by Emily Beyda
“At least leave me something to watch,” I say. “I’m sick of reading. And I can work on making my way through the footage without you, there’s so much of it. Might as well have something to do if I’m going to be up all night anyway.”
“No,” Max says, “I’ve worked very hard on curating these, presenting them in a particular order. Letting you access them any way you wanted to without me would be…”—he pauses here, steadying the heavy box on his hip, groping in the air for a word—“destabilizing.”
With that, he leaves. The birds settle into the courtyard; the room darkens, goes silent. In the dark, the pain spreads through my body like a poison. There is no escaping it. Sleep is impossible. Even staying still, lying down, is overwhelming. The pain gathers and pools like an itch beneath the skin, building until it becomes impossible for me to remain in bed. Instead, I spend hours walking back and forth across the room. Imitating Rosanna.
* * *
—
The first tape the next morning is a dinner party. Before he puts it in, Max runs his fingers lightly along the broken edge of my jaw, feeling for strength. The hurt of his touch disappears into the larger oceanic hurt, the heart of this strange prison I am trapped in, which feels like it will go on forever. Max has brought me juice to sip through a crimped straw, and I watch, jealous, as Rosanna sits at the head of the table and tears meat off a small bird. The camera is angled up from below, with patches of color at the top of the frame that could be the undersides of flower petals. Only the bottom of her face is in frame, and I can see her mouth wide, laughing. I let myself look over at Max. He was watching me as we watched those first tapes, looking to see how I would react, making sure I was as charmed by her as he was. But now he is staring straight at the screen, his body tight. I watch Rosanna’s mouth open and shut, the flash of those clean white teeth.
Another clip. Rosanna is in the bedroom, sitting at a mirrored vanity. Her face is pale and creased with sleep. She looks washed out without makeup. It’s as if she’s naked, she is that vulnerable, that bare. She brushes her hair out in long smooth strokes.
“So, master, what are you making me do today?” she says, joking, not joking, not looking up from the mirror.
The camera and whoever’s holding it aren’t reflected. I lean forward, straining to see beyond the frame, but there is nothing there to see. Is it Max who stands there, helpful, silent, her friendly ghost? Rosanna puts down the brush, tests the bounce of her hair with the flat of her palm.
“It’s too boring,” she says, and in her best Garbo impression: “I vant to be alone.”
She finally looks up at the person filming, grinning until she sees the camera in their hand. Her face goes dark, the hand holding the brush frozen in the air. The screen turns black before she can open her mouth. Max fiddles, tense, with the next tape, but as he puts it in, the screen abruptly goes black.
“Shit,” says Max. “It’s the cable, it’s been giving me problems. I have another one in the car—sit tight, don’t touch anything, I’ll be right back.”
I stay still, my hands folded in my lap, as he walks to the door. But then there’s an unexpected sound—the harsh, familiar click of the lock. A burst of resentment passes through me, as quick and sharp as a stabbing knife. Even now, even now that I have Rosanna’s face, I still don’t have her freedom. Max treats me like I’m becoming Rosanna as she is now, fragile, overwhelmed by fear. But I don’t want to be that Rosanna. I want to be the Rosanna from the magazines, the tapes, bright and shining, afraid of nothing. Boldly herself, encountering the world. Who is Max to tell that woman what she can and can’t touch, what she can and can’t know about herself? Who is he to tell us anything at all? Rosanna made the tapes for me. Max might have his order, his curation, might want to keep my experience of my new self under his control, but he isn’t in charge here. Rosanna is.
Quick as a striking snake, my hand jolts out and grabs blindly at the box of tapes. Rosanna has compiled this archive for me. I want to learn everything she wants me to know. And there’s so much to learn; Rosanna Riding, one says. Dancing, another, Met Gala. Excitement leaps liquid up my spine. This is more like it.
The cover of one disk says L.A. House, and I pick it up. This seems like a good place to start. I’ve seen her homes only in little snippets—the kitchen, the hallway, one wall in the bedroom. Surely the first thing to do in attempting to understand someone is to see the way they live, the objects they surround themselves with, especially since Rosanna spends so much time these days cooped up within those walls. Watching will give me a better idea of who she is when she’s alone. I will be an archaeologist, scraping dust off the bones of her old life, examining her kitchen, her bedroom, her den, as if they are the hidden chambers of a sacred tomb.
A key turns in the lock.
Rosanna, I think. This has all been a test. She has come to me.
Quickly I shove the thin disk down into the crack between the mattress and the futon frame. What am I doing? I think, but it’s too late now, I’m acting on instinct, too used to hiding after spending so long in the dark, and as the door opens the disk is hidden and I have shuffled the row of tapes in front of me into a chaotic pile, hoping that if Max is with her, he won’t notice the missing footage in the disorder. Rosanna will notice. But she’ll understand.
I snatch a magazine from the bedside table and lie down where the disk is hidden, leaning forward as though I’m paying close attention to her autumn makeup tips, and when the door opens and I see that it isn’t Rosanna, was never Rosanna, was never going to be, I am disciplined enough not to let even the slightest flicker of disappointment pass across my bandaged face. My hands do not shake. I hold them steady as I imagine Rosanna, leaning forward toward me from my mirror, pulling the skin of her left eye tight as she sweeps a cat eye on.
“Hi, Max!” I say. “Back so soon? Guess you missed me.”
I try to stand, the box of tapes sliding from my lap, my legs shifting to cover the space where I had shoved the disk, although rationally I know there is no way the gap it creates would be large enough for him to see. Now that I know it was Max at the door, I don’t feel bad about hiding the tape. I will watch it on my own, secretly. I will gather all the information I can. If he wants to keep secrets about Rosanna, fine. I can keep secrets, too.
“What are you doing?” asks Max. He crosses the room quickly, kneeling by the chaos at my feet. “Why were you touching the footage?”
There’s a wounded tone to his voice. He wants me to feel remorseful, like I’ve betrayed some kind of trust. He’s getting agitated, examining the label of every tape as he puts it back. I hop up, casual, trying to ignore the swimming feeling in my head as I sit down close beside him. Does he really distrust me so much?
“I just wanted to hold them,” I say. “I wanted to feel close to her. I’m sorry I made such a mess, though. Here, let me help you!”
I pick up a big pile of tapes and disks and drop them into the box, chattering as I crawl around the room, my head pounding, gathering up messy stacks of footage and piling it at his feet, like a tribute, like piling wood on a pyre. He has slowed down, isn’t looking so closely at the tapes. He is losing track, listening to me. It’s working. I sit down close beside him and stroke his arm.
Beside me, Max sits still. “You really shouldn’t have touched them,” he says.
“Not without you,” I say. “I know.”
Sitting still, trying not to breathe, I start to notice all the things I’ve trained myself not to notice: the filth of the room; the tightness of the bandages pressing up against my mouth, my nose. I think of Rosanna’s house, all that empty, unused space. How deeply unjust it all feels. She should have me with her. She should keep me close. Rage builds inside me, glowing like a hot coal, but I keep stroking his arm, keep talking, quiet and sweet.
“Maxie, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you nervous
. It won’t happen again.”
This is something Rosanna does. Everyone has a sweet little nickname with her. I know them from the cards. I think she does it for two reasons: to show familiarity and bond with the person she’s addressing, and to establish her dominance over them. They are her pet, her project. I have never called Max anything but Max before. The name feels clunky on my tongue. But he seems to like it. He smiles. He leans close, holds my chin in his hand. His grip is gentle, but the pressure of his fingers on my raw skin still hurts. He looks deep into my eyes. I keep smiling. Breathe, I remind myself, breathe. Everything is normal. I picture Rosanna’s face from an interview she gave about handling the pressures of her growing wellness empire, how she tilted her head back to catch the light. I picture her face floating down to cover my own, a living mask, protection. I smile, the bandages scratching painful against my jaw.
Finally Max lets go. He shakes his head at me, pretending annoyance. But his eyes are bright. “You’re getting a little too good at this,” he says. “That’s exactly how Rosanna would have reacted. You’re sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong, and when you get caught you try to flirt your way out of it. Classic Rosanna.”
My face goes hot. I might be blushing, but I’m so numb with fillers that it’s hard to tell if what I’m feeling is the heat of emotion or the afterburn of pain. Either way, Max can’t see it. And if he can’t see it, it’s like it never happened at all.
“Anyway,” he says, “it’s time to remove your bandages. None of this matters if the operation didn’t work. And it’s been long enough. I want to see you.”
“I’m ready,” I say. “I want to see me, too.”
Max takes a slim pair of silver scissors from the pocket of his coat and lays them on the table beside a little bottle of rubbing alcohol, some gauze. His hands are shaking, just slightly. I can feel the vibrations agitating my swollen skin. He makes three cuts, two on either side of my jaw, one beneath my chin, the thin edge of the scissors nestling close. His gaze is clinical, taking in each part of me at once, a tight focus on the bridge of my nose, my lips. The bandages are soaked in blood and sweat. They cling. When he pulls them off, I can feel my skin coming, too. But I do not flinch. And then all at once, the bandages are gone. I close my eyes. I’m afraid of how he’ll look at me. Max runs the tips of his fingers gently along the jawline of my new face. I can feel them snagging on the places the doctor has stitched up, lightening, gentle against my skin, a new-earned tenderness. Outside, I can hear the wind picking up. I imagine the feeling of it, the heat, the raw bitter urgency of air. I want to go out, to let the air blow sharp on my face. I want the outside light to cut me clean.
I open my eyes. Max looks at me. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to. He looks at me now like I’m brand-new. I take his hand in mine. He lifts my hand to trace the contours of my face, and I can feel it, throbbing, her skin, her lips, her soft little nose. The sweet tuck of her chin. Max looks at me and I look right back, and everything in me lights up. I am so happy. I am almost happier than I can stand.
When Max comes back the next day, I am ready, propped up in bed with my stack of magazines. I am aching and slick with ointments, vitamin E oil, aloe, sweet-smelling creams in tiny, perfect jars. All of it is almost too much, the pain mixing with the floral smell of everything on my face making me feel permanently nauseated. My head hurts too much to read, and so instead I try to concentrate on the images of Rosanna on the red carpet I find in the back pages of the magazines, comparing them to the tapes. I gently rub one finger along the edge of my healing jaw. The pain keeps me focused. Rosanna is always the winner in the “Who Wore It Best?” celebrity face-offs. Is she really always so triumphant? Or does Max not want to give me the chance to think of her as anything less than perfect? Will her small failures be revealed to me, now that I’ve proved my loyalty in such an irreversible way?
Max sits down on the edge of the futon, another cup of coffee in his hand. No plastic straw this time. My jaw is unbound. Theoretically, I should be able to drink normally, calibrate the opening of my new mouth. I try. My cheeks ache and stretch, the liquid burns my tongue. I smile at Max.
“Thank you,” I say.
He nods, seeming distracted. “I’ve been thinking about last night,” he says. “My selections. I think I may have started you off on the wrong foot with all those private moments. Maybe it was too much all at once. For now let’s stick to persona work. More will come later. There’s much more to come.”
“I understand,” I say, although I don’t, I want to know more, know everything there is to know about her, want to know it now. I slip my fingers in over my newly full lips, reassured by the press of warm skin. A child’s gesture, I think, suddenly ashamed. Max inserts the first disk.
“For me it’s all about balance.”
It is a shock to hear her public voice. Rosanna’s performing voice, her voice for outsiders, is nothing like the private voice she uses at home. It is lower than I expected it to be, a little throaty. Glamorous as she is, there is something cozy about her. I must have heard it before at some point in the past, and the sensation is strange, remembering and not remembering, a slippery feeling like trying to catch a glimpse of some distant and tremendous monument, an iceberg hidden just out of view. Max leans toward the screen as if it is a source of warmth in a cold room. I remind myself to look at Rosanna, not his rapt face. She continues.
“And that’s what makes these bars so great. They’re the best of both worlds. Like, when I’m at home, I try to eat clean, have my green shakes, miso soup for breakfast, the good stuff Elsa, my brilliant nutritionist, is always trying to steer me toward. But I’m a Cali girl, so you know I love my In-N-Out! And those trashy spicy tuna rolls with gobs of mayo on them—it’s horrible, I’m addicted to those things. But you gotta indulge yourself occasionally, am I right, ladies? Life is for living!”
The crowd applauds. Max hits pause, rewinds.
“Ladies? Life is for living!” Rosanna says.
“That’s what makes her so amazing,” says Max. “Those aren’t just words. She was always so full of life. There was nothing on earth that scared her before the breakdown. I wish you could have known her then.”
He hits play before I can respond.
Another talk show. Rosanna wears sleek leather pants, crossing her legs with casual elegance, folding into herself. Her hands float as she speaks, tracing invisible lines in the studio air.
“The most important thing is that you don’t forget to have fun! Meditate, hike, but remember to dance, too. I love to put on some Beyoncé and just move! Eat cake for breakfast once in a while. You have to find the happy medium between kale and chaos.”
This is her laugh line, and she pauses, looking out archly at the audience, that head tilt again, one eyebrow raised, and they obligingly laugh. They love everything she does. I can feel it through the screen as surely as she must, sitting on that stage. She gives the camera a wry look, as if to hold herself above the commercialized new age facetiousness she’s peddling. It’s almost as if she’s looking right at me, like it’s a signal. Look how smart we are, it says, smarter than this, but some things just have to be done. I lift my eyebrow the way she does, tilt my head. My hands open and move as hers move, through the air, floating on the same currents, making the same waves.
Max hits pause again and looks over at me. I feel suddenly aware of my imperfections, how broken my tender, swollen new face is still, yellowing like a bruised plum under his eyes. I give him the same small smile Rosanna gives the cameras. Offering something to him, holding something back. I pull back the blanket. I stand, feeling her power flooding through my body. I walk over to the kitchenette the way I practiced the night before, stalking back and forth across the worn wooden floor, copying Rosanna’s small, graceful movements, the way she slips through space, the way her hips, my hips, swing, the careful slightness of her. It was a wo
nder the neighbors hadn’t complained. Maybe there are no neighbors. The only evidence I have of the existence of other people is the occasional bark of dogs being walked on the street outside, the faint hum of engines in the morning as drivers descend from their hillside homes to the long streets of the city below, a light glimpsed in the window of a neighboring house. But inside my building, everything is still. The only sounds are the sounds I make, the chatter of the parrots. Once I thought I heard a baby crying and pressed myself up against the thin far wall, trying to absorb the sound of life, any life, going on without me. But there was nothing. I was wrong.
I walk my Rosanna walk over to the sink and back, pouring myself a glass of water from the carafe in the fridge, moving so smoothly its surface stays flat, the meniscus’s arc unbroken, the same small smile on my face, a smile meant for no one in particular, the public smile of red carpets and talk show couches, a smile directed toward a kind and giving audience who already loved me as much as they could, who didn’t need me to explain myself. I don’t offer to get Max a glass. Rosanna never offers anyone anything in the footage I’ve watched, and I don’t know how she, how I, would do it. Max looks almost frightened. I sit down beside him and touch his leg with the side of one hand, tracing his kneecap’s soft sliding bone.
“Okay,” he says, shifting his leg away from me, “I understand. We’ll try the private tapes again.”
He leans forward and hits eject.
Rosanna chops carrots with a sharp, expensive-looking knife. There is a small symbol engraved on the side of the blade, and it seems to shimmer in and out of being as the light shifts with the practiced motions of her arm. She is singing to herself under her breath. She thinks she is alone. She scrapes the carrots into a blue bowl and turns, smiling, a smile I haven’t seen before, her face lit up and vulnerable. When she sees the camera, it disappears.