Passionflower Part 2
Episode 16 | Still There
Jerking the elastic from her hair, Cassandra crawled on her hands and knees to the mirror she used for the occasional self-portrait. 'Clio,’ she stage-whispered, scrabbling in a drawer for a hairbrush or something like it, ‘is this call video or audio?'
‘The video is opt in, but it’s with all-party consent, so you would have to agree,’ Clio replied.
Cassandra exhaled and waited a few more beats.
I have a choice, she thought. I have a choice.
Shutting her eyes tight, she stepped into one of the only two possible futures she could see.
She had become accustomed to talking with him using her headphones, making it seem as though he were inside of her head, resident somewhere in her brain, a figment of her imagination. Now, for the first time since their conversations in the Memor.I.Am, he was coming from just one direction, from outside of her. If she shut her eyes, it was like he was in the room. In her room.
'I like this about you. You're unpredictable,’ he said.
She couldn’t help but laugh, and then she found herself crying. ‘I thought you’d be angry with me,’ she said.
‘You? I thought you were mad at me! Something I said?’
‘Nothing you said,’ she exclaimed. ‘Nothing you said at all. It’s me.’
‘Oh, the old it’s not you, it’s me routine. I get it, I get it.’
‘Oh my god, Alex,’ she said helplessly. ‘I’ve missed you so much. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’
‘First things first,’ he said. ‘In all seriousness. Are you okay? I was really, really worried. I’ve been calling every day.’
He really wasn’t angry. She could hear no umbrage, he bore her no ill will for her silence, and she was amazed. She marvelled at how hard her hands were shaking.
‘I’ve been having a hard time, but I’m okay now. I’ll explain everything, one day. Right now, I’m just so happy to hear your voice,’ she said. Joy suffused her being, bubbled and sparkled in her chest.
‘So, without prying about why you’ve been away, why are you back now?’ he asked.
She put a hand on her stomach and sternum, trying to regulate her breathing, to metabolise her relief. She drew in the air through her nose and blew it out through her mouth and shrugged, as though he could see her.
‘I was just…ready, I guess,’ she said. ‘I’m ready to stop not being ready.’
'I'm not sure what you're ready for, but I'm glad. So…what’s the plan?’
Not knowing what he meant, she looked up at the monitor and gasped.
‘What?’ he said. ‘What is it?’
'Your photo,’ she said. ‘Is that your photo? On the screen?’
She scuttled across the floor and drew herself up to the worktop, perching on the old wooden four-legged stool.
He had straight dark brown hair flecked with hints of silver, side parted, a longish fringe brushed to the side, overrunning his ears and merging with a short-trimmed beard.
A beard. In London, anyone who’d once sported a beard seemed to have gone clean-shaven now, but Alex’s didn’t overwhelm him. She could see all of his mouth, and it was perfect. His eyes were a clear, light blue, a blue almost too scintillating to be natural.
He laughed. ‘It is my photo on the screen. I thought I’d personalise things. In case it was my anonymity that had freaked you out. Do you want the animated version? We can switch to video.'
'No! Not yet!’ she said. ‘That I’m not ready for. Not this morning. I’m sorry…I…I’d almost come to think of you as...a disembodied voice. Like Clio.'
Alex burst out laughing. 'Like Clio! Wow. I mean, wow. That says a lot for my sparkling personality.'
'Oh, eff off. You know what I mean. Oh god. I'm sorry. I mean "oh eff off" in the English sense. Like, "stop being silly, friend of mine".'
His laugh dwindled into an affectionate chuckle, a throaty hum. ‘No need for profanity. I know what you mean. And I am a friend of yours.' He paused. 'Hello there, you.'
Cassandra blushed. 'Hello there, you too.’
'So today is a banner day,’ he said. ‘You came back. I’ve left messages, obviously. Have you listened to them?’
‘Not yet,’ said Cassandra. ‘I’m going to. It’s the first time I’m logging on in ages.’
‘I know, I know,’ he said. ‘You’ve gone and done the whole Room of One’s Own Part Deux already. That’s it, isn’t it?’
He did not behave as she might have expected. Despite the abrupt, unannounced nature of her absence, despite her having ghosted him for weeks, he was asking for no explanation, showing no displeasure or intrusiveness. He sounded as affable and light-hearted and warm as ever.
Not yet prepared to admit to Paul’s existence in her life, much less his behaviour towards her, she had been worried what questions Alex might ask, whether she might find herself admitting she was married, and then what might happen?
But it seemed she was in the clear. As ever, they picked up where they had last left off, as though no time had passed in the interim. Alex was good at that. Cassandra described her mushrooming ideas, her growing motivation. She told him of seeking advice and support, without mentioning that her primary confidante was a therapist. She explained that she’d been researching opportunities that would get her out of London for a while, presenting this prospect as inspiration and opportunity rather than escape.
‘I’m not sure if I would have started pursuing this if I hadn’t met you, hadn’t had your support,’ she said.
There was silence on the line, and she felt suddenly nervous and shy. ‘Are you still there?’
‘I’m still here. This is perfect,’ he replied. ‘You’re perfect.' His voice sounded full of emotion. 'Everything is going to be fine,’ he said.
She did not know whether he had heard her weeping or only intuited it. His reassurances sounded different to Paul’s. Paul would say everything’s fine, there’s nothing the matter with your life, what are you so worried about?
‘It’ll be better than fine,’ Alex continued. ‘And furthermore…this is clearly meant to be.’
A link appeared onscreen.
‘There are many reasons why I’ve tried to call you every day,’ Alex said, ‘But this is one of them.’
A cream-coloured, elaborate building awash in sunshine sat on the water's edge: square lines, arches, turrets, a light-drenched terrace with bright blue umbrellas. It had the air of a palazzo, but a dense forest of palm trees lay behind it, too tropical for Europe. The terrace between the house and the water was surfaced with Moorish tiles in elaborate patterns, even on the dock jutting out into the water.
'What is this place?...Italy?' she guessed.
'Nope,’ he said. ‘Sarasota, Florida. An old vaudeville theatre impresario built it and now it’s part of a museum complex. Scroll down. Look.’
Our New Artists' Residencies: The Year of the Woman.
'Rolling application deadlines, rolling start dates,’ he said. ‘Multiple gallery spaces. See?'
Cassandra scanned. The theme of the year, the way they described what was possible – the fit was perfection. Depending on the type of artist and the availability of space, it seemed as though it might even be possible to begin something soon. She imagined the sun of another country, slanting through the window and falling on her canvas.
'What made you think of this place?' she asked, still reading, disbelieving. 'It’s a long way from Chicago. You've been here?'
‘I have a house near there. Just a little bungalow,’ he said, casually. ‘I inherited it from my dad. Here.'
Another filename flashed up on screen. FloridaHouse2.jpg.
The bungalow was white weather-boarded with black shutters, early 20th century maybe, trim and neat and surrounded by unfamiliar plants. One had dozens of purple blooms, with fizzy tendrils spiralling out from their centres like miniature fireworks explosions.
‘Those are passionflowers,’ she said. ‘That’s uncanny. I have a vine of those just outside the door of my studio. I could reach out and touch them right now.’
‘Maybe that’s not so uncanny, considering it’s us,’ he said, a smile in his voice.
'So, let me understand.' Her words unfolded slowly as she untangled the snarl of thoughts in her head. 'If I were to do a residency at this place, would we…does that mean...'
Alex laughed. ‘It could mean exactly that. How would you say it? If you fancy meeting.’
She lay her hands on top of one another on her chest, as though she might need to give herself compressions any moment. Her heartbeat felt irregular.
'Unless...' he said, hesitantly, and still she couldn’t speak. ‘Are you still there?’ he asked.
‘I’m still here,’ she said. ‘There’s no "unless”. I’d love to meet. Of course, I’d fancy meeting.'
'Well then,’ he said.
She heard his pleasure, pictured the upward curl at the corners of those generous lips. She extended a fingertip towards his photograph and touched them.
'I guess,’ Alex continued, ‘the next step is up to you.’
A life that had seemed unimaginable was suddenly taking shape, was tangibly possible, and she realised that she would not or could not walk away.
‘Back to…what’s the term for this again?’ Cassandra said sheepishly. ‘Paul calls them PCPs. Physically co-present meetings.’
‘Whatever they’re called and whatever the mode of meeting, I’m always pleased to see you,’ Eleanor said, settling into her brown leather chair. ‘I have a suspicion as to why we’re meeting here rather than online.’
‘The air conditioning here is nice,’ Cassandra said, although surely Eleanor knew that wasn’t really it. For a week, a horrible heat wave had been hardening and cracking the earth in the garden, wilting all the plants. Although the garden birds had fallen mostly silent, around nine or ten at night, when it was marginally cooler, a single blackbird came to sit at the highest point of a nearby horse chestnut tree, and sang. These were the conditions under which Paul had returned, a few days prior.
It hadn’t come as a surprise. The police had called, saying her husband had got in touch with them and was seeking her clearance to return, although in the absence of her applying to extend the order, he had not needed it. She hadn’t expected him to ask. Despite this sign of his deference, Cassandra had still been afraid he’d explode as soon as he realised she’d added a lock, that he couldn’t get in his own front door without her admitting him.
But Paul seemed to possess neither the energy nor the inclination for anger. He’d lost a stone, maybe more, and his clothes sagged on his frame. Even Flush, who should have been overjoyed, looked uncertain when she saw him.
‘I don’t think we know where to begin,’ Cassandra said to Eleanor. ‘He doesn’t know what to say to me, and I don’t know what to say to him. I don’t know where we go from here.’
The house was too hot, the studio worse. It was far too punishing to bike, or to do exercise of any kind. Sometimes she sat in the only climate-controlled space she had, the storage area of the studio, where the paintings from her old solo show lived. She and Paul were skirting around one another, awkward and wary, uncertain what to do. Paul slept in their bedroom, Cassandra on the sofa in the studio, and he looked sad rather than angry or impatient if their eyes met over the kitchen island in the mornings.
To be able to feel rather sorry for him required a power she had never felt with Paul, and she marvelled at it. But she still feared him enough to avoid chats with Alex at times Paul was home.
‘And there’s things,’ she said to Eleanor, ‘important things that he doesn’t know about.’
She thought that Eleanor’s brow creased at that but wasn’t sure. Having become accustomed to seeing her therapist’s face up close, every pore rendered in high definition, Cassandra was now finding her harder to read, even given the extra body language available to her.
‘Such as what?’ Eleanor asked.
Cassandra explained those parts she felt comfortable confessing: how she’d applied for a residency at the contemporary-art gallery of the museum in Sarasota, over 4000 miles away. How female artists were their theme of the year. How everything fit so perfectly with the concept she’d told Eleanor about before, working in her space while painting female models in their own spaces, wherever those might be. She described the details of the opportunity, the per diem and accommodation and travel provided for chosen artists, how it all felt like fate. The effusive new recommendation from her old mentor, Naomi, the one who’d been so influential in her securing her solo show, so long ago.
The initial reply from the administrator at the Conti, saying encouraging things about how the creative director was taking Cassandra’s fascinating proposal to a special meeting of the museum board.
‘It sounds extraordinary,’ Eleanor said. ‘Unbelievable, almost, how closely it aligns with what you were thinking. How did you find out about it?’
‘Luck, I suppose,’ Cassandra said, shrugging her shoulders, but she blushed, and no doubt Eleanor saw it, for she cocked her head ever so slightly, curiously.
‘Serendipity,’ Cassandra continued. ‘But Paul doesn’t know anything about it, and I suppose he doesn’t have to, unless something actually happens.’
‘And perhaps,’ Eleanor said, ‘not even then.’
Photo of a passionflower by Edgar López on Unsplash
There was a hosepipe ban in effect, and everything in the garden was limp and exhausted. The passionflowers by the door of the studio still bloomed, as they would likely continue to do all summer, but the leaves on the vine looked shrivelled, not the right shade of green. Flush usually slept curled up in her basket in the kitchen, but now she lay in the shade of the hawthorn tree, stretched out long, as though she didn’t want any part of her body touching any other part.
Despite her having opened all the doors and windows in the studio, the atmosphere had been oppressive all day. She had eaten a sandwich in the studio in lieu of dinner, working through her meal, still not ready to sit down with Paul at the table inside. It would not be properly dark for ages, but once evening began to fall Cassandra went to sit at the round tiled table in the garden. As night fell, the solar-powered crackle-glass globes in the garden would illuminate strongly from the sun they’d received all day, shining more brightly at the cracked places.
When Paul emerged from house to join her, bearing a heavily chilled bottle of Sancerre and two wine glasses, she found herself smiling at him.
For a long while they were quiet, drinking their ice-cold wine, and for the first time in days their silence seemed companionable rather than tense.
Paul drew a deep breath. ‘I have an appointment tomorrow,’ he said. ‘The first one.’
His voice was hoarse, rusty, as though he hadn’t been using it much.
‘You mean the appointment for…’
‘The anger management,’ he said. ‘For the court. Mandated by the court. Although I would have gone anyway, Cassie, mandated or not. I want you to know that. I know I have a problem.’
Should she affirm it? She wondered if there were a catch, a trap. Paul taking any real responsibility for his own part in the violence was atypical. After fights, Paul was often fawning and apologetic, wheedling and plying her with gifts until she softened to him again, but he was rarely vulnerable and never cried. I have a problem was indeed a different approach than what have you done and what have you made me do.
She opted to stay quiet and to wait, for he seemed to have more to say.
‘I didn’t have the greatest example…in my own father, I mean. The things my sister and I saw between them, growing up in this house.’ He looked towards the bay window in the kitchen, winced, and shook his head. ‘I’ve never spoken to you about it much. It didn’t feel fair on my parents to air their dirty laundry. But I know it wasn’t good. I knew at the time, even, that it wasn’t good. You tell yourself you’re not going to be like that, you know?’
His lip was trembling, and he was fidgeting, tracing lines down the condensation on the sides of his glass.
‘I know,’ said Cassandra. Watching the unfamiliar twitches and contortions in his face now, she was fascinated, but noticed that she did not yet feel moved.
‘So yes, the first appointment is tomorrow, and I really want to commit, be committed to it. And to you. And I think it would be good if I came with you to see Eleanor. If we did some sessions with her. Together.’
Cassandra’s eyebrows reacted, making it impossible for her to conceal her surprise from Paul, who was alternating between tracing patterns on his glass and intensely scrutinising her face.
‘You don’t think it’s a good idea,’ he said tightly.
‘I don’t know, Paul. You always call her “that woman.”’
He collapsed back in his seat, clasped his hands in his lap, and looked down at his feet.
‘I want to save our marriage,’ he mumbled. ‘Our marriage is worth saving. I want to do whatever it takes.’
While Eleanor had never explicitly suggested that she leave the marriage, nor was Cassandra in any doubt about what her therapist really thought of Paul. The unspoken truth between them did not need to be spoken to be understood. Eleanor would never agree, she was certain.
‘I’m not sure if I feel comfortable,’ she said, hesitantly. ‘Having my own space with Eleanor now feels…important.’
She could feel nips on her leg from some small invisible insect, and she scratched at her ankle and inspected the painful place, a welcome break from monitoring Paul’s expression.
‘I guess she knows all about this,’ his voice said from above. ‘I guess she’s not a big fan of mine, then?’
She sat up again, without looking towards him. ‘I don’t think Eleanor judges anyone,’ she lied, lightly. ‘She’s just…understanding. Supportive.’
‘Hm,’ Paul said, and while his hm’s were often derisive, this one just sounded neutrally curious. Without looking up from his glass, he slid his hand across the table towards her, palm up. After a couple of moments, she took it.
‘Cassie,’ he said. ‘What do I have to do? I’ll do anything.’
He sounded like the old Paul, the one she’d met when she was young, the one who worshipped her so much that surely he could never lay a hand on her.
As he squeezed her hand tighter, she felt her heart going out to him, and her eyes welling up. She was about to speak, perhaps even to say I’ll do anything too, when Clio’s voice emanated from Cassandra’s phone, lying face down on the table.
‘You’ve received a new message from Rebecca Harrison,’ Clio said.
‘Sorry,’ said Cassandra, speaking to Paul, but Clio misunderstood.
‘You have a new email message from Rebecca Harrison,’ she repeated. ‘Shall I read it?’
‘Who’s she?’ asked Paul.
In the next episode, Paul reacts to new revelations about his wife, and some plans that do not involve him.
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About the Author
Known for her nonfiction work such as All the Ghosts in the Machine and Reset, Elaine Kasket is now exploring the boundaries between memory, technology, and human connection through fiction with Still There. This serialised novel is being released exclusively on Substack, with new instalments dropping every Tuesday and Friday. Join the journey from the beginning and subscribe to make sure you don't miss a single episode.
