After Her (6 page)

“Yeah, I guess so. The town is pretty small so everyone there knows each other.”

“So why did you abandon it for the cesspool of sin, Orange Country?”

I feel like I'm talking to my mother. She’s asked me this question several times.

“Well, I received a two year scholarship for Northham,” I say. “It’s not a university you turn down. I was waitlisted for months.”

“And your parents?”

I shrug, expecting her to elaborate further on the question.  “What about them?”

“What are their occupations?” she clarifies.

I stare dubiously at her, trying to uncover her motives.

“You’re asking about my parents? If this is a job interview, what do
they
have to do with anything?”

“It’s sort of a psychological exam,” she replies. “All employees are screened. It helps filter out the crazies.”

I remain stoic, for some reason unconvinced by her answer, but not wholeheartedly suspicious.

“Well…um, my mom is an elementary school teacher,” I say. “And my dad has a farm back home. He is the local go-to man for the freshest milk, eggs and dairy in town. It wasn’t the most exciting upbringing.”

“Your parents are divorced, I presume?” 

“
Annulled
,” I say as my mother would with an emphasis on each syllable of the word.

“Why?”

“Why…
what
?” I ask.

“Why did your parents annul their marriage?” she asks.

With a feeling of mental whiplash, I stare wide-eyed at her. “You’re asking about my parents’ martial issues?”

“It’s pertinent for me to familiarize myself with your mindset,” she says. “If your parents separated when you were young, it’s possible that you could have suffered from the emotional backlash. I need to know about the environment you grew up in as a child.”

“This is way too in depth to for a simple job interview,” I say. “What position am I interviewing for exactly?”

“I’ve already gone over the rules Cassandra,” she replies impatiently. “Answer my questions first then I’ll tell you everything you need to know.”

“Asking me personal questions isn’t part of the deal,” I say.

She chuckles dismissively as if my demands are trite and she’s choosing to ignore them.

“Cassandra, I haven’t asked the personal questions yet.”

I glare at her. I don’t know why, but that response irks me. Perhaps because of her smarmy voice or that strong sense of obvious entitlement she feels to ask these kinds of questions. She scrawls something onto a notepad that she pulls from inside her briefcase.

I can’t read what it says since she purposely obstructs my view by holding it upright.

“Will this entire lunch be spent with you asking inappropriate questions and me submitting to your every whim?” I ask.

“I sincerely hope that you’re not the submissive type,” she says. “It’s such an unattractive trait in a woman.” 

“This isn’t a job interview, is it?” I say. “Because it’s starting to feel more like a date.”

She laughs aloud, but doesn’t appear offended by my allegation.

“I'm not a lesbian,” she says. “I have experimented with many alternative lifestyles, but lesbianism isn’t one of them.”

I gape at her, stunned by her response. As I scramble to find some mental equanimity, I hear Sasha in my head chanting a single word:
prude
.

“Are you surprised that I'm not a lesbian…or disappointed?” she asks with a fierce look of devilish intent in her eye. When I don’t reply, she adds, “Don’t worry. That was a rhetorical question. I don’t mean to put you on the spot…not yet anyway.”

I need something to drink. I guzzle my cider until the glass is empty, still unable to find any relief. I sit in a puddle of my own sweat, fidgeting on pins and needles prickling beneath my skin like rampant ants.

“When will I be allowed to know why you’re asking me these questions?”

She shakes her head.

“Not yet.”

“Then can I ask
you
one?”

“You just did,” she chuckles, but I don’t acknowledge her joke. I’m much too wound to indulge her inapt humor.

“How old are you?” I ask, deadpan.

“Forty-seven.”

“Wow, I didn’t expect you to tell me the truth,” I say.

“Why would I lie? I'm not ashamed of my age, Cassandra. Aging isn’t a curse. It’s a part of life just as birth and death is. If ever given the chance, I wouldn’t dare relive my thirties and certainly not my twenties.”

“You wouldn’t?”

She shakes her head with no hesitation. “Of course not.”

“Why not?”

“I remember feeling so…lost during those years,” she says. “I made horrible decisions in my youth.”

“What kind of decisions?” I ask.

A furrow creases her brow, allowing her to emote something that resembles regret.

“I dropped out of college to marry at nineteen,” she says. “Before long, I was divorced twice, heartbroken and extremely disillusioned by the entire idea of matrimony. As of now, I enjoy my forty-seven year old wisdom. I wouldn’t change a thing about it.”

That was more sensible than I expected and it’s not like I expected much. It seems that Vivian is more than just a pretty face in expensive shoes. I don’t know whether to admire or fear that aspect of her personality.

The waitress returns and asks what our appetizers will be. Like before, Vivian orders for us both—Tuna Tataki for us to share. For the main course, she orders me a California Roll and orders herself a Wasabi Salmon Roll along with a pitcher of water and refills of our cider. She must know that I’ll need water if I'm to survive the rest of this lunch date.

After receiving our food, Vivian allows me a ten-minute reprieve from her interrogation while we both eat in silence. She finishes her meal first and continues skimming her paperwork as I gobble the last of the appetizers and listen as the men on stage transition to a livelier piano and saxophone rendition of
It Had to Be You.

“Would you like dessert?” Vivian asks me.

I wipe my mouth with a napkin.

“I’d like to know why you really brought me here,” I say. “You have been dancing around that topic for far too long.”

“I thought we were just two new friends having lunch,” she says, knowing damn well that isn’t the case.

“You don’t even know me,” I say. “We’re not friends.”

“I’d like us to be,” she says. “These questions are to get to know you. I want everything I can get out of you. Your likes and dislikes. Your hopes and dreams. All of it will serve the greater good. I won’t be able to close this deal unless you stop being so damn stubborn.”

“You talk about me like I'm some sort of an investment or a business endeavor.”

“I hate to make you feel like property, Cassandra, but it must be done this way. So many other young women have disappointed me in the past,” she says. “I will
not
experience that kind of betrayal again. Although your background check returned with positive results, I’d like to be as thorough as possible.”

“Wait a second,” I say with a fork clenched in my fist. “You hired someone to perform a background check on me?”

She continues coolly perusing her paperwork. 

“Let’s not make a scene,” she replies without glancing away from her papers. “You wouldn’t want to embarrass yourself in a crowded restaurant, would you?”

I glance around and note my surroundings. We are within earshot of an elderly couple and a Hispanic businessman arguing with someone on his cell phone in a foreign tongue. She’s right. I can't make a scene. That’s probably why she brought me here because she knew that I wouldn’t.

“Okay,” I reply after a deep breath. “I won’t make a scene, but you need to tell me what you want.”

Vivian flips to a specific page in her paperwork packet then writes something else onto her notepad.

“Answer my questions and I will tell you whatever you want,” she says. I realize that she’s not willing to negotiate on
that
condition. She has the upper hand and I have nothing in return to coax any answers out of her. Either I give in or I'm never leaving this restaurant, not with my sanity intact.

“Fine, I’ll answer your damn questions,” I say.

7

Vivian orders dessert against my wishes.

I don’t touch the red velvet cake the waitress places in front of me. I don’t even touch the fork. I gulp several glasses of water as Vivian continues busying herself with the mysterious paperwork she won’t let me see. The performers on stage transition to a jazzy rendition of
At Last
as I try to tune it out.

“Vivian, just tell me what you want,” I say, my voice heavy with anxiety, thick with panic.

She neatens the pile of paperwork and clears her throat.

“I’d like more information about your outlook on life,” she says.

“What?”

“Where do you see yourself ten years from now?”

After a sip of water and a deep breath, I reply, “I’ve never stopped to think about life after college. I guess if I'm really honest, college began as a smokescreen to keep me from having to go back home.”

“Is there something in Montana you’re avoiding?” she asks after jotting my previous answer onto her notepad.

I glance at my half-empty glass, seeking another distraction. I can’t bring myself to face her. Instead, I rub my fingers against the glass, tracing sporadic patterns of pentagonal shapes in the condensation. “I don’t really feel like talking about this.”

“Ah, then it’s not a some
thing
,” she says with a delightful spark in her eye. “It’s a some
one
.”

“Vivian—”

“Who is it? An ex-boyfriend? Your father? Or…is it your mother?”

“You know what?” I blurt out in agitation. “Enough about me. I have been a good girl. I’ve answered your questions. I'm allowed to ask you another question.” She says nothing, but I ask anyway, “Where are
you
from?”

“Me? I'm from Santa Barbara,” she says. “I’ve lived in California my entire life.”

“And your parents?”

“Never married.”

“Why?” I ask, wanting to force the same invasive interrogation on her. See how she likes it for once.

She shrugs then says, “Because my father was already married when he met my mother.”

My mouth falls open, speechless. Vivian clears her throat and proceeds, “Now, back to you. Do you want children?”

“I’ve…uh never really been the maternal type,” I say as the words stick to the roof of my mouth like peanut butter. I gulp another mouthful of water to alleviate the sticky goo sensation coating the pallet of my tongue, but Vivian’s previous confession leaves me in a verbal stupor.

“I could never even keep a goldfish alive,” I add.

She writes this down as well.  “So you
are
on birth control?”

Heat permeates my cheeks. Angry heat.

“Where the hell did
that
question come from?” I reply through clenched teeth.

“It’s a simple question, Cassandra. Are you on birth control…or not?”

“I’m not answering that question.”

She writes this down too.

“Okay, then what about your bra cup size?” she asks.

“
What!
”

Her eyes drift to my chest with an appraising smile.

“You look like a B, but these things are so indefinite with push-up bras on the market,” she says. “You could be an A.”

I glare at her, hoping to find the right words to shut her up, but I feel an egotistical need to defend my breasts.

“32B,” I say. “And why are we discussing my breasts, anyway? You don’t hear me making quips about yours!”

“There is no need to make this personal,” she replies after writing my answer onto her little notepad.

“You’re interrogating me about my breast size,” I say in a hushed whisper to keep others in the restaurant from overhearing. “How is this
not
already personal? What will you ask next, whether I prefer tampons or pads?”

“There is no reason to encroach on that territory just yet. Not until things have been properly finalized.” 

I drink more water to fix the rasp in my voice as nerves begin to make my throat sore.

“How many sexual partners have you had?” she asks. I gape at her until she realizes that I haven’t answered and has to look up from her notepad to ensure that I haven’t stormed out of the restaurant in a fit.

“Cassandra?”

“I'm not answering anymore questions,” I say.

“You don’t remember how many people you’ve had sex with? Hmm, that’s discouraging.”

I blush again, but this time from anger. I'm certain of
this
emotion, if nothing else. This is undeniable because the urge I have to strangle this woman is much stronger than anything I’ve ever felt before.

“I'm done with this interrogation,” I say. “I'm going home. If you won’t take me, I’ll walk!”

I pull out of my chair and march away from the table, through the middle of the crowded restaurant then toward the women’s restroom. Dim lighting seems to be a prevalent theme in this restaurant. Shroud within the gossamer glow of the candlelit restroom, I see only the outline of my face in the mirror. I look myself in the eye and reprimand the reflection staring back.

“What the fuck am I doing?” I mutter beneath my breath as if I expect someone else to answer the question.

The restroom door swings opens, allowing Vivian inside. She doesn’t say a word for several minutes. We stand staring at each other in front of the mirrors, like two opposing forces, prepped for battle.

“Why did you follow me?” I ask.

“You stormed off in the middle of our conversation,” she says with a scowl. “No one has ever done that to me before.”

“Either you tell me what you want or leave me alone,” I say. “Which will it be?”

Vivian smirks and I notice her hand reach out, extending toward me, bony fingers grasping at empty air. 

“Don’t touch me!” I say while flinching away. “Just…don’t.”

She withdraws with a sigh, visibly offended by my reaction.

“You’re so much like me when I was your age,” she muses, her eyes now focused on a strand of my hair. I could move if I wanted or shy away from her hand when it grasps a fistful of my ponytail, but I don’t. I watch her fondle the strands, appearing enamored with a single stray strand that rests atop my left shoulder.

“Are you a natural redhead?” she asks abruptly.

“Strawberry blonde,” I say. “And yes, it’s natural.”

She fashions a familiar nostalgic smile. “Then Adrian
will
love you.”

I expect her to explain that, so I wait. Instead, she says nothing and begins to sob. Her body wilts, crumbles like a fallen tree onto the restroom floor. I can only watch her hysterical performance, unable to figure out how to react. My kryptonite is female emotions. Men like to claim that all women are hormonally imbalanced, that we all react to sadness by crying.

I'm not sure I relate to that particular sentiment. I hate to see women cry just as much as men hate it. With Vivian, I feel useless, like there is nothing I can do to fix her. This woman could melt into a puddle of blood and skin and there would be nothing for me to do. Her cries erupt into wails so loud that I'm sure anyone outside can hear.

“Vivian?” I kneel onto the floor beside her. She picks herself up, lumbers into one of the restroom stalls and swipes tissue from the roll. As she dabs away mascara that streaks her face, I wet a paper towel for her and wait until she pulls herself together.

“Vivian?” I try grabbing her shoulder, to reassure or comfort her, but she jerks away. “What’s wrong?”

“I hate you,” she replies in a low growl of voice. “I
really
fucking hate you.”

I cock an eyebrow, bewildered in by her sudden hostility. “Excuse me?”

She allows herself a wry chuckle while glaring at me through mascara-drenched eyes.

“Okay, what is your goddamn problem?” I ask, forgetting the initial sympathy I’d had for her. She stops sneering at me. The abrupt smile she offers afterwards catches me off guard in a way that makes me wonder whether I not I imagined it.

“Adrian is my husband,” she announces. “We’ve been married and divorced four times in the past twenty years. Until now, that man is the only person who has ever being able to see me at my worst.”

“Until now?”

“Until
you
,” she says. “I don’t cry in front of everyone and I certainly don’t allow myself to fall apart in public restrooms. I'm not usually such a mess. Perhaps you just caught me on an off day. Maybe you are exactly what I need right now, but Adrian needs you more. He’ll need you even more afterwards.”

“Vivian, you’re being annoyingly cryptic again,” I say. “Just get to the point.”

She dabs her eyes dry and stares at me through the mirror after sauntering over the sink. I glance into her reflection’s bloodshot eyes, watching this cold shell of a woman fracture like ice. It’s weird to see such a menacing woman unravel like a spool of thread.

I want to know more. I need to peel back the layers that sheathe her to know whatever else she hides. If I were being honest with myself, I would admit that the fascination she has with me isn’t a one-sided transaction.

“Vivian?” I ask. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

With a heavy sigh and an obvious burden weighing down her shoulders, she turns to me, cupping my hands inside hers.

“I’m dying Cassandra,” she confesses and my heart sputters like an old engine struggling to rev up.

“What?” The single word is all I can say. Vivian makes no repudiations and allows no emotion to reach her eyes. She is so stoic that I expect her to laugh and reveal that this is all some sick joke. “You’re fucking with me, aren’t you?” I say. 

“I have a year to get my affairs in order and Adrian is one of them.”

“What does this have to do with me?” I ask.

“I don’t want Adrian to be alone,” she says. “So I want to recruit you.”

“Recruit me for
what
?”

“To replace me,” she says. “Cassandra, I want you to be my husband’s wife after I die.”