding what looks like a camera in his hands. My next instinct is the start the car, hoping that the sound of a revving engine will be enough to scare him off, but I'm paralyzed.

My hand dangles in the air, trembling with the key inches from the ignition. He steps to one side, snapping several pictures of me. When he approaches the driver’s side window, I jam the key into the ignition, finally able to start the car. As I pull out of the space, he shuffles to one side, averting my car as I swerve out of the lot.

I stomp the gas pedal, speeding down the street so fast that I'm sure my Honda will conk out if I don’t slow down. Once out of the immediate area and certain that I don’t see the man in the rearview mirror anymore, I slow my car to a stop to process the memory of whatever just happened.

A man taking pictures of me. How long had he been there? Had he followed me home? Seen me in Adrian’s car? I grip the steering wheel, wanting to calm the shivers roving through my shoulders. Several car horns blare abruptly, compelling me to notice the line of cars filing in behind mine. I pull myself together long enough to drive across the road as the light turns from red to green.

21

Vivian saunters into
Frank’s
around noon the next day.

When she walks through the door, I'm carrying two trays of food and milkshakes to a back booth.
Frank’s
is packed with its usual crowd. Cheers from the backroom TV area erupt into yells. I suspect a football game. Frank must be sitting in to control the rowdier patrons.

Vivian cuts through the crowded restaurant, claiming a seat at one of the tables. What I notice from afar is that she’s on the phone, smiling and curling a strand of her hair around her pinky. I can’t recall the last time I’ve seen her in such a good mood.

I deliver my final order to a table of gossiping cheerleaders before heading toward Vivian. She pays no mind to me, completely oblivious to anything, but whoever’s on the other end of that phone call. As I near, she finally glances up at me and quickly hangs up the phone.

“Cassandra!” she greets me in a chirpy voice while stuffing her phone into her purse.

I stare for a moment at that purse, waiting for a voluntary explanation. She offers nothing.

“Vivian. What are you doing here?”

“I'm taking you out for lunch,” she says. “Remove that disgusting apron and meet me in the car.”

“Guess there’s no point in arguing with you, huh?” I mutter beneath my breath.

She doesn’t hear.

“We have to discuss the rest of the preparations for the gala,” she says.

“I’m in the middle of a work shift,” I say.

“Are you saying ‘no’ Cassandra?”

I part my lips, thinking of a different answer than the one that comes out of my mouth.

“Fine, I’ll meet you in the car. Just let me tell Frank I'm leaving. As you can see, we’re kind of busy today.”

I gesture at the congested dining room, at all of the overflowing tables crammed with college students with open books, some just sipping coffee. The stench of grease, food and body heat coagulates in the air, forcing me to hold my nose. Vivian’s already ignoring me.

With her cell phone out, she proceeds to text. I stare sidelong at her, waiting for her to respond. Her focus never leaves that cell phone.

* * *

Vivian chooses the restaurant, of course. At least she doesn’t force me to drive this time. During the drive, I think about mentioning the photographer to her. I wonder if she will deny it, tell me I'm insane or that I imagined the whole incident. I shake my head, chastising the thoughts that incite doubt. There is no way I imagined it.

“How is school?” Vivian asks in some random fashion during the drive. I eye the traffic, counting the cars whizzing around us in rapid succession. The heat of Vivian’s shadow feels heavy on my shoulders. It latches on, nails sunk deep into my skin like a perching vulture. “Cassandra?”

“School was good,” I say.

“You’re not gonna elaborate?”

“Honestly, Vivian, I'm not really sure what you want from me.”

She sighs, but keeps her focus on the traffic.

“By the end of the year, I’ll be dead, Cassandra. Don’t you think you can humor me with some small talk until then?”

“Don’t do that,” I mutter. “Don’t guilt me into behaving the way you want me to.”

She rolls her eyes. I turn away, arms folded, refusing to face her. Several silent minutes roll by.

“Fine, then we’ll talk business instead,” she says. “Did you book the venue for the gala?”

I nod. “You’re all set and ready to go at the Coconut Lounge.”

“And the caterers? Did you remember to call them?”

“I spoke to them,” I say. “The arrangements are finalized. They want you decide on the finger-food appetizers. Mini quiche or shrimp puffs?”

“You decide,” she replies.

“You’re leaving this to me?” I ask warily.

“You’ve proven yourself a capable girl,” she says. “I’m sure you can handle a decision as small as food.”

I know the hidden meaning in those words. The way she says them confirms my initial suspicions. She’ll let me decide only to end up contradicting me. The only way out of this is to beat her to the punch. I pull out my phone and text the caterer, ensuring that she bring both quiche
and
shrimp.

“Did you secure the entertainment?” she asks.

“It’s taken care of and at no cost to you,” I say.

“Oh? And who did you manage to hire?”

“Sasha is a music major. She plays the violin, the viola
and
the cello. I figure that since the gala is in honor of your scholarship program for Northham that it’d be some good publicity to actually have students from the school attend the event.”

Vivian deliberates in silence while staring intently at the traffic flow. I brace myself for the backlash, wondering how she’ll react. She and Sasha have made no secret of their disdain for each other. I have no idea how to react.

“Hmm, I like that,” she says. “Good girl, Cassandra. You’d be an excellent publicist.”

At some point, I exhale. She’s never been so easily appeased. I’ve finally discovered how to outwit the queen. We stop for lunch where she orders for us both at some other beachfront eatery with fish cooked fresh in front of the customers atop a grill sitting in the center of the restaurant.

It’s a show, watching the chef toss and flip his spatula into the air while cutting, dicing and sautéing several fish at once. Vivian selects a booth for us, near a window in full view of the ocean. I watch seagulls glide toward the beach. Some are already onshore, pecking at the insides of discarded food wrappings littering the coastline.

It’s a cool day, much too cold for the usual herd of beachgoers that often congregate on the shore this time of day. No one wearing a bikini or swim trunks is out there today. For now, the beach belongs to the birds and it
is
beautiful. Sandy white shore. A backdrop of cerulean sky with just a smudge of white masquerading as clouds overhead.

I almost can’t focus on eating because of it. Neither can Vivian who hasn’t touched her food at all. I mostly drink lemonade after an occasional nibble of bread. Vivian makes waves with her silence. She appears steady and focused, observing me like a panther assessing potential prey.

“We should talk about something,” she announces. I don’t like these words. They never mean anything good for the person hearing them. I guzzle the rest of my lemonade and stiffen in my seat.

“About what?” I ask.

“To be honest, I’ve been trying to avoid this, but…I knew I would have to bring it up eventually,” she says.

I swallow a bite of salmon and shift my focus to her. “I don’t like where this is going.”

“After lunch, I’d like to take you someplace important,” she says.

“Um, I'm not sure how to feel about that,” I say with my head down to keep from having to look her in the eye. I poke a piece of fish with my fork, saturating the meat in tartar sauce before tentatively swallowing the bite.

“Cassandra, please,” she replies and before I can reply, her hand wraps around mine as I clutch my fork. I finally look up, locking eyes with her. Something in her eyes dims, like a faulty bulb. She reaches for her fork gradually, making me wonder if she’ll snap and attempt to lodge those prongs into my throat. I move back with careful precision, sliding my chair away one subtle inch at a time.

“Please,” she says after stabbing a lima bean on her plate. “I need you to trust me.”

“Vivian, I really have to get back to work. I don’t know if I can get Frank to agree with—”

“I’ll handle Frank,” she interjects. “I know how to handle men.”

“That’s something I don’t doubt.”

She smirks and releases my hand to slip the lima bean into her mouth.

“Just say ‘yes.’”

Saying “no” to her has never gotten me anywhere in the past, so I nod. And she smiles.

* * *

In the car, as she drives, she applies a coat of coral lipstick. She slathers her lips with the stuff and puckers up to examine the color. At the next red light, I turn and ask, “What’s with the coral lipstick?”

“Hmm?”

“That’s the only shade you ever wear,” I say. “Is there some significance?”

The car propels forward, corresponding to the green light. Vivian allows herself some contemplation as if she must really consider the answer she’ll respond with. We drive for many silent minutes before she replies, “I believe that there is some spiritual significance in all colors. They say black means death. Red means passion. Blue is sadness. No one has ever provided a proper definition for Coral.”

“I always thought it was the second cousin twice removed from orange,” I joke.

Vivian allows herself a wisp smile, but retains a deadpan expression as if she’s deep in thought.

“Coral is such an unrepresented color. To me, it means renewal or rebirth, like the color of a phoenix bird’s flames,” she says. “The Phoenix dies, flames out and is reborn from its own ashes. I’d like the think that the same could happen for me.”

“You believe in reincarnation?” I ask, though the answer to me is a no brainer. Her obsession with converting me into a younger version of herself by dyeing my hair and teaching me her many philosophies and mannerisms, can’t be coincidence. She doesn’t just want a successor. She wants a clone.

“Not in the literal sense,” she replies. “I believe that one can project the quintessence of themselves onto another to
emulate
the appearance of reincarnation, sort of how kings sought male successors to their thrones in the 17
th
century. It’s silly, I know, but don’t think me crazy. I have my reasons for thinking the way I do.”

“That sounds like something a narcissist would say,” I mutter.

After a moment, she replies, “I have never denied my narcissism.”

We stop for gas at some point, but ride mostly in silence with backdrop traffic noises. I don’t ask questions, knowing she won’t answer them. Vivian remains in her focused state with a familiar meditative expression on her face for the duration of the drive.

At the two-hour mark, I doze off, no longer able to retain consciousness. Occasionally, I wake to the sound of soft music humming from the radio before dropping back off into a deep sleep where dreams and nightmares collect themselves in my head. The next time I open my eyes, we’re parked and Vivian is staring at me. Can’t tell how long she’s been watching me sleep.

“Ah, you’re awake,” she says. “Finally.”

“How long have I been out?” I yawn and stretch my cramp arms overhead.

“An hour, maybe. I didn’t want to wake you. You looked peaceful. I could tell that you needed the rest,” she says.

She removes the key from the ignition and drops them into her purse. I rub my eyes with my fists and turn my focus toward the window to pinpoint where we are. A small quaint building labelled:
Flint’s and Family Funeral Home.

“Why are we here?” I ask, though I’ve already surmised a few conclusions of my own. Vivian faces away from me, casting a forlorn gaze at the windshield.

“Vivian?”

Finally, she turns, looking at me as if I haven’t said anything at all. “Hmm?”

“Why are we at a funeral home?”

“Because I…figured that…” Her shoulders tremble, rocking forward then up. Eyes dart downward, searching for something in the air only she can see. “I’ve been putting this off for far too long. It’s time I commence the preparations for my funeral.”

I’ve never heard her say the word until now.
Funeral
. Now that she has, I realize why she hadn’t. Then it occurs to me. How often does she lie awake at night thinking about
the end?
Does it invade her dreams? She’d mentioned one such dream to me before and the look her face as she described it was pure terror.

“It took a lot of hell for me to even get myself to say the word,” she says. “It’s tragically hilarious. I mean, I know I'm dying. I accept that. I'm not even bitter about it anymore. I just…it never processes in my mind. The concept of the death just doesn’t seem real. I keep forgetting that when one dies, there has to be a funeral.”

“Vivian, why are you doing this
now
?” I ask. “You should be resting.”

“There won’t be time later!” she retorts then the usual tears pall her face in a wet curtain, flowing from beneath her glassy eyes. “I can’t believe I'm planning my own funeral. I’ve been putting it off for so long, I guess I just hoped it would go away, prayed that this is all some horrid dream, but…I'm not waking up, Cassandra. No one can wake me up!”

I resist the knee-jerk reaction to change to subject, to crack some lame joke to lighten the mood. Vivian is imploding from within. I can’t imagine a suitable way to respond to this or a way to rub it like some bruise. Kiss it. Make it all better. I'm not good at this.
How? How am I supposed to make this easier for her?

“Vivian, what do you need me to do?”

“So,” she says in a calm, less theatrical voice. “I need you to help me prepare to die.”