Ashley arranged for a shuttle to take me back to the city in an hour, giving me time to “freshen up,” which was probably a polite way of saying, “Please go wash your face and pull it together.” But she did it in a way that made me feel taken care of, not ashamed.
I took my room key and headed for the elevator. Just as the doors opened and I stepped in, I heard a woman yell out, “Jenny!” Or at least what sounded like “Jenny” from across the lobby, over the sound of a man in a business suit rolling his fancy leather suitcase over the slate floor. I turned around and saw a streak of black hair and a bright blue dress barreling toward me. “Wait, wait! Hold the door,” she shouted. I pushed the button to keep the door open, and she charged into the elevator, wrapping her arms around me, knocking my hand off the button. The doors closed.
I’ve never been a huge fan of elevators, or enclosed spaces in general, or strangers or excessive touching, for that matter, so being in an elevator getting hugged by a stranger with arms that were freakishly strong for her relatively diminutive figure wasn’t exactly my favorite thing in the entire world.
“I can’t believe it’s really you! You’re not on the reunion list!” she said, pulling away but keeping a firm hold on both my arms. She slipped her hands down so we were holding hands, shook hers so mine shook too, and looked me over. “It’s me! Myra!” She jumped up and down, taking my hands with her. “You look . . . You look amazing—OHMYGOD! You really did it, didn’t you?”
I was about to tell her that I didn’t know what was going on. That she probably had me mistaken for someone else, but then she gently ran three fingers down the slope of my nose, and I didn’t know what to do. What are you supposed to say to a stranger touching your nose in an elevator? I stared at her with my mouth gaping, like an idiot.
“I liked your old nose,” she said, shaking her head at me. “You’re the only one who didn’t.” Her eyes got wide, and I thought she’d realized her mistake. Instead she gushed: “But this one is great too! I thought you looked different when I saw you across the room. It’s a flawless job, really.”
“Thanks,” I said. I knew it was absurd, but I hated the idea of disappointing her. I’ll be who she wants me to be until I get off the elevator, I thought. I figured we’d go our separate ways, and I’d just try to avoid her for the rest of my time at the lodge. There would probably be a slew of her old friends at the reunion, and she’d forget about me, or whoever she thought I was, in the shuffle.
She had thick bangs and long straight hair that framed a small, sharp face. She was thin and wiry, maybe a little mousy, but she wore bright red lipstick and looked very pulled together. Her gorgeous, big, dark brown eyes were filling up with tears. Her tears, and the confusion and the hugging and the closeness of the elevator got me crying again.
“Oh, I know!” she said, letting go of one of my hands so she could wipe her eyes. “I’ve been fighting the mascara battle all day too. I’m such a freaking sap! I mean, thinking about seeing everyone—it just gets me going. But none of us—we didn’t know you were coming.” She hugged me again, sobbing into my shoulder. “It’s amazing!”
For a small lodge, it was turning into the longest elevator ride I’d ever been on, but then I realized that neither of us had pushed a floor button. “What floor are you on?” I asked, breaking away to look at the numbers on the panel.
“Oh no, I’m not staying here,” Myra said. “I still live in town. I’m just here setting up for the reunion weekend. And then I saw you. We had no idea!”
“I’m sorry,” I said, pushing the button for the fourth floor. “I—”
“No no! Don’t worry! It’s no trouble! We inflated the numbers a little, just in case. I think, secretly, we were all hoping you’d show up. Did you bring a date?”
“My boyfriend broke up with me at the airport,” I blurted out.
The enormity of it hit me. Everything I knew about my life—all my plans, all my goals, everything—revolved around Deagan. Without him, I didn’t have anything. I didn’t know anything about myself anymore. I felt my knees wobble.
“Oh, Jessie,” Myra said, wrapping her arms around me again. And even though this time I was sure she wasn’t saying “Jenny,” and I was absolutely positive beyond a doubt that I wasn’t who she thought I was, I hugged her back, because I needed a hug.
She grabbed the room key out of my hand when the elevator doors opened. “I have so many questions! I mean, what are you doing now? Where do you live? Who’s this idiot who broke up with you? And at the airport? Who does that?” she said, talking a mile a minute as she shuffled me down the hall. She pushed me into the right room and started the shower for me immediately. “But I’ll wait until we get you all cleaned up and feeling better.” She made a beeline for the minibar, grabbed a little bottle of rum, opened it, and handed it to me. “You look like you need this!”
“I don’t even have luggage,” I wailed, drinking from the bottle like I was taking medicine, even though I almost never drink.
“Then we’ll have to go shopping! What a pity!” she said, in fake horror. “How awful that we have an excuse to go shopping together! I have the perfect place to take you. And when we’re done, you’ll look so fantastic you won’t even care that he’s gone. Promise.” She flopped down on the bed, pulled her phone out of her purse, and flipped it open. I grabbed the hotel robe out of the closet and headed into the bathroom.
Just before I closed the bathroom door, I heard her say, “Oh my God, Heather! You’ll never guess who’s here!” and then, “No! Better! Jessie Morgan! No, I’m not. She’s really, really here.”
Before I jumped in the shower, I studied my face in the mirror. I’d never thought much about my nose one way or another, but it really did fit my face perfectly.
“I can just take the shuttle to Seattle to go shopping,” I called from the bathroom, as I toweled off. I ran my fingers through my hair, trying to create some semblance of an even part, since like an idiot I’d packed my brush in my suitcase. “You must have so much to do for the reunion.”
I couldn’t bring myself to tell Myra that I wasn’t this Jessie person. If I could go into the city to shop by myself and change rooms when I got back, I’d avoid the whole “You know how I hugged you and pretended to be your long-lost friend . . . yeah, I’m not” awkwardness. Maybe I could leave a nice little note from Jessie at the front desk, telling Myra it was great to see her but I had to go. I’d stay away from the banquet room while the reunion was taking place, and everything would be fine.
“Don’t be silly,” Myra called. “When were you even last in Seattle?”
I froze. I’d never been to Seattle.
Luckily, it was a rhetorical question. “You wouldn’t know where to go now!” Myra said gleefully. “I know the perfect place. And I want to spend as much time with you as I can while you’re here!” Her phone chimed. “Oh, crap! I have to go check with the chef about something for the reunion menu, but meet me in the lobby when you’re dressed and we’ll go. Okay?”
I heard the door close before I could even answer. I pulled my salad-dressing-splattered, travel-rumpled clothes on again, and emerged from the bathroom. The room was undoubtedly the nicest hotel room I’d ever been in. A big fluffy bed with a Myra-shaped imprint on the comforter. A wood-burning fireplace stacked with logs and ready to go.
Deagan would have been in heaven. There were few things he loved more than lighting fires. His parents had one of those old-fashioned houses with a fireplace in every bedroom, and he told me once that when he was a kid he used to write his secrets on paper and burn them in his fireplace.
I thought I knew all his secrets. When we lay in bed at night, Deagan would tell me stories about his childhood. His mother always baked oatmeal raisin cookies for after-school snacks. When his father took him fly-fishing in hip waders, he was amazed by the way the cold water rushed past without
getting him wet and the feel of the stones at the bottom of the river through the rubber soles. His grandmother taught him how to waltz in the kitchen to Irving Berlin songs when she came to visit for Christmas. The scar on his chin was from falling off his bike, and his mother washed the blood off his face with a wet washcloth. He and his little brother built forts in the living room and bombed each other with throw pillows. When he graduated from college, his dad had his initials engraved into his grandfather’s watch and cried as he fastened it around Deagan’s wrist. He’d tell me these stories, the things he remembered, and just the fact that they were real made me feel better. Deagan’s stories made me believe I could have the things I’d always wanted, that we were going to be a “happily ever after” couple, that when we had kids, one of us would know what a childhood was supposed to be. I needed that to be true.
I threw myself down on the bed, in the Myra-shaped imprint, burying my head into the comforter. It smelled like Chanel Chance—the perfume Luanne wore. She practically walked around in a cloud of it. It was comforting. Familiar. Like getting a hug when I needed one.
The idea of taking the shuttle and shopping by myself in a city I’d never been to was completely overwhelming. I felt like quitting everything. I could lie in that spot on the bed and do nothing until the cleaning crew came in and had to move me. They could bundle me up with the sheets and whisk me away.
I rolled over on my side. Something stuck me in the face. It was an earring. A tiny filigree teardrop, hanging from a thin gold post. It looked old. The nooks and crannies of the gold were darkened with years of tarnish, even though the rest of it was polished clean. I searched around until I found the earring back, on the floor by the nightstand. I couldn’t just leave it there or pretend I hadn’t found it. I had to return it to Myra. It reminded me of a pair of earrings Deagan’s grandmother had. It was probably an heirloom.
I thought about just leaving it at the front desk with a note for Myra. They probably don’t have stationery in here, I thought. Hotels don’t really do that anymore, right? But when I searched around, I found a folder with a few pieces of paper and some envelopes in the desk drawer. The discovery disappointed me. I wanted to see Myra again. I wanted to go shopping with a friend and be someone new and forget about Deagan for a while. “I wouldn’t want to risk them losing this,” I said to myself, out loud, like my lame excuse would somehow make the idea of pretending to be someone I wasn’t less crazy or ridiculous.
I stood in the lobby, holding the earring gently in my palm, trying not to crush it, while I looked around for Myra. Blue dress. Dark hair. Thick bangs. I couldn’t see her anywhere. I walked into a banquet room to look for her.
I’m just going to give her the earring and go, I thought. Without the mess of mascara on my face, she’ll realize I’m not really her long-lost friend. No one looks that much like another person.
The room was empty. Across the back wall a big banner read, “Welcome Home Wildcats! Mount Si Class of 1999 Reunion,” and posters that looked like blown-up pages of a yearbook hung on every other wall. I’d graduated a year after them, but my class reunion was two years ago. Who has a thirteen-year reunion?
Someone had gone through with thick, bright markers, like the ones that are supposed to smell like berries, but really just smell like toilet cleaner, and drawn doodles on all the posters. Hearts, stars, unicorns, and big red Ws that I supposed were for “Wildcats” littered the pages, and the reunion status of each student was scribbled underneath their name in round, balloon-like high school script: “attending,” “not attending,” “out of contact.”
I found Myra on the first poster. Her last name was Aberly. “Attending! Yay!” was written under her name, along with a goofy smiley face with bangs like hers. There were four Heathers before I even got to the Gs, so I had no idea who Myra called from my room.
Morgan, I thought. That was the name Myra had said on the phone. Jessie Morgan. I followed the posters across the walls, through Collier and Finley, Kapovi and Linden. The pictures could have been from my high school. Flannel shirts and scrunchies, black choker necklaces. Every other girl had Rachel’s haircut from Friends, and only one or two of them actually had the hair for it.
Finally, I found Jessica Elizabeth Morgan. And she did look like me. It was eerie. Her hair was lighter and slightly orange, and her eyes were a funny color—brown but with a weird greenish tinge. Fake contacts maybe, or bad color balance in the photo. But she had the same smile, the same apple cheeks I’d had in high school, which, thankfully, turned into actual cheekbones as I aged. She even shared the slightly too big ears that I never did quite grow into and had the same light freckles across her nose, which was larger than mine but absolutely adorable. Her nose gave her character, and I hoped, even though I had no idea who she was or where she was, this Jessie Morgan girl never got the nose job she’d so desperately wanted. I hoped, wherever she was, she was happy and had someone to love her and wouldn’t ever feel the humiliation of getting dumped at the airport.
She was wearing a black top or dress with spaghetti straps. One of the straps had fallen off her shoulder, and I was thankful that the photo was cropped before it revealed exactly how much cleavage she was showing the camera. Underneath the picture, next to her name, was written “out of contact,” with a big pouty face next to it. Someone had crossed that out and written “ATTENDING!!!!” in bright red ink that was still fresh and smelled, indeed, like those big fat fruit markers. Myra must have just written it, and my heart broke for her when I thought about confessing that I wasn’t Jessie Morgan. I reached out and touched the picture of Jessie.
“God! Remember us with the Sun-In?” Myra called from across the room as she walked over to me. “We were, like, addicted to that stuff.” She put her arm around my shoulder. “Of course, I was scared Grammie would find out, so I just had that one streak you could only see when I wore a ponytail.”
I hadn’t been allowed to use Sun-In as a kid. My mother would have flipped. But I remembered when Angela Nathans spilled an entire bottle of it on the bus on our seventh-grade overnight trip to Philadelphia. Right at the beginning of the trip. When the bus got hot, it got worse, so every time we left—to see the Liberty Bell or Valley Forge—we came back to a bus full of baked Sun-In.
“I’ll never forget that smell,” I said.
“I know! Me either,” Myra said, laughing. “It still smells the same.” She stepped away to smooth down the corner of the poster. “You’re going to think I’m a freak, but every once in a while I take a whiff from the bottle when I see it at the drugstore.” She looked up and stared at my face. I was positive she would realize that I wasn’t Jessie Morgan, but she just smiled. “It reminds me of you and me and Karen.” She looked away for a second. “I never thought I’d see you again,” she said, and let out a little gasp or a sob or something—I couldn’t tell what because her head was turned.
“I found your earring,” I said, holding out my hand to her. I couldn’t think of anything else to say. I needed to get out of there. I couldn’t pretend to be someone Myra had been missing for thirteen years, or however long it had been since Jessie Morgan left.
Myra reached up to her ear. “Oh, thank you!” she said. “That would have sucked! They were Grammie’s.” She took the earring from me and skillfully stuck it back in her earlobe. “She died last year.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said.
Myra smiled. “Remember how we used to go over to her house after school, and she’d always have frozen Thin Mints and those little plastic barrel bottles of orange drink?”
I laughed. “I remember those bottles! The stuff inside always tasted the same, no matter what the color was.” I don’t know why I wasn’t telling Myra the truth. It was awful of me. It was fraud. But it felt so familiar to talk with her, to reminisce about things, even if we really weren’t talking about the very same memories.
“Your
eyes look so different without those green contacts,” Myra said, studying my face. I wasn’t sure if I wanted her to find me out or not. “No one had the heart to tell you that they didn’t make your eyes look green. They just made them look weird.”
I remembered how desperately I wanted blue contacts when I was a kid. My mom told me my eyes were too dark for them anyway. Where was Jessie’s mom? How come no one told her she couldn’t drink sugar water or spray chemicals in her hair or wear colored contacts? I wondered what it must have been like to be Jessie Morgan.
“We should go,” Myra said. “Or we’ll hit traffic.”
I knew it was wrong, but instead of confessing to Myra that I was actually Jenny Shaw, I said, “I guess I don’t have to call shotgun if it’s just you and me, right?” Back in high school I never bothered to call shotgun—I was usually just happy to be invited along for the ride on the rare occasion that one of our neighbors offered to drive me home from school—but I’d wanted to shout it. The word always stuck in my throat like a big lump. I’d spent most of my high school social interactions with that same kind of lump in my throat, tears just about to spring up in my eyes.
“Ha!” Myra said. “Remember that? You and Karen used to fight!” She grabbed her purse from behind a plant in the corner of the room. “I’ll finish setting things up when we get back.”
“I can help,” I said automatically, like the part of my brain that was supposed to think before it let me talk had been completely disabled.
“Oh my God! You know what I have?” Myra said, after we got into her rusty old Honda. She reached up to pull a disk out of the CD sleeve attached to her visor.
“What?” I asked, as I buckled myself in to the passenger seat. The buckle took a few tries, and there were crumbs and little bits of gravel in the upholstery. It felt familiar. Like my car. No matter how hard I tried to keep it clean, my car always ended up filled with random dirt and cereal-bar wrappers.
Why Can't I Be You (9781101602843) Page 3