Authors: Tessa Saks
Ellen jolted
upright, unable to hide her discomfort.
“Relax,” he said,
guiding her back down. “I want to take you somewhere tomorrow, somewhere
special. A surprise.”
Ellen smiled and
touched his cheek. “Can I trust you?”
Rory grinned and put
his arm around her waist and pulled her close, holding her. He nuzzled his head
up to hers. Ellen wrapped her arm over his, feeling the warmth of his embrace.
They lay, wrapped together in silence, with Ellen relaxed, completely unaware
of her nakedness, completely unashamed. Completely satisfied.
***
Sam watched as
Jonathan prepared a drink for himself—methodically pouring the single malt scotch,
then one cube, then another, stirred gently with a swirl of the wrist and then
he placed the top back on the decanter with his other hand. This was his fourth
drink.
He sat back in his
armchair and watched the fire dancing in the fireplace. She dimmed the lights
and put on a Glen Miller album, then adjusted her bra and walked into the
library. As she approached, Jonathan leaned out of his chair, turned his head
and looked at her. She smiled, trying to look into his eyes, but he quickly
turned away and again faced the fire.
“This is cozy,” she
said, trying to make her voice sultry.
“Mm-hmm,” he mumbled
while drinking, the sound of the cubes clinking against the glass with each
sip.
“Wow, what a big
fire. I love all the crackle. It’s so powerful,” Sam said, sitting in the chair
beside him. They sat staring into the fire in silence as the music played
several songs.
“This song,” Sam
spoke, breaking the silence. “I imagine you in your uniform, looking handsome
and brave, whenever I hear this song.”
“Those were some
times.”
“You were shot down
in enemy territory, right?”
“Yes,” Jonathan
laughed. “Yes, I was, twice.”
“You were so brave.
I can’t imagine
…”
Sam said as
Jonathan took another sip, emptying his glass. “Here,” Sam said, jumping to her
feet. “Let me get you another.”
Jonathan hesitated.
“Sure.”
Sam poured the
scotch and added the two ice cubes, swirling as he would. She handed him the
glass and he was about to speak, but Sam interrupted. “Tell me about your
missions.”
Jonathan took a sip
and cleared his throat. “Well, I flew 104 of them, so where would I start?
That’s over six hundred hours logged, and you know, I never had to abort a
mission.”
“Amazing.”
“Haul’n Ass II was
shot up so many times, it was unbelievable, but the old Jug always made it home.
And not just flak. One day I had two ME-109s beat the hell out of me. The
central controller called me, asking ‘Cobra Leader, do you have contact with
Bandits?’ And I said, ‘Sure do, I’ll be bringing them over the field in four
minutes, they’re chasing me home.’ ”
“What’s a Jug?”
“Come on
…
only the best plane in our
squadron, a P47 Thunderbolt. Great aircraft. Yes, those were wild times.”
“I bet. What was
your biggest mission?”
He turned and faced
her, taking another sip. “Back in ’45, our unit dispatched 170 Thunderbolt
fighters against enemy transport facilities and ground artillery. We destroyed
or damaged over four hundred targets, and shot down 137 enemy planes. Now that
was mission I’ll never forget, in fact
…”
Sam leaned in and
watched him continue. She wondered why he couldn’t see her inside this bag of
soft flesh. This costume. She put her hand on his. “I am amazed at you. So
brave and so darn smart.” She stood, smoothing her satin penoir. Jonathan
looked up at her, sipping his drink. “Here,” she said, reaching for his glass.
“You need another cube.”
Sam went over to the
bar and dropped another cube in his glass. She walked over to him, swaying her
hips and holding her chest forward. She stood above him, holding the glass out
of the way, as she leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “I am so lucky to
have a man like you. You really are amazing. I forget how dangerous it was back
then.”
Jonathan grabbed the
drink and looked toward the fire. “Yes, those were crazy times.” He took a big
gulp and Sam reached down, rubbing his leg. Jonathan laid his head back and
closed his eyes.
“Johnny,” Sam
whispered.
“Yes?” he answered,
his eyes still closed.
“I want to give you
pleasure. Is there anything I can do for you that would give you pleasure? You
make me so hot
…
I want to
return the favor.” Sam continued to rub his leg in small circles, increasing
the pressure. He did not brush her hand away. She bent down, moving her hand
closer to his groin. He set his drink down and put his hand on her shoulder,
pulling her closer. She felt his growing firmness and whispered, “I want you
more than I’ve wanted any man.” What she wanted to scream was
, Touch me! I
need to be touched. How long had it been? One month? Two months? Too long.
Her skin craved contact, any form, whatsoever.
Jonathan looked at
her a moment, then reached his hand up to her cheek and pulled her closer. He
kissed her. She returned his kisses, hoping her body was next on the list. She
kissed his face, his neck, opening her mouth for wetter, juicier kisses as she
explored his. “I want you,” she whispered as sultry as she could.
Jonathan rubbed her
breasts, his other hand pressed against her back. She opened his shirt, kissing
his chest. “You are so amazing,” she said breathlessly, aware of the full
extent of his excitement, his readiness. As her hand rubbed him, he looked up
at the ceiling and moaned.
“My God, you are so
hard, take me,” Sam begged.
Jonathan pulled her
onto his lap. Sam removed her lace panties and lifted up her nightclothes. She
wanted to be excited and thought she was ready, but somehow, the response
inside her wasn’t working, like a tap that still needed to be turned on. She
sat above him as he fumbled to make it happen. He fumbled again. She was dry. She
couldn’t feel any pleasure. She looked down at Jonathan, who was pumping his
hips hard and fast.
She pretended to
enjoy him. “Oh, that feels so good, give me more
…”
He opened her nightie and rubbed her new breasts.
Thankfully
not the old ones,
she thought. Then suddenly he stalled. Another pump or
two and he stalled again.
“Damn it! He covered
his face with his hands. “I lost it.”
Sam pulled his hands
away from his face and kissed his cheek. “It’s okay, we can—”
“No,” Jonathan
yelled. “Damn it, no!” He pushed Sam off his lap.
Sam stood and
adjusted her nightclothes as he buttoned and zippered his pants, then tucked
his shirt into his pants. “I’m sorry,” Sam said in a soft whisper of a voice.
“It’s me, isn’t it? My body?”
“No, it isn’t you,
it’s—you know.”
“But can’t you—”
“Leave it, Ellen.”
Jonathan put his hand up as if to say,
Stop talking
, then buttoned the
remaining buttons on his shirt. Sam motioned to touch his arm but he pulled
away. “Just stop,” he said, unable to mask his annoyance.
Sam found herself
wanting to hold him. To have him hold her. Some contact. “Will you lie with me
and hold me tonight? I need you to hold me, just for tonight.”
“I want to be
alone.” He turned to leave. “I’m sorry,” he said, as he walked away, the sound
of his heels fading softer until all she could hear was the fire crackle and
the album, stuck at the end, spinning endlessly.
Sam stood, staring
at her panties on the floor. “You’re not sorry,” she said aloud. “If you were
sorry, you’d know how I feel. You would want to make me feel better. You would
take me in your arms and hold me. You would comfort me. You are not sorry. You
are selfish and not sorry at all.” But who was she talking to? She bent down
and picked up her panties, tossing them into fire. Then she walked over to the
bar and poured herself a scotch, with three cubes.
She sat, sipping her
drink and staring into the fire. Her thoughts turned to memories of being held,
to the comfort of big strong arms wrapped around her body. A heavy body pressed
tight against hers, so tight she could feel a second heartbeat. Of strong legs
intertwined with hers, tangled flesh. Of breathing in unison, breathing against
each other, together, as one. The image of Rory lying beside her appeared,
comforting her.
Would she ever feel that
again? That comfort? That strength? She felt an empty stillness deep in her
heart, a longing. She recognized what was missing, what she might never
experience again. As the fire smoldered, one of the logs fell and broke apart
into smaller chunks of embers, glowing softly, almost blinking. Then slowly,
the fire faded, depleted of vigor and feeble, reduced to nothing more than a
hint of light, a soft luminous red, winking through the charred remains.
The house was now
silent and cold. Sam felt a shiver and pulled a blanket over her body. She
wanted to feel something. She knew she should feel something, but all she could
feel was cold. She shivered and wondered if she would ever feel warm and
comfortable again.
Early the next
morning, Ellen sat in the coffee shop waiting for Rory, wondering what his
surprise was. She imagined it had to do with his paintings and hoped it was a
visit to his studio. He arrived on time, carrying another helmet and a large
backpack. After a quick coffee, they left the coffee shop and got on his bike,
then headed out of town.
They rode out in the
open countryside, zipping along back highways and through small towns. The sun
was rising and the long shadows created contrasts along all the trees and
fields. It felt good to be out in the country air, in spite of the wind
whipping at her face and the occasional bug hitting her teeth when she smiled.
Ellen still had no idea where they were going, but at a certain point in their
journey, they pulled over and stopped, and Rory was certain she knew exactly
where they were headed. Ellen, once again, claimed the fever excuse.
After two and a half
hours of the uncomfortable, numbing bike ride, they arrived at a wooded lake
area, the uncivilized kind with no amenities or cabins. Ellen got off and
stretched her wobbly legs. They vibrated as if someone had thrown her into a
paint mixer and shaken her endlessly.
Tall fir trees
surrounded them, with only the entrance road and a narrow path carved into the
denseness. They left the bike and Ellen followed Rory, walking the trampled
path through the trees until they reached an open sandy area cresting a large
lake. It had a dock, boathouse, fire pit and a flat gravel area, appropriate
for a camper or motorhome, although Ellen couldn’t imagine how anything would
ever get through the overgrown path. Rory went into the boathouse and proceeded
to pull out chairs and tables, a tent, a fire grill and a collection of
blackened pots and pans. Ellen walked to the boathouse to help Rory and peeked
inside. It was old, worn, and had a strong musty smell, like an ancient rotting
barn, that by some miracle held together in spite of its age and appearance.
The boat inside looked to be in better shape, more of an uncomfortable fishing
type than luxury cruising.
Rory asked Ellen to
collect twigs for the fire while he set up the tent.
“We aren’t staying
the night, I hope you understand,” she scolded, but Rory just laughed and
continued to pound steel tent pins with a large rock, like some savage caveman.
Ellen spent the
first hour complaining about the heat, the bugs and the lack of facilities.
Imagine
urinating in the woods!
Once she realized it was either that or go in the
green algae-filled lake, she kept quiet.
Another hour passed
before she accepted riding in the boat and fishing. The whole thing seemed an
absurd waste of time, and by the time she finished helping Rory bring the boat
out of the boathouse and setting it in the water, she was tired and cranky.
“What can we do with
the fish, anyway? We have no ice or sanitary method of cleaning even if we do
catch any.”
Finally, Rory pulled
her aside and said, “Sam, this is why you can’t have sex. You are as uptight as
an overwound clock. You have to relax and enjoy what is here. Be right here,
not back in the city. You need to be in the present, soaking up life in the
moment, whatever that moment brings. Smell the air. Feel the warm breeze on
your skin.” He grabbed her hand and pulled her to the water’s edge. “Here, dip
your hand in the lake. And try it as we troll along in the boat. Be part of the
world, connected. Listen to the sound of oars in the water. Look at the birds.
It’s all here.”
Ellen put her hand
in the cloudy green lake water. “It’s cold and slimy. Look at all that sludge,
it’s probably teeming with bacteria and disease—”
“You used to love
this. Come on
…”
Rory put his
arm over her shoulder and led her to the boat dock.
She reluctantly
climbed into the small boat and sat on the middle seat as he pushed off,
placing his oars into the water and then started rowing. “I don’t know what big-city
life has done to you, but it’s taken the fun out of you. I know you like money;
so do I. It’s just that money doesn’t give you power, it takes it away, and the
trouble is you don’t realize you’ve lost power until it’s too late. You chip
away, giving away your own power, little by little, in a sort of trade. As you
gain money, you change yourself to impress people—you try to be more like them.
You constantly worry what they think, what they’ll say. You worry about losing
your spot. Little by little, you give up who you are until you are no longer
yourself, you are a clone of all the other clones who need you to be just like
them. That’s the price of admission to their club.”
He stopped rowing
and let the boat drift. “It’s a game. I don’t want to see you lose who you are.
I like who you are. I’ve always liked who you are.”
“And now?”
“Now, I see less of
you and more of the other, more of the clone.” He looked directly at her,
piercing her with his eyes. “In fact, I barely see the real you at all. You’re
so different now. It’s as if you already traded all the bits of Sam for some
society—I don’t know
…”
He
resumed his rowing. “I don’t see you as happy as you used to be. You used to
find pleasure in so many things, in everything really. Like today, you would
have brought your camera and taken pictures of the bugs instead walking around
all day griping about them.”
“I didn’t know this
was what we were doing, I would have brought it if I had known,” Ellen fibbed.
“And I would have brought bug spray and a port-a-potty.”
“That’s true.” Rory
smiled and raised his eyebrows to mock her. “But I never imagined you could
forget my parents’ lake, not after all we did here.”
“Rory, I do want to
be happy again, I do. Help me.”
“You want it back?
Well, here it is.” He let go of the oars and held his arms out as if to share
the world with her. “It’s all before you, waiting. Relax and allow it to take
over your busy mind. It’s easy. Take in all these little bits, look at the
smallest details, the leaves, the grass, the birds—relish them and they will
give
you power, restore your power. Forget about everybody else, all your problems,
all your plans, just erase everything from your mind and feel this moment,
right now.”
Ellen looked out at
the vast lake, rimmed with a jagged row of deep green pines along its edge, at
the blue cloudless sky and the sunlight dancing on the water, and knew he was
right. There was so much beauty surrounding them and she was too uptight to
notice any of it.
But as the day
unfolded, Ellen found herself loosening up, allowing herself to stop the
internal critic and just go with everything. She felt free to be herself, and
for the first time in many years, she knew who that person was. The fact that
she was in someone else’s body seemed unimportant.
They ate their catch
for lunch, along with the food he packed in the backpack. The fish was better
tasting than she had imagined. In fact, the smoky grill gave it a unique
flavor, like something she would actually want to have again. He brought along
cheese and crackers, water and wine, some vegetables to grill—red peppers,
zucchini and potatoes. As a special treat, he opened a can of ravioli, stating
that it had always been her favorite, but Ellen couldn’t imagine anyone enjoying
cold ravioli. She tried a mouthful, and while it was edible and not
distasteful, she admitted that she had grown past that and was willing to share
some with Rory.
At three-thirty, he
pulled her to her feet and said he had another surprise. He led her back up the
trail to the motorbike. They traveled down the road for fifteen minutes and
pulled into a parking area by a river. A few people were getting out of their
cars and heading to the shore.
“More fishing?”
Ellen asked. “Fly fishing, perhaps?”
Rory grinned and
handed her a windbreaker from the bag on the back of his bike. “Here, put this
on, you’re gonna love this.”
Ellen put the jacket
on, watching as he put one on as well. More people were standing by the river,
wearing helmets and lifejackets.
“Come on,” he said,
pulling her to the water’s edge.
Ellen looked at the
sign by the small makeshift dock. “You must be joking.”
“Surprise!”
She stepped back,
holding her hands up in protest. “White water rafting? No way!”
“You love it.”
“No. No, Rory, I
don’t
…”
Ellen felt her lunch
from two hours ago about to resurface in a most unpleasant way as her stomach
twisted over with cramps. “I’ve never done this, I can’t.”
“Sam, you do this
all the time—at least you used to.” He pulled her arm, coaxing her toward him.
“Come on. Sam, I never said anything before, but ever since you met Jonathan,
you’ve stopped doing all the things you used to love. What’s happened to you?
You don’t go rock climbing or hiking, or waterskiing or sailing, do you?”
Ellen shook her head,
unable to imagine doing any of those activities. Perhaps sailing
…
in a nice, long elegant craft, like
the one Greta’s husband owned, the Maiden Mist.
“I don’t think it’s
healthy to lose yourself completely in a new relationship. A little bit of Sam
is a good thing. Come on, be yourself again
…
let go and enjoy, just once.”
Ellen resisted, but
in the end, Rory strapped the helmet on her head and tightened the straps of
her lifejacket and won.
***
That night, as they
sipped their wine in front of the roaring fire, she laughed at her fear and the
extreme challenge she just completed. She had to admit it was crazy—she had
never had such an invigorating, terrifying yet thrilling experience. At one
point, one of the waves soaked her so badly, she thought for sure she had
fallen out, but Rory was right there, hanging onto her.
She looked at him
now, as the fire cast a warm red, glowing outline on his face, highlighting his
chiseled features. He turned and smiled at her, and she returned his smile,
knowing she would kiss him. She wanted to. And to her surprise, she wanted to
do more, much more, but a sense of duty to her husband dangled in her head,
casting those thoughts aside. She had no idea what she looked like now, how her
hair looked after all that water, and as she looked down at her rubber boots
and wrapped his plaid jacket around herself, she knew it didn’t matter.
She sipped her wine
as Rory struggled to open another bottle.
Who knows,
she thought,
maybe a little more than a kiss.
How much more she couldn’t
say
…
for now, she would sit
back and enjoy this moment.
Under the brilliant
stars, she felt alive and she knew there was no turning back. She was here now.
All of her. Aware, as never before, and fully present.
***
Sam tried again to
contact Rory, but he was no longer at his old address or the using the same
number. She went to their former hangouts, to all their favorite places, but
still no Rory. She even called his boss, but he wouldn’t say where he was now
working, as if there was a conspiracy against telling anyone where he was. Sam
decided to try and wait outside her old apartment, where the phony Sam now
lived. She sat in the deli across the street for several hours, and as twilight
set in, she was about to give up when she spotted his motorbike pull up in
front of the building.
Sam ran down the
street and crossed a safe distance away. Rory hadn’t changed, his hair looked
lighter, but he was still handsome Rory. She approached with caution, tugging
on her hat and putting on large sunglasses. She didn’t have a plan. Her first
goal was to find him, follow him, then hopefully find out where he lived.
Seeing him now, she wanted to run and throw her arms around him. Her mind
imagined their bodies pressed firmly together—their tangled flesh, hot with
desire.
He set his helmet
down and smiled. She smiled back before she realized his smile wasn’t for her.
Directly in front of her was—
her
. It was Sam or Ellen, or whatever she
should call her. Yes, standing here before her was the lying
impostor
who stole her life.
Rory walked over and
gave the impostor a big kiss, and Sam’s heart plummeted ten stories in one
quick instant. They are together.
That bitch!
Sam knew Rory slept
with other women. She never cared because she knew that he always dropped them
after a few dates, afraid to commit, often dating many women at once. He didn’t
love those other women. Rory wasn’t capable of love and a relationship. None of
that mattered because she knew she had a special spot in his heart, and Sam
used this to her advantage, leading him on and toying with those unacknowledged
feelings.
But seeing them
together made her crazy. Technically, it was her, it was Sam he was with, so he
wasn’t cheating, but she wanted to be with him, having him touch her, not the
impostor.
She’s stolen my man.
Sam watched as he grabbed his helmet and
put his arm around the impostor’s waist, her hand tucked into his back pocket,
and they walked like this to the corner.
Sam followed them
down the street. She knew exactly where they were going, to her favorite coffee
shop. They walked the long block, Sam trailing a safe distance behind.
She opened the door
to the shop and the crisp aroma of heavy roast coffee beans hit her instantly.
The room buzzed with the sound of cups clattering and the drone of chatter
broken by an occasional laugh. She lifted her sunglasses and searched through
the crowd, eventually finding them in a corner, sitting in a booth, talking
intimately.
She wanted to go
over to them and scream,
“She’s not me!”
or
“She’s a phony!”
and
“Can’t you see
? Is
n’t it obvious?”
And then yell at her,
“You may
think you’re me, but I know who you really are and I know why. You thought you
could get Johnny. I’ll show you. I may be stuck in your pathetic body, but I’m
not going to get dumped like you.”