“If you were sixteen months older, I’d let you two figure it out.”
His image blurs, although my brain continues to churn out thoughts. “Sometimes, I believe you hate him. Other times, it sounds as if you really want to protect him.”
“It’s all in the perception. Seeing what you want to see.”
I nod in agreement, my eyes slipping closed. Whatever he gave me is strong. It’s been about five minutes and I’m already being affected. I smile at Kiln and allow my lids to droop down as I sink into sleep.
Cassandra
When I was young, I felt as if I had all the time in the world. I was invincible. On top. Unstoppable. I loved me. Perhaps, that’s why I was able to marry a wealthy, older man like Parnell. Perhaps, self-loathing and low self-esteem would have hindered me.
By the time I was twenty-one, I was married and pregnant with Josh.
I took scant note of the rapid changes in my life, going with the flow and redirecting myself accordingly. I still didn’t count the minutes in a day. It never occurred to me that, with each passing year, time seems to shorten. Months zoom by at lightning speed. One moment I’m celebrating Christmas, and, with the blink of an eye, I’m thrown back into the holiday season that Halloween ushers in.
Back then, in my twenties, the world saw me as I saw myself—young and vibrant. A living, breathing sexual being. I could wear what I wanted to wear. Party until the wee hours of the morning. Keep the attention of my husband.
As the years pass, I notice the little things. I look at my Cartier watch and frown at the passage of time. It’s elusive, this time thing. Once it’s gone, we can never reclaim it. I wonder how I’ve spent the last minute. Five minutes. Ten minutes. One hour.
Have I done something of note? Something worth this time thing that is oh-so-important. But deadly and dangerous, too. For every minute that ticks by, we’re closer to our deaths. From the moment we take our first breath, we’re destined to take our last.
This frightens me. I’m not sure why. Because I’m tired. So very, very tired.
Now, on a bright, Sunday morning, as I stare at a cream colored, respectable dress for a woman my age, my shoulders sag. I’m trapped. Trapped in a forty-five-year-old’s body and having a twenty-five-year-old’s mentality.
I’m scared. My life’s on the downslope. I haven’t reached menopause, but I’m headed there. The idea a woman my age should have—or want—another baby is crazy. Yet, the world barely takes note if a man becomes a father for the first or fifth time at a similar age.
I pad to my oval-shaped mirror and glide my fingers through my white-blonde hair.
I’m angry. My husband’s—the world’s—obsession with youth has turned me into an ageist. My routine is down pat. I condescend to younger women. They need me. They need to be seen with Cassandra McCall. And I use their hunger for status and power. I tell myself I hate them. But, no. I hate me. I hate they have something I can never regain. It doesn’t matter how wrinkle-free I am. How firm and toned by body is.
The world knows. The facts of my life have been plastered in magazines and rags globally.
I touch my neck. Parnell choked me again last night and his fingerprinted bruises are another perfect arc. I have to arrange my scarf artfully to cover them. Perhaps, this has made him happy and he’ll notice me without having anyone else in our bed.
When I return, I’ll have another talk with him, longer than the one I attempted when he was so focused on Abby.
I’m attending a brunch for a board that I am on that caters to the homeless.
Don’t know why I accepted that position. I’ve never been homeless. I frown, think deeper, come to my answer. They want McCall money. I want a say so about where it goes.
So they pander to me. My lack of knowledge doesn’t compare to Parnell’s generous checks.
Slowly, I turn away from the mirror and glance around my sanctuary. Filled with millions of dollars of clothes, jewelry, handbags, and shoes. I think of Georgiana and her closet. It isn’t comparable to mine. Her decision, not mine.
I walk to the dark wooden jewelry cabinet lining a small section of one wall. My jewels are locked in a safe, so this is mainly for my costume jewelry. In the bottom drawer, I get what I want. Georgiana’s photos from her first birthday. One’s framed and one isn’t. I have no idea what’s become of the other shots, but these have always been my favorites. The one where she is alone, in her pink, frilly dress that makes her look like a doll. Her black hair barely touches her ears and her eyes are a deep blue here.