What is Love? (16 page)

The night was
turbulent as Ellen struggled between fits of sleep and panic. She dreamed of
Jonathan touching her instead of Samantha, of Jonathan loving her again, and
saying all the romantic things he used to, tender words filled with love. She
dreamed of him looking at her as he did when she was young—young and beautiful.
Ellen also dreamed of Samantha in pain, of Samantha suffering as Ellen had. She
dreamed of Samantha enduring the misery of neglect, the loss of his love, the
empty, frightening feeling of being alone and invisible.

Ellen awoke and knew
something was wrong—she couldn’t move. In the darkness, she could see the glow
of an alarm clock, a clock different from her own, displaying 4:45 a.m. She
tried to see further into the darkness. As her eyes adjusted, she noticed an
unfamiliar light cast into the room from a window she didn’t recognize,
creating deeper shadows. Wherever she was, this was definitely not her room.
But where was she? What happened last night?

She glanced around
and tried to identify forms revealed from the dim light and the glow the clock.
What happened?
She could make out large shapes and shadows, but nothing
recognizable.
Am I in a hospital?
Her body ached as she tried to
move—her arms felt heavy and incapable of any movement, as if bolted to the
bed. Was it pain? She wasn’t sure, but her muscles were weary, unable to
respond.

Am I paralyzed?
The horror of her failed attempt to save her marriage and get Jonathan to stay
replayed in her mind, causing agony.
And now what? What if I am paralyzed,
what then?
She strained in an effort to move.
Pain.
Yes, she did
feel pain. But every inch of her body was sore and tight, like when overworked
muscles punished you for horrendous abuse.

What have I done?

The reality of her
stupidity in attempting something so risky appeared, scolding her in its
painful manifestation.
Why did I think I could fix anything? Why did I even
try?

These thoughts
replayed in her head as Ellen struggled in the darkness to remember.

Where am I?
Fear rose, filling her with panic as she tried to remember. She had come home
from the lawyer’s office. She recalled her rage at Roger and at Jonathan on
discovering the divorce was real, that she had lost and that her life, her life
as Mrs. Jonathan Horvath II was over.

And as she waited
for Jonathan to return, as she realized her failure, as she saw the grim future
filled with despair, she had decided to take the powder. She remembered taking
it beside the bed, putting the glass on her nightstand and falling back.

Ellen looked toward
the nightstand.
No glass. Had someone removed it?
But she wasn’t in her
bed or her room. She could hear the muffle of voices outside this room.
Perhaps
this is a hospital
 …
or a hotel.
She squinted again in the darkness, trying to raise her arm to reach for her
glasses. Her arm lay dormant.
Oh God, I am paralyzed. What have I done?

The last thing she
remembered was that she was in a violent rage, so angry with Samantha Miller
that she had wished very bad things to happen to her. Memories of nausea and
pain flashed intermittently with her memories of rage, and as they did, a deep
heavy feeling fell upon her and she found her concentration slowly slipping
away. The deadweight of sleep pressed on her body, and she stopped trying to
move and relaxed, allowing sleep to overtake her.

As she drifted back
to sleep, she prayed for forgiveness and fell gently into a deep slumber.

***

Ring! The loud ring
from a phone broke the silence and pulled Ellen out of a deep sleep.

She reached for the
phone in the darkness and tried to answer it. Its sharp ring was too loud for
her half-awake ears. Her hand groped around blindly, unable to find the phone,
no longer on the nightstand.

“Hi, sweetheart,” a
familiar voice spoke in the darkness.

Ellen’s head
pounded. She couldn’t think straight. What happened? Had she been dreaming?
Fuzzy thinking and clouded images filled her brain. What is it? Her head. Oh,
how her head hurt! Gradually her body responded, in a slow-motion effort. What
had happened?

In the fog, Jonathan
spoke again. “Angel, listen. I can’t come over tonight or for a few days. It’s
Ellen
 …
something’s happened
 …
she’s in the hospital
 …
”

Who’s Ellen? She
didn’t know any Ellen.

Ellen finally found
the receiver and cut in on his message. “It’s me you’re talking to
 …”
Her voice was hoarse and groggy.
She coughed, trying to clear it.

“Now sweetie, don’t
start. She’s in the hospital
 …
it’s
pretty serious,” he paused. “She’s in a coma.”

“What? What are
talking about? Who?” Her voice was still rough.

“Ellen, my wife—”

“But I’m—”

“Now, please,
understand. I love you, but I have to be there for her. She’s in critical
condition.”

“I don’t understand—”

“I know. It’s very
frustrating.”

“It’s impossible—”

“Listen, I have to
go—call you in a few days. I miss you.” Jonathan spoke with a surprisingly
tender voice.

“I
 …
I miss you too,” Ellen replied, the
weight of the phone heavy in her hand.

I miss you!
How
good it felt to be missed.
It had been years since Ellen heard those words.
Ellen dropped the phone on the bed.

She rolled over,
pulling the sheet up to her neck, trying to fall asleep. Something pushed hard
against her chest. Her whole body ached and she was too tired to move, but this
pressure
 …
this painful
pressure. Ellen rolled on her back and rubbed her chest. She felt firm, round
breasts. Plump breasts. Breasts that felt more like solid, filled balloons than
her floppy, deflated pair.

“Oh my!” she cried
out, unable to believe the sensation was real. She rubbed her stomach. It was
smooth and flat. What had happened? Her hands searched for her thighs
 …
silky and firm. Ellen pulled back
the covers and sat up. She touched her breasts again in disbelief. Large firm
breasts rebounded beneath her fingers.

This can’t be. It
just can’t be. I am dreaming. I will wake
 …

She struggled to
stand and reached out in search of a wall. Then, moving carefully, she stumbled
in the darkness toward the bathroom, but it wasn’t there. As she searched in
the dim light, her whole bedroom appeared turned around: the windows were
wrong, the doorway, the size. All of it was wrong. She found a doorway and
fumbled to find the light switch as she tried to remember what had happened.
She remembered the powders, sitting on her dresser.

But had she taken
them?

Could this be
real? Or was she dreaming?

As she turned on the
switch, she shielded her eyes from the intensity of the sudden brightness and
through her squinting eyes, saw the skin on her hands. Soft and smooth. Young
flesh, unblemished and light. No age spots or ropey veins
 …
no swollen knuckles. Her arms, her
legs, all covered with smooth young skin. Young and beautiful skin. Not her
body at all. It was a firm, toned and smooth body. Ellen traced her hand over
this smooth flesh. Firm arms and taut thighs. It seemed so unbelievable, so
perfect, and so flawless. She touched her chest again and looked down at the
round firm cleavage pushing out of the tank top. It was a miracle.

It made me young!
The powder worked!
It made me desirable and sexy, just as I had
wished!
She rubbed her new skin in joyous appreciation. It felt sensuous.
She felt sexy and vibrant. Her head still hurt and her body still hurt, but
what a beautiful body. She turned to look in the mirror, eager to see her face.
A younger face as well?

To her horror, she
saw her face—

It was impossible.

It was a dream.
A
dream?

No, a nightmare.
Wake up!

“Wake up,” she
repeated to herself aloud. She moved closer to the mirror, touching her face.
“Oh God, what have I done?” she finally cried out in horror. She stared in
disbelief for a moment, and then everything blurred to a haze. She saw sparkles
and flashes fading slowly, falling, until disappearing. As she fell forward,
Ellen smashed the bottles on the vanity, collapsing on the floor from the shock
and horror of what she saw in the mirror.

She had recognized
the face, as she stared into the reflection.

It was not her face,
but instead the face of the woman she hated most in the world—the face of
Samantha Miller.

“Sam, you shouldn’t
be up. Come on,” a voice spoke through the darkness.

“Who is it?” Ellen
asked, as she tried to open her eyes to see where the voice came from.

“It’s me,” the
female voice said, moving closer.

Ellen first noticed
the high heels, then the fishnet stockings, followed by the micro-short skirt—
a
hooker or a druggy?
The young woman moved near. “I don’t know you. Get away
from me,” Ellen said and held her hand out to block this strange woman from
coming closer. “Go. Please go.” The cool hardness of grit and tiles pressed
against her hand and body. She looked around and realized she was lying on a
bathroom floor. “Where am I?” Ellen asked, as she tried to raise herself with
her hands. “What did I do? And who are you?”

“I’m Sienna, you
silly girl.”

“Oh no
 …
I don’t know what happened. I took
something
 …
I don’t remember.”

The skinny brunette
carefully stepped around the broken glass. “It’s okay, here,” she said and
helped Ellen to her feet. “Watch out for the glass. Come. Sit on the bed for a
minute. I think the fever is messing with you.” She reached to touch Ellen’s
forehead. “Sam, let me get your temperature—”

“No!” Ellen pushed
her hand away. “You don’t understand. I’m Ellen. Something happened. I am not
Samantha Miller,” she cried out. “I just look like her.”

“Okay. Okay,” the
woman said, raising her hands in surrender. “Whatever you say.” The young woman
smiled at Ellen. “Sit down and we can figure it out.”

Ellen stepped away
from the mirror and faced the bedroom.

“Watch out for the
glass!” the young woman called out, steering Ellen away from it.

“I’m so dizzy,”
Ellen said, walking slowly toward the dresser and bracing herself on its edge.
“Who are you again?”

“Sienna,” she
answered. “Your roommate.”

“My
roommate
?
Then this must be Samantha’s place—”

“Yes, this is your
luxury palace, Sam,” said the woman named Sienna, as she twirled in a circle,
with arms spread open, crushing bits of glass beneath her shoes. “All yours,
every little bit of it—for now, anyway.” She put her arm around Ellen’s
shoulder. “Here, now, come to bed. And be careful, Sam.” Sienna supported Ellen
as she led her around the glass to the bed.

“It’s Ellen. My name
is Ellen.”

“Yes, Ellen, come
here.” Sienna patted the bed sheet as she pulled back the duvet.

Ellen sat on the
edge of the bed. “I’m young again. This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“No, E-l-l-e-n, of
course not.” Sienna laughed and shook a thermometer. “Here.”

“The room is
spinning,” Ellen said as Sienna put a thermometer in her mouth. Ellen sat
holding the cool thermometer under her tongue. The room filled with shots of
light, rising and falling like the flashlights of a search party, and a
nauseous wave tumbled over her, upsetting her balance and causing her to double
over.

Sienna pulled the
thermometer out of Ellen’s mouth and studied it. “Wow, this is some fever you
have—a hundred-and-four!” Sienna propped up the pillows. “Back to bed,
princess.”

Ellen fell backward
against the pillows. It felt good to stop moving as she lay back and stared at
the ceiling. “I see stars. What’s happening? What’s happening to me?”

“Those are painted
stars on the ceiling, remember? We did them together, to both our rooms.
Glow-in-the-dark paint? It was your idea.”

Ellen rolled over on
her side and her shoulder was suddenly cold and wet. She touched the sheets.
“These sheets are wet!” she screamed. “I can’t sleep in wet sheets—”

“Okay, okay, calm
down,” Sienna said. “I’ll get a blanket, okay princess?”

Against the damp
sheets, Ellen’s skin was sticky and warm. Her ears burned and her face stung as
if sunburned. As she lay waiting, the cool dampness of the sheets was now
refreshing against her hot skin. The smooth, buttery skin. Taunt and firm. Her
hands rubbed her body, reawakening the pleasure of feeling firm flesh beneath
her fingers.

This was a dream. It
certainly seemed like a dream.

She would wake up
and it would be over.

She would sleep now,
a deep cleansing sleep and tomorrow—she would be Ellen again.

She had to be, for
she couldn’t be Samantha Miller.

Impossible.

But she hoped that
tomorrow, when everything went back to normal, she would still be young, a
young Ellen, toned and firm. And why not? The image of her young self drifted
across her sleepy mind, lulling her to sleep.

***

Ellen sat on the
edge of the bed and looked at her reflection in the mirror. After the strange
events the night before, she thought she would wake up and discover everything
was all a dream; instead, looking at the face staring back at her—she was unquestionably
awake and still someone physically impossible to actually be.

Still Samantha
Miller.
What happened?

She was upset with
Jonathan, the news of the divorce, the money and the wedding. She remembered
how desperate she felt, that she would fix everything with the powder. She had
taken something, whatever it was, and this was the result.

Was there a way
to undo this? Was this temporary?

And Samantha.
What happened to her?
Yes, Ellen wanted to punish Samantha.
But this?

She played the
recording on the answering machine.

“Hi sweetheart
 …
Angel, listen, I can’t come over
tonight or for a few days. It’s Ellen
 …
something’s happened
 …
she’s
in the hospital
 …”

Ellen replayed the
message. If she was now Samantha, could it be possible that Samantha was now
her? Or did Samantha disappear as she had so vehemently wished?

She tried to think
back to what had happened that night. She remembered taking the drink. Then she
remembered feeling dizzy and lying down. She had chills; her skin damp and
clammy. She had cursed Sam. She wanted her to suffer, wanted her to feel
Ellen’s pain. She wanted to have Jonathan love her again. She remembered her
body shaking uncontrollably, so bad she got scared and said a prayer. It seemed
to last an eternity, until she experienced a calm, comforting wave of light.
She finally fell asleep—a turbulent strange sleep, with hazy fragments of
dreams. Then she awoke in this body, in this small grubby apartment. She woke
up as Samantha.

But where was
Samantha? What had she done to Samantha? Whatever Ellen may have wanted,
this
was certainly not part of that plan. Patty might know what happened, or be
able to find out. Ellen picked up the phone and dialed her number.

“Hello,” Patty
answered, her voice sounding sullen.

“Patty, it’s Ellen.”

“Ellen, Ellen who?”

“Ellen Horvath of
course,” Ellen said with a laugh. “You won’t believe—”

“Is this a sick
joke?”

“No, Patty it’s me,
it’s Ellen, I—”

 “I don’t find this
funny, whoever you are. I just came from the hospital, where my friend Ellen
Horvath is lying in a coma, so I can assure you—whoever you say you are—you
certainly aren’t her.” Patty’s voice rose, “Don’t call me again!”

Click! Ellen stared
at the phone in her hand, unable to grasp what just happened and what she
should do. It was pointless calling back and making her angrier. She could go
and see Patty, explain in person.
Yes, and looking like Samantha Miller, I’m
sure she’d believe me.

No one would
believe me.

What if the body
in the hospital died? Will I be Samantha Miller forever?
She wondered what
would correct this and get her back home where she belonged. The thought of
staying like this, of living in squalor and having nothing was horrifying, and
as much as she loved the young body, she wanted her life back.
I want my
house and my things, my husband and family, to wake and return to my daily
routine
 …

“Knock, knock,”
Sienna said as she stepped inside the room. “Hey, you look better.”

“Yes, I’m feeling
better, but this is very confusing. I don’t know who I am anymore.” Ellen shook
her head. “And I’ve lost everything—”

“Come on, chin up.
It’s probably from the fever. You were delirious for three days
 …
and you said some pretty weird
shit.”

“I did?”

“Oh yeah! I should
have taped it. You’d have laughed your ass off—”

“What was I saying?”

Sienna shrugged.
“All kinds of weird stuff, like you kept screaming “No, no, stop, stop.” Then
you called out for an Uncle George? You seemed pretty pissed off at him.”

Ellen wasn’t sure
how to answer. “I used to
 …
he
died a long time ago.”

“Well, he was sure
in the doghouse. You said a bunch of stuff about babies and kids, like you were
a mom or something. It was weird. I swear—you were like that girl in the movie
with different personalities
 …
first
I thought you were overdosing off some weird shit, but then I remembered we’d
been shopping for your dress and went to the movies, so you wouldn’t have had
anything, right?”

“Yes
 …”
Ellen answered, nodding in
agreement. “Oh yes, right.”

“Just the same, I
called my sister. Her husband’s the doctor—well, a medic guy, kinda. He said to
take your temperature—that as long as you weren’t throwing up or over a hundred
and five degrees—to just let you sleep it off.” Sienna stepped closer adjusting
the elastic of her ponytail. “You did scare me, though.”

“Sorry. I didn’t
mean for
any
of
this
to happen.”

“No problem.” Sienna
tapped the doorway. “Listen, I have to head to work—I got that toothpaste
commercial I told you about. Oh, and I phoned Bill at the office, told him how
sick you are, and that you wouldn’t be better till next week, so you can relax
till Monday.”

“Work?” Ellen
blurted. “I have to work?”

“Of course you do!”
Sienna laughed. “How else will you pay the rent, you fool?”

“Where do I work?”

“Horvath Industries,”
Sienna smiled.

“Of course. I
remember that, but in which area
 …
I
mean, who is my boss?”

“Bill Tate. You work
in accounts. Wow, you really did lose a few brain cells in that fever,” Sienna
said with a giggle. She turned and walked out the door.

“What if I can’t
work?” Ellen called out. “If I don’t remember how?”

Sienna appeared in
the doorway again, carrying a large tote bag. “Talk to Bill. I am sure he can
figure something out. You’ll need a doctor’s note if you think you’ll be out
longer.”

“I suppose I could
just not go back
 …
I don’t want
to work, I can’t.”

“And get fired! Are
you insane? Wouldn’t that look good on your crappy resume?” Sienna stepped
closer. “You better show up with a note. You can’t afford to get fired, not the
way you’ve been spending, and that hard-up family of yours. You’re three months
behind in the rent, anyway—”

“I am? I can’t be—”
Ellen hoped she was joking. This was getting worse by the minute.

“Yes. And you
borrowed eight hundred from me and three thousand from Rory—”

“Rory?” The name
sounded familiar. A brother perhaps? “Who’s Rory again?”

“Come on
 …
the man you have sex with while you
wait for Mr. Sugar Daddy to dump his stupid wife and marry you.” Sienna studied
her. “You know, your gorgeous little bed buddy.”

You little tramp
 …
cheating on Jonathan.
“How dare
you!” Ellen cried.

“Huh?”

“How—I mean—I’m
sorry. I’m not myself. I can’t think …
I
don’t remember anything.”

Sienna came into the
room and sat beside Ellen. “Sam, we’re friends. I know you don’t mean the
things you say a lot of times, and I’m sorry you don’t remember much.” She
patted Ellen’s shoulder. “I’ll help you. I’m sure that soon you’ll remember all
of this.” She stood, pulling a piece of paper from her bag. “I’ve gotta get to
work; here’s my number, don’t lose it. If you need anything, call. But stay in
bed and rest, for a few days at least—okay?” Sienna turned to the door. “Oh,
and call your mom. She called again.”

“She must be worried
about Samantha.”

“That’s funny,” she
said, laughing. “Okay, well, remember—call if you need anything.” Sienna turned
and closed the door behind her.

Ellen heard the
front door lock. She looked around the room, aware that this small pathetic
room was all she had now. She had to get out of here. But where? And how?