Over His Dead Body

CHAPTER 2

A MONTH LATER, at the end of May, seven days after her surgery, however, Cassie k new she'd made a truly appalling mistake. Her dos and don'ts folder said she would feel "mild discomfort" in her first two postop days. And "minor" swelling. Excruciating pain was what she felt and major swelling. The Time Line of Recovery in her Instructions for Aftercare predicted that she would feel entirely better after the first week and looking forward to total recovery and miraculous results.

Cassie was feeling worse and worse as the days went on. It was almost as if the great upcoming surgeon she'd chosen to turn her lights back On had made a little mistake and switched her power button to Off. She looked really terrible. Her eyes were so black-and-blue and swollen, she could hardly see a thing. Everything hurt. She couldn't eat because she wasn't allowed to open her mouth wide enough to chew. Worst of all, she didn't care about any of the things she used to care about: the skirmishes between the Democrats and Republicans, the latest in the abortion wars. The Middle East. Beauty. She was way, way down, depressed, angry.

And her beautiful, smart daughter, Marsha, now twenty-five, was no help in the reassurance department. Marsha was on vacation from social work school that week and had returned home to take care of Cassie, to drive her back and forth from her postop visits to the doctor, and so forth. Marsha turned out to be less supportive of the event than Cassie might have predicted, so the visit had taken on a surreal quality.

In her youth, Marsha had been something of a chore to her mother. As a teenager, she'd had every color hair possible. She'd worn slut dresses up to her butt from the age of twelve on. She'd stuck pieces of metal in her tongue and nose and eyebrow and navel, then protested angrily when anyone said something. She'd smoked pot in the backyard, crashed the Volvo station wagon into Cassie's favorite dogwood while trying to prove she could turn the car around in the driveway without benefit of driving lessons (when she was not yet thirteen) on the very first day Cassie had brought it home. She'd been caught in a neighbor's hot tub naked with three boys. For a number of years she'd weighed 170. She'd taunted her mother, worn army boots and grunge. She'd failed Italian. Twice. The girl got 1400 on her SATs, but school counselors thought she'd never make it to college. When she got to college, she constantly threatened to not make it through.

That completely loved and accepted girl (no matter what she did) had metamorphosed into the Marsha of today. Somehow she'd lost about 150 pounds. She was down to nothing at all. Her hair was no longer pink. Or green or purple. It was tawny. She was cooking. She was bathing wounds. She was cleaning the house. Sort of. She was fielding the phone calls from her mother's benefit-giving buddies, lying to cover for her so no one would know what an asshole her mother had been.

Marsha didn't want anyone to know how bad things were. She was screaming at the doctor because her mother's face looked as if it were rejecting itself. She was demanding attention and care, and she was getting it. She was scolding and nursing her own mother. She was a fierce and ferocious disapproving protector. It was downright weird. Their roles were completely reversed.

On the Friday, seven days after Cassie's surgery, at twelve noon, Cassie had the final stitches removed from her eyes. On the trip home she felt utterly defeated because the doctor had refused to remove the stitches located around and in her ears, as well as a myriad of staples hidden in her scalp. He'd told her they weren't done yet. What was she, a roasting chicken? She was further upset because she didn't look like anybody she'd ever seen in her whole life (least of all herself), and her face felt like somebody else's, too. The numbness in her cheeks and chin that no one had told her would occur in the first place persisted, and she was beginning to suspect that feeling in those areas might never return.

As soon as she got home, she climbed the stairs to her room and sat on the closed toilet seat in her bathroom completely demoralized. Mitch, who traveled a lot more than he was at home, was in Italy at the moment, blissfully unaware of her distress. As he was blissfully unaware of most everything. He was no doubt checking out the Nebbiolo grapes in Piedmont or the Sangiovese grapes in Tuscany, the short- or long-vatting of producers, haggling for prices or position in the distribution chain, and making money they never spent. She longed for and resented him in equal proportions. Marsha, who'd been uncharacteristically nice for a whole week, was now taking her new and stunning self back to social work school. In her defeated situation, Cassie couldn't help thinking that sometimes her daughter was just as annoying as a do-gooder as she'd been as a teenage nightmare. Cassie loved and resented her in equal proportions, too.

After all she'd been through, it turned out that she was going to be all alone with herself once again. And she'd become someone she detested with no reservations whatsoever.

"Here, Mom. This should cheer you up." Suddenly, Marsha appeared in the doorway with a soft pink tissue-wrapped package. "Come on, life isn't so bad. We all love you no matter how rotten you look. So what if you look like a fright for a while? Think of poor people. Think of what it would be like to be in prison, or maimed…" Marsha's voice trailed off as she lifted her shoulders in a delicate shrug.

Cassie couldn't answer without weeping. She was maimed. Before her surgery, she'd been simply invisible. Now, she was impossible to miss, a plastic surgery victim guaranteed to elicit scorn, contempt, and pity wherever she went. Her friends would laugh at her, and she wouldn't even be able to react. Her face was so tight, all expression had been wiped away. She didn't want to be a good sport about it. Blankly, she took the gift her daughter offered and opened it.

Nestled in the tissue paper was a pair of exquisite aqua satin pajamas. The satin was thick and there was plenty of creamy lace around the wrists, neck, and ankles. The shade was lovely and strong. Even in her condition Cassie could see the quality and the cheering color of the thing. Mitch was a monochrome beige-loving kind of guy, but Cassie loved color. Her passion for it had always been confined to the outside, to the landscape, the flower beds. She couldn't believe her daughter's thoughtfulness and jumped up to give her a hug.

"Aw, Mom." Marsha was uncomfortable and moved away.

"Really. Thank you," Cassie gushed.

Marsha gave her a funny look and went into the bedroom. Cassie took off her gray cardigan and gray trousers and put the pajamas on. They felt silky and great and were only about four or five inches too long in the arms and legs. She wanted to show them off to Marsha and, trailing lace, she padded into the bedroom where Marsha was busily engaged punching the pillows on the bed.

"They're really gorgeous. You shouldn't have," Cassie murmured. The price tag tickled her wrist. She couldn't help herself. She picked up her glasses from the bedside table and brought them to her eyes backwards so they wouldn't touch the stitches around her ears. She peeked at the numbers on the bottom to see what Marsha had spent on her and almost tripped over the pants legs in surprise. One thousand eighty dollars? Could that be right? Maybe it was one hundred eighty dollars. She tried to get a better look. "Marsha, you shouldn't have!" she cried in alarm.

"I didn't." Marsha turned around, lifting those shoulders again.

"What?" Cassie took a step, tripped again, and fell on the bed. It was a king. "I thought these pajamas were a gift from you."

"Well, Mom. They're very nice. I wish they were, but they aren't."

"Well, where did they come from?" Cassie was puzzled.

"Aren't they yours? The package was in a drawer in the dressing room," she said slyly.

"What? Uh-uh. Not one of my drawers!" Cassie protested heatedly. She was so careful with her spending. She would never be so irresponsible.

"Well, I don't know which drawer." Marsha made a little noise. Cassie didn't know why she should be impatient.

"It wasn't in my drawers," she insisted again, then collapsed against the pillows. A package in the dressing room that she didn't know about, impossible. She was furious because the doctor hadn't taken out the staples. Why hadn't he told her how many staples there would be? She would never have done this if she'd known what was involved: the procedures, the pain, the awful results! She'd rather be dead than look and feel like this.

"Well, maybe Dad bought them." Marsha sat down next to her. "Wouldn't it be a hoot if he knew what you were planning and-?"

Cassie raised her hand to stop the speculation from going any further. Her head throbbed. Her eyes throbbed. Her cheeks and neck and chin felt like those of someone who'd been firebombed in the Blitz. Mitch didn't believe in plastic surgery. That's the reason she'd planned to be completely healed before he found out. One thousand eighty dollars? For pajamas? Would he do that? She considered it. He used to spend on her. Back in the old days. She lifted a shoulder. Maybe…

Marsha rolled her eyes, then changed the subject. "Mom, remember what the doctor said. You need to be drinking something all the time. You're dehydrating."

"No, no. I'm fine." Cassie's eyes were dry and irritated. The nurse had told her she needed to hydrate them, too, with fake tears no less. She couldn't even cry anymore.

"You're not fine. You need to talk to someone."

"I'm talking to you," Cassie told her.

"Yes, but you're not saying anything. You're not talking about this, This thing. This-" she resorted to body language to describe the mess her competent mother had become.

"You're depressed. You're withdrawn. You're-I don't know-out of it. I think you need a professional. Maybe medicine would help." It was clear what she meant.

"I'm taking penicillin," Cassie told her.

"Not that kind of medicine, Mom."

"Oh, you mean Prozac. Thanks a lot! Now I'm crazy." Real tears finally arrived, filling Cassie's eyes. They spilled over. She felt so sorry for herself. Her formerly impossible daughter, who'd been so much trouble over the years and now was a wonderful dream-child-come-true, didn't approve of her. It really hurt.

"Well, one wonders about the self-esteem of someone who-you know-can't accept life's natural progression."

Oh, now they were on aging gracefully. Cassie wondered how this insensitive social worker wanna-be was going to do with prostitutes, drug addicts, and child abusers if she had no compassion for her very own mother's feelings of loss and loneliness at impending old age. She was too upset to reply.

"Let's face it, Mom. You're not taking this well." She was just like her father. Now that Marsha had gotten started, she wasn't going to stop.

Cassie stared up at her through the tears in her eyes. So what if she wasn't taking the ruin of her life well? Why should she take it well? She'd read all the self-help books. She was trying to better herself, not get left behind. She'd trusted a board certified doctor to give her a little lift. She'd done exactly what the books told her to do: Assert herself to look better and feel better. This wasn't the time to question her self-esteem. This wasn't the time to be a good sport or an obedient soldier. She was indignant at her daughter's unfeeling and cruel reaction. Now the truth was coming out. After all the love she'd gotten as a child, Marsha had the nerve to disapprove of her.

Well, so what about that? Cassie wasn't just some dying breed, some housewife gone to seed, some squaw who'd numbly grind the corn until she dropped dead! This was one squaw who wasn't grinding the corn anymore. She didn't want to be the sensible one, the prop and moral center for the whole family. She could have a breakdown, if she wanted to. Why not?

"Fine. Fine. Don't face it. Don't talk to me." Marsha clicked her tongue and left the room.

Cassie heard the stairs creak as the wonderful rehabilitated daughter she now thought of as the hurtful know-it-all went downstairs. Her finger stroked the satin of the aqua pajamas. In spite of herself, she perked up just a little. Maybe she was being unfair about her neglectful husband, who traveled all over Europe, Australia, Chile, and South Africa visiting wineries, tasting, tasting, tasting, eating, eating, eating, bidding, bidding, bidding at wine auctions and never never never taking her. Maybe Mitch had thought of her and bought the pajamas as a surprise. He had to be making tons of money. He had to be feeling older and older. Maybe secretly he felt as bad about the gaps in their marriage as she did. Maybe the pajamas were a very meaningful-indeed, symbolic-gesture and there would be love in the night again, after all. Oooh.

It occurred to Cassie that she should take the gorgeous pajamas off and rewrap them in the tissue so Mitch could make the presentation himself. A thousand dollars was a lot of money. She didn't want to spoil his surprise. She was stroking the satin and thinking about this when she heard Marsha's urgent voice downstairs. She must have hit the intercom button on the phone. Cassie sat up in shock at the sound of her voice.

"Dad, why don't you just sit down and relax a little. I'll give you some chicken soup."

What? Mitch, home? Naah. In all the years of their marriage, Mitch had never returned home from a business trip early.

"I don't want fucking chicken soup. I want to go to bed." His voice sounded peevish and angry. Cassie's stomach knotted at the familiar sound of her husband grumbling.

"Why do you have to go upstairs this minute?" Marsha was wheedling. "Sit down, have a drink with me. Let's talk for a moment, catch up."

"I don't want my daughter drinking. Since when are you drinking?" He was whining.

"Dad, I'm twenty-five."

"I don't give a shit. You know how I hate drunks." This from the man who made his fortune on drinkers.

Cassie heard Marsha click her tongue some more. Both parents crazy as loons. "Have some orange juice then, Dad."

"I don't want orange juice. What's going on here? I bet you're up to something."

"Okay, okay. To tell you the truth, Mom isn't feeling well." Cassie sat there paralyzed, listening to Marsha trying to help her out.

"What's the matter with her?" Mitch asked irritably.

"She has the flu."

"Well, Marshmallow, I don't feel well either, and I've been on an airplane for ten hours. I need to go to my room and get in bed."

"She has a bad flu, Dad. I don't think you want to see her right now."

"You know what? I know you're up to something. I bet your mother isn't even here. What are you doing, having some kind of pot party? Some kind of cocaine orgy?"

"Oh Jesus, Daddy. Don't even go there. You know I don't do that stuff."

"I don't know that. I bet you do. With you I wouldn't be at all surprised. I foot the bills for everything around here and this is how you repay me. It makes me sick." He went on muttering, inaudibly now.

"Oh, Daddy, be reasonable." Marsha laughed.

"This is my fucking house. What are you talking about, reasonable? I can go anywhere I want."

Cassie couldn't hear anymore. They must have left the room. She sat on the bed dazed, waiting for the ax to fall. It was Friday afternoon. Mitch must have flown in from Rome. He was in a bad mood. He wanted to go to bed. What was she supposed to do, jump out the window?

She was thinking about jumping to avoid his anger when he strode into the room. He took one look at her, his mouth fell open just like in the movies, and he stopped dead a few feet from where she sat paralyzed on the bed in the aqua pajamas. He was a tall man, beefy from a lifetime of the very best wine and food the world had to offer. He had a full florid face, plush pillow lips that were the envy of women, and tense brown eyes that captured rather than saw. He had an eye for detail, and a full head of hair. The hair had been black but was steely now. He was proud of his hair and his taste. The man was always impeccable. At the moment he was wearing his travel uniform of Gucci loafers with tassels, a navy Ferragamo cashmere jacket with brass buttons, black silk turtleneck. There was a maroon and navy silk square in his jacket pocket.

"What the fucking hell is going on here?" he shouted.

"I-I-I-" Cassie's heart thundered. She couldn't say anything else. But then she was nearly always mute when he was around.

"She was in a car accident," Marsha said quickly.

Mitch took a step forward to get a better look.

"I had my face lifted," Cassie corrected quickly. She'd never been able to lie.

"What? Are you crazy?" His face changed. His eyes narrowed with fury. "Where'd you get those pajamas?" He glared at her. Then his full face took on an odd expression. He looked surprised, puzzled. "I feel funny," he said.

His fine tan paled to putty. "Something's wrong." It was the last thing he said.

Before she was aware of moving, Cassie was up, jumping to his aid. She touched his forehead. His skin was wet and cold. His eyes pierced her for a moment, demanding one last thing of her that she couldn't fulfill. Then she saw his powerful personality leech out of his body. His eyes lost their focus. He staggered. He reached out his hand for the bedpost, missed it, and pitched forward. His loafered feet stayed on the floor, but the rest of him toppled like a tree. His forehead smacked the bedside table as he went down.

"Daddy!" Marsha ran to him.

"Mitch," Cassie cried.

The two women tried desperately to revive him, but he wouldn't wake up. Frantically, Cassie called 911.