After Her (3 page)

Sasha isn’t what anyone would call fat, just heavier around the midsection with a slight muffin top. Her height evens that out. At 5’7, 143 pounds isn’t fat. No matter how many times I tell her that, she never believes me.

“Where’d you come up with idea?” I ask.

“From you.”

“
Me
? I don’t think I’d ever encourage you to starve yourself.”

“First of all, I’m not starving myself,” she insists. “Second of all, this
was
your idea. You think I don’t listen to all of that psychobabble that comes out of your mouth? It was your idea for me to ‘discover some alternative coping methods in ensuring that I deal with problems in a healthier way.’ You don’t remember saying that?”

That imitation she does of me anytime she wants to emphasize a point is spot-on. Sasha never passes up a chance to remind me of my most hypocritical moments. From me, preaching to her about coping with problems is akin to the pot calling the kettle black.
I'm
the one evading my own mother’s phone calls.

Sasha bites into her granola, swallowing without chewing. I sit back, relaxing my ass against the sunbaked concrete bench. Spring shouldn’t be this hot. I'm still not used to the Californian weather. As a native from Montana who has only known cool summers and windy springs, I'm a spoiled weather brat.

No day in Montana was ever defined as hot or cold, just meh. Residents never watched the local forecast because we always knew what to expect. Cool, sunny skies with a just a touch of wind to top off an occasional warm front. I look to the sky with squinted eyes, yawning as Sasha rummages through her backpack. With the granola bar between her lips, she fishes out a sheet of paper and studies it for a moment.

“You really should ease up on all the overtime. Frank is gonna end up killing you,” she remarks when I yawn again, though I won’t waste breath explaining that work isn’t what has me so exhausted.

“What is that piece of paper?” I ask to change the subject.

“Fucking tuition bill for the fall came early this year,” she mutters. “Can you believe the shit they’re pulling with these numbers?”

I turn, squinting to see the words through the reflection of sunlight. All I can read is the regulatory warning in bold red letters, ordering the student (i.e. Sasha) to pay the fixed amount by April 15
th
. Sasha’s face scrunches up with a pucker of wrinkles perforating the area between her eyebrows like a Shar Pei.

“Since when do
you
stress over money?” I ask.

Something in her eyes darkens as if someone flips a switch and extinguishes every flicker of hope behind them. “Daddy has been a little stingy with my allowance lately,” she says. “How the hell do you do it, Cass?”

I narrow my eyes, taking some offense the tone of her voice.

“Do what?”

“Frank is cheating you and you just sit back, grin and bear it.”

I chuckle beneath my breath. Of course, she doesn’t get it. Real world problems, such as money, rarely ever touch Sasha, but she does have a point. I’ve just been in denial about it for too long. It wouldn’t be the first time I swallowed shit and took it like a man. I'm sure it won’t be the last time either. In my pocket, my phone buzzes again. I’ll let it go to voicemail. Seven missed calls.
Not now, Mom.

3

On Tuesday, I return to work.

This shift is no different except that fact that I'm no longer on bussing duty with Amos the usual kitchen helper back from sick leave. I’m restricted to serving and managing the dining area along with the Janis and Vera, the only other waitresses on Frank’s payroll.

The three of us scamper around the dining room like frantic chickens, taking and delivering orders. The lunch rush crowd is never an easy audience to serve. The dinner hours are worst. Everyone is out of class. Some are drunk; others are high and seeking some quick relief for the munchies by dropping into the restaurant for a snack.

College students are the worst customers because the tips they leave are shit. I’d even argue that they’re also the worst kinds of people, but it’d be a major oxymoron for someone like me to generalize since I belong to same age group I'm criticizing. 

This is the evening hour when most of the students from Northham arrive since this is the closest restaurant to the main campus and where everyone gathers in study groups to cram for midterms.

Occasionally, I sneak in my own study session in the restroom like always during my ten-minute break. I rejoin Janis and Vera in the dining room to deal with the grabby varsity idiots who have obviously had too much to drink before arriving so they figure that means they can grab any ass that walks by.

Janis, Vera and I play a round of
rock, paper, scissors
to determine which of us will be forced to take their orders. As usual, I lose to Vera who suspiciously picks rock every single time we play. I'm not sure if it’s luck that always guarantees her victory or if she just telepathically knows which I’ll pick.

After I'm defeated, I put on my best “customer friendly smile” and saunter over to a table of guys wearing lettermen jackets with the Northham dolphin mascot on their backs.

The table is overflowing with them. I count twelve. None are sober enough to coherently read my name on my nametag.

Once I can get this over with, I can deal with the rest of the work shift with no problem. I have put up with assholes before. I know which method to use to keep them at bay without angering Frank who’s observing from behind the bar.

“Welcome to
Frank’s Grub Hub
,” I announce to the drunken varsity boys. “I’ll be your waitress this evening. What can I get you all for drinks?”

The table lulls to a whisper as one blonde guy, who I recognize from my Calculus class, leans forward with his menu. This one is Cameron Blake, star football player with a nose I’ve wanted to break since the last time he and his friends ate here. I discard that unpleasant memory from mind to preserve my customer-friendly smile.

“Where is your beer menu?” Cameron asks.

“I'm sorry sir, but we can’t and won’t sell beer to minors,” I say through clenched teeth. “You’re two years short of adulthood. I can get you and your friends some soda or water. Which do you prefer?”

Cameron rolls his eyes and scoffs at me as if he can’t believe my audacity in denying him a beer. I struggle to retain the smile on my face, but I can’t imagine this tiresome song and dance lasting for long. He whispers to the guy sitting beside him. I remain in place, gripping my notepad, forcing this idiotic grin and praying that he’ll just order his damn food and not give me any trouble.

“Wait, I know you,” says Cameron. “You’re Grace, right? From my Calculus class?”

“Cassandra, actually, but that’s not the point,” I say. “Do you want to order or not? I have other customers to tend to.”

Cameron belches a laugh and I feel my smile waning.

“Your friend is hot,” he says. “And you’re not so bad looking either. Is it true you that still have your cherry?”

I blush at his lewd response and somehow resist the urge to stab him in the eye with my pen as professionalism and the overwhelming need to keep my job overtakes me. I can’t afford to lose this job. I'm strapped for cash and this asshole will not get the best of me.

“Do you know what you want to order?” I reply through clenched teeth. “Or not?”

“You’re the one browsing the menu,” he says. “You tell me. Which of us are you going serve tonight?”

I glower at him, certain now that my customer friendly smile won’t remain much longer. Just as I'm about to dive across the table to throttle him, someone replies, “Such rude little boys. Who on earth forgot to teach you manners?”

We all react to the voice and gawk at the woman it belongs to. She struts toward the table like a predatory animal with her head held high, an arctic gleam in her eyes and a very expensive looking purse on her shoulder.

She wears a skintight dress, clearly meant to wear at some elegant gala. Her brown hair sits atop her head in a beehive style with ringlets framing her face. Compared to me, clad in my dirtied apron, lopsided ponytail and scuffed Converses, she’s completely overdressed.

“Are they bothering you, dear?” she asks me. I'm too speechless to reply, so I only nod. She glares at each of the boys like a mother shaming them all in front of the crowded restaurant.

“I wish parents would teach their sons how to treat a lady,” she says after wrapping her arm around my shoulders. “Which one of you is making my daughter uncomfortable?”

“Your daughter?” I mouth and she winks at me, expecting me to go along with this charade.

“You realize that verbal remarks are just as felonious as physical assault. Cassandra is within her rights to report you
all
for sexual harassment. I know you don’t want that dirty little stain on your college records. Do I have to call my lawyer?”

Cameron stares Vivian down before lurching out of his chair and retreating toward the exit without a fuss. His friends soon follow like sheep behind their shepherd then Vivian adds, “And boys? If Cassandra ever mentions that you’ve been harassing her, I’ll have no choice, but to insist she press charges.”

All twelve guys leave in a huff, slamming the door behind them so hard that the glass shatters from the frame. Frank rushes from behind the counter about ready to go into an anger fueled rant until Vivian reaches into her expensive purse, pulls out several hundred bills and hands them to him.

“I'm sorry about this,” she tells him. “That money should be enough to pay for the damage they did to your door. If not, please, send me the full bill.” Then she hands him a business card, as Frank appears dumbstruck. 

“I hope your virtue wasn’t threatened too much, Miss Tate,” she says to me.

I shake my head, speechlessly grasping for words.

“Um…no, I'm fine,” I say. “I’ve dealt with those guys before. They are a lot of dirty talk, but no real action. I think Cameron might be overcompensating for some shortcomings in the nether regions if you ask me.”

Vivian chuckles. Her resulting smile remains on her face long after the joke. She lingers on me, staring as if she expected a different reaction from me. I don’t like the way she looks at me, as if she’s appraising something on the showroom floor and wondering how much it will cost to rent.

“Thank you for threatening Cameron Blake,” I say with a meek smile. “Now I need to get back to work.”

I turn to leave and Vivian’s hand grasps my wrist, pulling me back.

“Cassandra, would you mind asking your boss for a break?” she asks. “I’d like to discuss something with you and I feel that it’s a rather delicate matter.”

I glance at her hand clasped around my wrist. I look into her eyes, wondering what’s going through her head.

“I don’t think I can get Frank to agree with that,” I say though I have no plans of involving him regardless. “We’re busy in the dining area and we’re very short-staffed.”

“Surely, you can loan me a few minutes of your time. I promise that what I have to say will only take a moment.”

That ravenous look in her eyes makes me think about Sasha’s earlier assumptions.

I'm not so sure how outlandish they are anymore. I attempt to jerk out of her grasp, but her hand tightens when I do, suctioning my forearm. Any more of a struggle from me and I'm sure she’ll break my damn wrist.

“I'm sorry,” I say with a tremble in my voice. “I can’t spare the time. Could you please let go of my arm?”

Vivian’s smile fades. A scowl replaces it. She has officially crossed the line from ominous stranger to potential psycho. When she releases my arm, I walk away so fast that I'm almost running to get away from her. I nearly collide into one of the approaching busboys exiting the kitchen.

I rush into the kitchen to seek refuge. I risk a quick glance at her over my shoulder and notice that she hasn’t budged from the spot I left her in. Her scowl is now a smirk as she stares back at me. I’ve never paid any attention to Sasha’s imaginative outlook on people and the world around her, but I fear she may be spot on this time. That woman’s presence gives me chills that I can’t ignore.

4

I return to the apartment around 10:00
pm
.

Sasha is asleep on the couch with an open Chemistry book propped beneath her head and the television playing a
Gossip Girl
rerun. I remove my Converses at the door after locking the deadbolt then I tiptoe in the living room to switch off the TV.

Sasha doesn’t budge and I can’t help, but thank god for the midterms. She has been a manic bookworm since the cramming period began. I’ve intentionally worked overtime shifts so that when I return home, she’s already asleep and too exhausted to harass me with the usual questions.

If she were awake, I wouldn’t be able to explain the hand shaped bruise on my forearm without arousing some unwanted concern. Mail sits in the wire basket on the kitchen counter. All that remains are the envelopes with my name on them.

I tuck the envelopes under my arm and hang my jacket on the rack. I gather the emptied
Lean Cuisine
packaging from the living room table along with Sasha’s coffee mug, which smells of the warm tea that was once inside.

After stuffing the dishes into the washer and emptying the garbage disposal bin, I grab myself a granola bar and some bottled water from the refrigerator and proceed to listen to the answering machine messages.

Most are telemarketers trying to sale us on credit cards. Others are from bill collectors requesting past due payments and two are wrong numbers. The last one is my mother, which isn’t weird because she only ever calls for trivial small talk and to gossip about the neighbors back home. No matter how trivial, I see no reason not to return her call especially since I’ve been putting her off for a week.

I’ll have the day to myself tomorrow with no scheduled classes and no work so there is nothing I have to get up in the morning for unlike Sasha who has an early morning Tai Chi class that she never misses on Wednesdays. It’ll be nice to have the apartment to myself for the first time in weeks.

I flick off the lamp light in the living room for Sasha and I head to my bedroom with my phone, granola bar, mail and car keys in hand. After undressing, I toss the soiled clothes into the dirty clothes hamper and shower with the water on hot.

Standing beneath the showerhead, I watch the droplets wash over the bruise stamping my forearm. Vivian’s hand remains around my wrist even now. The sensation of her phantom grip burns beneath my skin. I shudder, remembering that voracious look in her eyes.

I close my eyes, wanting to dispel those thoughts while scrubbing the bruise until my skin is raw and pink. That woman branded me, left me perpetually reminded of her. As long as this bruise remains, I can’t forget her.

After showering, I get into my pajamas—silk floral nightclothes that my mother sent last Easter. I sit on my bed, finger combing my wet hair to detangle the strands as I check the clock for the time. It’s 10:30 pm, only an hour behind Montana’s time zone. I finally dial my mother for a follow-up call. While thumbing through my mail and booting up my laptop, I listen as the phone rings until Mom answers on the fifth one.

“I knew you were home,” she answers in an accusatory tone. “You been avoiding my calls again.”

I'm glad she can’t see me scowling. I hate when she guilts me over a few missed calls. It’s not as if she ever has anything important to say so it’s not like I miss much from the phone calls I don’t return. Despite the unprovoked hostility, I'm happy to hear her voice.

“Hello, Mother,” I reply while staring at the
Windows
Vista
splash screen as my laptop wakes with a chiming sound. “I just got home from work. I'm officially all yours to talk for however long you want me.”

She sounds weary, probably just returning home. I figure I’ll go easy on her and not be as brusque as I usually am during our calls. I overhear the sound of crackling plastic bags and assume she’s loading groceries into the refrigerator. While she busies herself with that, I glance at my computer and log into my email account. It’s only spam, but I hate clutter so I skim the emails for legitimate messages and trash the others.

“So what have you been up to, babe?” she asks just as I click
delete
on some message advertising a dating website that I'm convinced Sasha may have secretly signed me up for as some prank. 

I shrug and I reply, “Um, nothing really. Midterms are coming up so we’ve all been killing ourselves cramming. Work is monotonous. Other than that, nothing astronomically interesting has occurred since the last time we talked. What about you?”

“Erick is thinking of heading to Anguilla for the winter. He invited me.”

My eyes widen. I swear that my mouth even drops open.

“You and Dad are going on a second honeymoon? That’s…surprising. I don’t know many divorced couples that go on vacation together.”

Mom chuckles. “First of all, we’re
annulled
. That’s probably why you moved so far away from home. You were trying to get away from us.”

She sounds miserable and I feel guilty for bringing up memories that depress her. Mom is a hard-ass in some aspects concerning me, but mostly a teddy bear since she’s convinced I've abandoned her out of selfishness.

“Mom,” I say. “I didn’t leave home to get away from you.” I imagine her rolling her eyes at this point.

“You’re still coming home for Spring Break, aren’t you?” she asks after a brief pause. “Erick would love to have you at the farm for the weekends. Take you horseback riding like you used to when you were a kid. That little ice cream shop you love is also still in business and still selling your favorite orange sherbets.”

The thought of being back home makes me uneasy. I’ve tried to deny it, but some truth
does
exist in Mom’s theory about me leaving Montana to get away from her. I love my mother. It’s biologically impossible for me to feel anything less.

She just has the worst habit of pushing all the wrong buttons sometimes. She’s easier to deal with over the phone. I don’t have to look her in the eye and see the resentment in her face anytime she strategically reminds me of the best memories I have of home. I'm sure she only does this to guilt me.

Since I’m her only kid, Mom spent too much time building her life around me. We were
too
close and always around each other to a suffocating degree. I was one of those rare kids who prayed for a younger sibling, mainly to take the heat off myself. My decision to move out was the only thing I knew that would keep us from killing each other. Northham University was my escape—my prison break.

“Twenty years after the annulment and you two still act like you have joint custody of me,” I joke. “I'm probably the only reason you two got married. If you’d never gotten pregnant, would you two had even gotten married at all?”

“Probably not,” she says without hesitation. “You never answered my question.”

“Yes mother, I'm still coming home for Spring Break,” I say. “I hate leaving Sasha to fend for herself on campus though. I can't imagine whose bed she’ll end up in without me around to filter her choices.”

“Then bring her too,” says Mom. “I don’t mind getting the foldout couch cushions dry cleaned for her.”

I cringe imagining my mother and Sasha in the same house with me for the Spring Break week. I don’t think I’d survive those two ganging up on me. It is common knowledge that Sasha is more of a compatible daughter for my mother than I am.

They could spend an entire afternoon skimming the latest issue of
Us Weekly
and blab about celebrity scandals and who that cute new actor was in some trashy chick flick they saw. I’d be bored. Sometimes, I wonder, if my mother could trade me in for a better model like a shiny new sports car, would she?

“I don’t think Sasha can come,” I say. “She’ll probably spend the week barhopping.”

“Oh well, if she changes her mind, let me know.”

“Sure.” I log onto some gaming website to distract myself with a mindless game of Solitaire as Mom gossips about the neighbor’s new boyfriend who’s apparently “young enough to be her son.”

“Can you believe her?” Mom asks. “Screwing around with that little boy? It’s sickening, if you ask me.” 

“Sounds like she’s experiencing a midlife crisis,” I reply though I've only heard a bit of what she said, but it’s easy to fake conversation with my mother. She often talks about the same topics and I have a rehearsed reply for everything she says beforehand. It’s easy to appease her. I never have to hurt her feelings by letting her know that I wasn’t listening.

“A midlife crisis?”

“Some women approaching fifty might want to spice up their lives by taking a lover significantly younger than herself,” I say.

“I see you’re putting those studies to good use,” she says in a reproachful tone. “But I refuse to believe that a woman’s age determines when she’ll lose all self-respect and sleep with the first man that gives her a dirty look.
I
haven’t taken a teenage lover and I certainly wouldn’t dare try.”

“I'm sure you’ve thought about it at least once,” I tease while moving my finger across my mouse pad to place an Ace card atop a Spades card in my virtual Solitaire game. “It’s okay Mom, you don’t have to act so snooty. Dirty thoughts are healthy.”

“Cassandra,” she snaps. “I could never imagine myself playing house with a nineteen year old boy any more than you can imagine yourself with someone your father’s age.”

I sigh at her overreaction, but it’s not like I blame her. Mom is an old-fashioned woman with a heap of pride. She is not one to try new things and certainly not one to clam up when she has an opinion about something.

“Well, what if I did decide to date a middle-aged man?” I tease. “You wouldn’t want to meet him?”

“Don’t joke like that, Cassandra,” she says. “It’s not funny.”

I hold in my laughter as I imagine her cheeks blushing beet red.

“I think it’d be an interesting experience,” I say. “It wouldn’t be so weird. I’ve never had much in common with any guy my own age. What if I belong with someone older, someone worldlier, more…
experienced
.”

“If you’re going to talk smut, you might as well hang up the phone because I don’t want to hear it,” she says and I can’t suppress my laughter any longer. I cough out a chuckle that I'm sure she’s sneering at.

“Mom, don’t be such a killjoy,” I say. “No wonder Sasha thinks I'm a prude. I clearly inherited it from you.”

“A prude is a silly name you call a woman with standards,” she says. “If you ever think of bringing some perverted old man to dinner at
my
house as your boyfriend, I swear I’ll never speak to you again.”

I sigh again. “You’d seriously disown me if I dated a man you didn’t approve of?”

“Of course not,” she replies after a meditative pause. “That doesn’t mean I won’t fight tooth and nail to get you see the error of your ways.”

“You don’t have to worry about me,” I say. “At the rate I'm going, I will probably die a virgin.”

“Cassandra!”

“Mom, calm down, geez, you just finished preaching morality and standards to me. Aren’t you happy I'm not dating?”

With a deep breath, she calms and says, “I’d like you to be happy. Find a nice man with a pretty smile and I’ll be happy too.”

“And if this nice man does happen to be thirty years older than me…”

“Cassandra,” she mutters sternly, warning me not to push my luck any further.

“Relax mother,” I say. “I wouldn’t date any man who doesn’t earn
your
personal seal of approval first.”

“Speaking of which, Helen Collins’ son has asked about you,” she adds. “Should I tell him you’re visiting?”

“I already have Sasha acting as my matchmaker,” I say. “I don’t need you forcing men on me too.”

“I’m only trying to help,” she says. Just like Sasha, my mother has my best interest at heart in her own overbearing and totally irrational way. I can't fault her for not being able to shut off her maternal mode long enough to have a conversation with me.

“I gotta go,” I say. “I need to study and tomorrow is the first day in weeks that I’ll get the apartment to myself.”

“I’ve already mailed your plane ticket, so don’t worry,” she says. “Your father will pick you up from the airport and I’ll be waiting with dinner when you get here. I love you too much, baby. Take care of yourself.”

“Love you more, Mom,” I say with a smile until I hear a dial tone. I press
end
on the cell phone keypad while staring at the laptop screen as my game of Solitaire sits idle, awaiting my next move.

* * *

When I wake the next morning, I smell something unexpected. I rush into the kitchen to confirm my suspicions. Sasha stands in front of the stove fanning smoke seeping from the skillet in clouds of fog that shroud the kitchen.

Before the smoke detector has a chance to squeal, I quickly detach it from the wall then remove the batteries. She spots me in the kitchen doorway and waves me in after flipping something in the skillet with a spatula.