Photo by Nadia Valko on Unsplash
Sam had forgotten the harshness of a Los Angeles windstorm. Despite the stuffy air that filled her parent’s dining room, the tabletop candles occasionally flickered out; tendrils of wind had crawled through the shuttered windows to extinguish the flames one at a time. Caterers rushed in to relight the smoking wicks. The low clatter of silverware and chatter from the nine people at the table provided a soft ambience in an otherwise animalistic meal—why hadn’t more people questioned the brutality of eating a steak?
Somehow, it felt fitting for her mother’s sixtieth birthday dinner.
She carved the meat with a sharpened knife. The filet oozed red as her fork pressed into it—the inside was practically raw. With her parents heading the table at both ends and her younger sister, Bri, sitting directly across from herself, Sam was pinned into the table.
Sam saw her reflection against the sparkling wide-rimmed china plate: dark eyes and hair, the gold shimmer of fabric. Her throat tightened with each glance of the guests surrounding her. The high collar of her sequined dress only made her feel more trapped. Every few minutes, the overhead lights flickered on and off as the sound of the wind roared beyond the windows.
“Wine?”
“No thanks, Julie.” She pitched her voice higher than normal—at some point it would be screeching enough to cover her annoyance at her mother. She continued to cut her meat and potatoes swimming in a mystery sauce—mushroom, probably.
“The amount of petty claims filed in the last quarter,” her father, Robert, said, “was over double the year prior.”
Her mother poured the wine anyway. Sam’s shoulders tensed at the earthy scent. The smooth stream of scarlet liquid made her feel surrounded by red. It was on her plate—in her glass. Sitting at Sam’s right, Julie cut her a look that if she hadn’t been thirty-one would have scared the shit out of her. How dare she refuse wine in front of Julie’s guests? Sam took a deep breath and schooled her features to mirror a courtesan she’d played in Midsummer during college. If there was anyone who wouldn’t break character, it was a theater geek.
“Everyone’s out to get a buck these days.” Justin Adams replied, her father’s most successful agent. His wife Elizabeth looked like she was devoting her attention to acting her way through the conversation as if she knew anything about insurance policies.
“Nothing surprising, though,” her father replied. “Although we may need to shift—”
“Ahem.” Julie’s voice shot across the table like an arrow. “Business at the dinner table, dear?”
“So, Samantha—” Jessica Stroll started. One of the many wives of your father’s business partners her mother was acquainted with. As Jessica held her wine glass to her lips, Sam noticed the missing acrylic that should have been on Jessica’s thumb. Following Sam’s stare, she set her glass down and put her hand in her lap as if nothing was amiss. That was these types of women’s worst nightmare; a missing nail.
“Sam,” she corrected.
“But Samantha’s so much prettier,” Jessica said with a tight smile. “How are you and Matthew?” Her smile continued to widen.
“Work,” she said, feigning disappointment. Her thumb aggressively twirled the fake gold band she'd stuck on her left hand before she left her apartment. “You know how it is.” Her eyes drifted over to Chris, who was sitting to the left of Jessica.
It’d been out for two years that Chris had been seeing another woman—a client with the largest insurance policy Chris had acquired—and he’d needed to keep her happy.
As Sam stared at him her heart raced and anger narrowed her vision. She breathed in warm air. By the time Sam’s eyes looked away, Jessica was already discussing the atrocity of the dinner menu of an upcoming gala with Elizabeth, who was sitting directly across from her.
“Of course it's for a good cause, but they even couldn't manage to scrape together a decent set of entreés—” Jessica said.
The vigor of Elizabeth’s nodding was enough to set her chunky diamond earrings into a chaotic dance against her head. Despite the movement, her blonde slicked-back bun had enough gel in it to withstand a tornado and a minor explosion In the midst of her nodding, her entire body twitched when the lights flickered on and off again from the wind.
“Speaking of non-business topics,” Robert said, “there’s a surprise waiting after dinner.” He sent a wink toward Julie, sitting at the opposite end of the long glass table.
The most fake-sounding oohs and ahhs sounded around the room. Sam partook just for the sheer fun of acting like an idiot.
Elizabeth called Sam’s name from the other side of the table. “What did you do for work, again?” Her voice was breathy and thin. “Something in the family business, I presume?”
Her father coughed.
“No, I’m—”
“Samantha’s pursuing her dreams of cosmetology”—her mother butted in—“but Bri’s been working at the company for two years now.” Julie’s eyes gazed lovingly at her youngest daughter. “Her father and I can’t believe her knack for business.”
“How is Matthew, Sam?” Bri asked.
“Fine—he’s really busy.” All true statements. She couldn’t help the tightening in her throat—it was the stupid dress collar. Matthew’s wellbeing seemed to be a point of interest; did anyone give a shit about the woman sitting in front of them? Her wine created a miniature whirlpool as her wrist circled the glass against the white tablecloth. The scarlet liquid filled her vision.
EHHHH! EHHHH!
Sam knocked over her wine at the shrilling phone alert. The scarlet stain splattered on the white tablecloth. Her eyes squeezed shut. When she opened them, a caterer had laid a white napkin to cover the accident.
Everyone at the table drew out their iPhones—from the amount of cameras covering the smooth metal backs, they were all the newest models.
Emergency Alert: STRONG WINDS create fire hazard in Los Angeles.
“It's just a bit of wind,” Chris said. “There's no need to blow out people's hearing over it.”
The rest of the party murmured their agreement.
A chandelier composed of straight rods embedded with LED lights hung above them. Frankly, it was ugly as hell. The price tag was probably in the twenty-thousands, which was why her mother must’ve deemed it worthy. The lights casted gold over the glass table and sent the white china dishes shimmering. With the occasional loss of power, it seemed as if the glow appeared more pronounced every time it flickered back on. Sam brought her glass to her lips and stared into it as the conversation continued to buzz around her—she needed to figure out a way to take a convincing fake sip. The whispers and chatter felt like static electricity moving over her skin and through the air.
Plates were emptied; caterers swept through the room.
“I forgot something in my car,” Sam said to no one. The white leather of the dining chair peeled away from the backs of her bare thighs; her cocktail dress was too short to sit down in without her sweat adhering to everything. Sam was halfway across the foyer when footsteps sounded behind her—Bri, judging by the soft steps and the swishing of silk.
“Playing sentry?” Sam asked.
“Do you really want me to answer that?” Her younger sister padded behind her like a lost puppy.
The foyer was brighter than the dining room, and the shift into the polished marble floors and cream-painted walls was enough to cause Sam’s entire body to cringe. As she opened the front door, wind flew into the house. It danced underneath Sam’s skirts and threw her hair over her mouth and eyes.
“What the hell do you need so badly in this wind, Sissy?”
She could barely hear Bri as they stepped outside.
“TAMPON!” The word burst from her lips—her subconscious brain deserved a jail-sentence for the stupidity and deliverance. There was no way her sister was going to buy that shit.
“WHAT?” Bri’s raised voice carried over the wind.
Sam cupped her hand over Bri’s ear so she wouldn’t have to yell. “In my car!”
“Sam, you know you can always raid under the sink, right? Geez.”
“Special brand. I hate the ones you use.” Special brand? She’d barely had any alcohol. Once she was fully embraced in the windstorm, though, it didn’t matter if Bri had enough skills to spot the lie. The biting LA air and wind was a welcome reprieve from the stuffy warmth in the overcrowded dining room.
“Please don’t leave,” Bri said as she kept pace by Sam’s side. “Dad wants Mom’s birthday to be perfect.” Her hands were wringing her skirt into a wad; it left creases in the red silk of the dress. “I’m sorry I begged you to be here.”
“Wasn’t planning on it, Bri,” Sam said.
“On leaving, ruining the night, or being here?”
No comment. As Sam yanked open the driver's door of her Kia, a wad of advertisements and pamphlets fluttered down into the dry street gutter—courtesy of the overstuffed door cup holder. A tang of acetone filled the air inside her car; she’d come straight from work at the nail salon and had to strip off her uniform in the backseat before the three hour drive into LA. She wasn’t sure if it was the scent that stung her eyes. Would her mother be able to smell it on her?
Bri grabbed the brightly colored papers before they were swept up by the wind. They were filled with cheesy slogans and smiling models covering their fronts: Liposuction, Planned Parenthood, Tasty Tacos. As Bri gazed at the papers, her brows drew together.
Sam snatched the wad from her hands and threw them into the backseat.
“Got it!” Sam held up the coveted tampon like it was a key to the universe. The hot pink plastic wrapper was creased and warped—it had been biding its time in her glove box for the past three months.
“Congratulations, Sam. You're a woman now,” Bri deadpanned while turning back toward the house. She had a hand at her front and back to keep the wind from raising her hem.
#
After dinner everyone filed into the sitting room—what century were they in?—and Sam claimed a piano bench that she had dragged into a shadowed corner of the room near the window. Her mother had a fascination with everything ornate, Italian, and West Elm, so the silk brocade that covered the bench was a welcome reprieve from sticky leather. There was a ringing of a spoon against a glass and Dad stood up in front of the glowing fireplace. The wind howling through the chimney sent an occasional flicker through the flames.
“Thank you all for being here to celebrate my lovely wife, Julie.” He smiled at her mother, then Bri and the rest of the gathered party. “I know your love for Shakespeare, dear, so I thought this would be something you’d enjoy.” With an overly-dramatic flourish of his hand, he sat on the loveseat with his wife.
The French doors at the right end of the room flew open. A man dressed in a burgundy overcoat took his place where her father had previously stood.
“An excerpt from Shakespeare’s Hamlet—in honor of Julie’s sixtieth birthday.” It was her mother’s favorite. The tenor of the man’s voice was deep and smooth.
He gazed around the room once as an otherworldly look seemed to glaze his eyes.
To be, or not to be, that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer…
The electricity went out.
The glow of the fireplace was the only source of light and it backlit the actor into having a red halo surround his form—he looked monstrous. Elizabeth stood up out of apparent fear; Adam grabbed her waist to pull her back down. Her mother glanced over at her father in worry.
The actor continued, apparently fazed by nothing:
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles
And by opposing end them. To die—to sleep…
In her mind’s eye she saw the positive test floating there from weeks ago—it wouldn’t get out of her head. To be or not to be. Felt the surges of panic and heard her own sobs on the bathroom floor as if her mind had been transported back to the moment.
Sam’s breaths were coming too fast now, the air was hot everywhere in this house. She felt like the fire was creeping closer to her—engulfing her lungs.
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks…
It was too much—being forced to act at this party around these people. Alone. Sam brought her hand to her face and it came away damp. She’d been wrapped in a red bath towel the night she saw the two lines. The heartache and the thousand natural shocks. They hadn’t gone away. Every scarlet-hued liquid or piece of red meat embodied that night.
That flesh is heir to: 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd.
In the darkness, the entire room seemed to be entranced by the words and inflections in his voice. The guests were sitting straight, eyes on the man—but there was a tinge of fear floating in the room. Wind attacked the glass doors and panes rattled in their frames.
That flesh is heir to: 'tis a consummation. Matthew hadn’t known. He’d left her a month weeks before she’d taken the test.
A slam shot through the room: a tree crashed through the window four feet from Sam.
Her father yanked her mother into the hallway. “Everyone okay?” he yelled over the chaos.
The spray of glass and leaves that followed the crash grazed over her right arm and cheek exposed to the onslaught. Sam turned her head towards the wind that swept into the room.
It looked as if the gnarled finger of a god had reached out to grab her.
Glittering flecks of glass covered the oak flooring. In the glow of firelight, they shimmered.
To die, to sleep;
To sleep, perchance to dream—ay, there's the rub:
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come…
The actor kept on despite the guests running out of the room. His voice was unyielding—eyes still glazed as if his mind was detached from reality. The howling wind had the intact panes still rattling in their frames. The wind continued to hurl itself through the shattered window.
Sam sank to her knees amidst the sound of angry wind and cries in the outer hall.
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause—there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life.
The warmth of the fire glowed against the tears crawling down her cut cheeks; the Shakespearean actor was speaking only to her.
Being an actor was inescapable; some people were better at it than others—but that didn’t erase the millions of facades constantly on display. The remains of her armor cracked as his voice brought her anguish to the surface.
Someone was calling from outside the room. The sound passed through her without registering if it was a name or phrase. To the resolute sound of the actor’s voice, her torso began to sway back and forth to an invisible song strung between his words.
Strands of her hair rose from the wind—physical sensations fought for purchase in her mind. The warmth of the flames, chill of the wind, dampness of skin.
With this regard their currents turn awry
And lose the name of action.
She stood on shaking legs as the soliloquy finished. The crunch of glass beneath her heels created a tangible noise for her to cling to as she threw open the patio doors.
Name of action. The violence of the wind welcomed her into the fold.
Zoie Jones lives in the greater Los Angeles area where she is pursuing a degree in English literature. Natural Shocks is her debut piece of fiction.