The Body Double

by Emily Beyda

  “It’s okay,” he says. “Holly is a friend.”

  “I know,” I say. “It’s just…” I find I am unable to continue.

  Holly comes close again, smiles at me encouragingly. “It’s nice to meet you,” she says, speaking slowly, as though she suspects I might not be able to understand her, “I’m Holly. What’s your name, sweetheart?”

  I realize that I have no idea what to tell her. Does Max want me to use my old name or my new one? I can’t say Rosanna, that’s not my name, but I can’t say my old name, either. The contract was very specific about that. Still, as I think of it, as my lips try to move into its old familiar shapes, I realize that the feeling of it has totally changed. The syllables of my old name weigh heavy on my tongue, as numbing and slick as ice. It no longer feels like it belongs to me. I find that I cannot say it. I can’t say anything at all.

  “I…,” I say, “I’m—”

  “This is Rosanna,” says Max.

  My name in his mouth is a shock. I can feel the warmth of it spreading through my whole body, bringing me back into myself.

  “Rosanna,” I agree.

  Her eyes widen. “Oh,” she says, “of course you are. I almost didn’t recognize you under all those snarls. Well, that explains a lot. I thought you looked familiar. I’m a fan, of course, but we don’t need to talk about it. I understand the need for discretion. I’m an old friend of Max’s, I have many celebrity clients.”

  I force myself to stick out my hand for her to shake. Rosanna is good with strangers. Max smiles. Her touch, as she reaches out to take my hand, is surprisingly gentle. Hesitant. She is the first person I have touched in months, apart from Max, who doesn’t count. He doesn’t really feel like a separate person anymore. Her hands are so soft. It’s kind of repulsive how soft they are, like slick slabs of butter. I have to make myself hold on until her grip loosens, make myself stay still and not try to wipe her off on the fabric of my sweat pants. It’s all too much. Everything is more than I can bear. But Holly doesn’t seem to notice.

  “I have to say,” she says, “you look fantastic! Have you lost weight? I’d heard you were undergoing some…”—she pauses to gesture vaguely in the air—“changes. And what has become of that beautiful hair?”

  She reaches past Max to touch it, running her fingers across the scalp. I try not to flinch. I force myself not to move away from her, to look straight into her eyes and smile. I am determined to look normal. Welcoming. Like I’m not scared of her. My tongue is stiff in my mouth, pressed up hard against the smooth back of my teeth. I can feel her waiting for me to speak. She gives me another helpful little smile.

  “I just,” I say, trying to figure out what’s expected of me, what I am supposed to do, “I’m not sure.”

  I look to Max again, but he just smiles and smiles, his face stiff with falsely casual rigor. His eyes are hard against me. I know that he is sure I will make a mistake. I want to hit him. He’s supposed to be taking care of me. It’s his fault if I’m not ready, his fault if I don’t know what to do. My heart is beating so hard I feel like it’s going to burst out of my chest and flop down bloody onto the carpet. Max stays silent. Holly is waiting.

  “I don’t know what happened,” I say. “I’m sorry. It’s been a difficult time.”

  Everything in me wells up. Holly stares, still holding a fistful of my hair in her hand. It can’t have been much time since she spoke, a few seconds, maybe, but it feels like forever.

  “Are you okay?” she says.

  Her voice is more gentle than I have any right to expect, I, this bedraggled stranger, tearing up in a dirty apartment. She’s trying, I think. At least one of us is trying. I cannot speak. I nod. She removes her hand from my hair.

  “Oh,” I say, “yes, sorry, just…”

  Max is silent. I can feel the burning fixity of his gaze.

  “Long day,” I say. “Forgive me.”

  “Hey,” she says, “it’s fine. We’ve all been there. I understand.”

  I do not let myself look away from her. I breathe. Holly is in our space now. It’s my job to make her feel welcome. To show her she’s less important than me. I take a deep breath and reach out to hold Max’s hand, pressing my nails hard into the soft skin of his palm. I want to hurt him, just a little. To make him aware of my capacity to hurt. If Max asks, I will say I was nervous. I didn’t mean to hurt him. Of course not.

  “So nice of you to come,” I say.

  My voice comes out right this time, modulated with Rosanna’s low warmth. I can feel her words slide into my mouth, something inside me clicking into place. I take a deep breath. I let go of Max’s hand. I’m not afraid anymore.

  “It’s been so long since anyone decent looked at my hair,” I say. “Thank you so much for taking the time.”

  I am regaining my footing, my charm. My voice grows steadier. Rosanna’s easiness flows into me like water, new blood in my veins.

  * * *

  —

  In the bathroom, Holly sits me down on the floor next to the tub and runs the water, testing it on the inside of her wrist, waiting until it’s the perfect temperature before she tilts my head back and pours warm water down my forehead, gently massaging my scalp with some sweet-smelling shampoo, the sounds she makes disappearing into the murmur of water on water. Her hands are so gentle, but it hurts, it’s too much, the touch, the closeness of her. When I was small, my mother used to wash my hair this way, cupping my forehead with her palm so the water didn’t run into my eyes. It was the only time she really touched me with anything like gentleness. It was important to her that my hair was properly washed, pretty. That I looked neat, despite everything. That people would know, when they looked at me, that she was a good mother. Holly sits in the same pose, moving with the same gentleness, the same soft hands and soft warm water. I close my eyes tight to hold back the feeling that wells up, but it doesn’t work. I start to cry, not making a sound, the tears mingling indistinguishably with the water running through Holly’s palms. A baptism, I think. If Holly notices, she is too polite to say.

  We don’t talk when she’s done, don’t let our eyes meet in the mirror in the long silence as she combs and cuts my hair.

  “Much better,” she says when she’s done. “See how pretty you are now?”

  I can hear my mother’s voice in her mouth.

  * * *

  —

  Afterward I sit on the floor, a towel still wrapped around my shoulders. Through the thin door I can hear Holly and Max speaking in hushed tones. I listen, closing my eyes, feeling their voices drift toward me through the wood.

  “Is she okay?” asks Holly.

  There is a long pause in which Max doesn’t say anything.

  Holly continues, “I don’t want to pry. And I mean, it’s obvious that she hasn’t been out in a while. We all know that. But is she okay now? What happened? She seems so strange, poor thing.”

  There is an excited, gossipy edge to her voice. This is big news. I am big news. I wonder how long I’ve been gone for, and correct myself—Rosanna, it’s Rosanna who’s been gone. I have been here all along. I couldn’t leave if I wanted to. I don’t have anywhere to go. I close my eyes and rest my head against the cold porcelain lip of the bathtub.

  “She’s fine,” says Max. Another pause. “The past year has been tough. Well, you know it’s been tough for a while. But she’s out of treatment now and happy to be back in Los Angeles. Thank you again for coming over. Rosanna’s house is under construction, and her useless contactor has had the water shut off for a week now. Her assistant was kind enough to let us use her place, although I know the space is less than ideal. I can’t tell you how much we appreciate your discretion in this matter.”

  “Of course,” says Holly, “of course. And I’m glad she’s getting better, but she doesn’t seem fine. Neither do you, Max.”

  H
e sighs. His voice with her is different from the way it sounds when he talks to me. Less controlled. He is allowing himself to sound annoyed, confused, vulnerable. Emotions I’m not supposed to hear him feel.

  “Well,” he says, “as you can see, I’ve sort of had my hands full. But I can’t tell you how good it is to see you. Now, don’t tell anyone about Rosanna. I’ll call you soon, I promise.”

  “Please,” says Holly, “save it. I don’t care about calling or not calling. This isn’t a jealousy thing. It’s just that I don’t see you around anymore, not at all. Nobody sees you. You’ve disappeared as much as she has. I know your job’s important to you—really, I do; no one understands that better than me—but this is too much. You can’t let her problems become your responsibility. I know you think it’s none of my business, but whose business is it, Max, if not mine?”

  I expect him to defend me. His problems are my problems, Rosanna’s. A calling, he said. But there is only silence. Max says nothing in response. I swear I can hear the movement of bodies. Are they closer to each other now? Is he moving toward her? Do they touch? I press myself against the door, listening. I cannot stand it. I cannot stand him telling her secrets, letting her think that they are close, closer than he and I are, when both of us know that could never be true. And then I hear her gathering her things. I hear the door click closed behind her, the turning tumblers in the lock. I want to throw the door open, confront him, sitting there with his head in his hands, thinking about the mysteries of his old life, whatever it is he thinks he has lost. It’s nothing compared to what I’ve given up for him. He knows nothing about what true loss is. Nothing about me.

  * * *

  —

  And then the bathroom door opens. Max is there, looking down at me, smiling in a way I haven’t seen him smile before, his face wide open. Happy, I think. I guess I haven’t really seen him happy before.

  “Hey you,” he says, “I wanna see your new look.”

  The sight of him there in the doorway, acting all friendly now that Holly’s gone, turns my stomach. I don’t want him to touch me. I can still feel the pressure of Holly’s hands. She knows things about him I will never know. And neither of them knows a thing about me. It is my body, not his. Whatever Max might think, this is Rosanna’s body and mine. I swat his reaching hand away, my fingertips making brief, sharp contact with his skin. I hope it hurts.

  “Didn’t Holly do a good job?” he says. “You clean up nice.”

  I don’t like the way he says her name. I didn’t like the way he talked to her out there, manipulating her. Like he tries to manipulate me. I think of the softness of her hands, her gentleness in cradling my skull, protecting my neck from the cold tub with a folded towel. Max will destroy her. For her, it is probably already too late. She believes him, his fake loneliness, his dedication to his own made-up cause.

  “I heard you talking,” I say. “I don’t think you should see her anymore.”

  I expect him to laugh, but his face closes off. Sadness. It’s like saying no to a child. He is so sure that this world, my world, was made for him. “Somebody’s jealous!” he says.

  I feel embarrassed somehow, like someone is watching and can see how bad we are at pretending to be what, friends? Max keeps smiling that painful little smile.

  “Don’t be absurd. As if I had anything to be jealous of. As if I could be jealous of you of all people, Maxie.”

  I keep my voice light, too. Playful. But I hope that he can hear the disdain in it, for his fake hurt, his fake loss. I stand up. I stand close to him, so close he can smell my shampoo, the same one Rosanna uses, rose sweet with a faint bitter tint of herbs. I am using her soap. I am wearing her perfume. I eat the same things she eats. If he closes his eyes, it is as if she is right there in front of him, so close he can almost touch her, if he dared to. Maybe with his eyes open, too, now. Maybe when he looks at me she is right there, staring out from behind my eyes.

  “Don’t be sorry,” I say. “I’d be jealous of me, too. But it’s time, isn’t it?”

  He shakes his head once, no.

  “Yes,” I say. “Yes. If you thought I was ready for Holly, then I’m ready. It’s time for me to go outside.”

  He is looking straight into my eyes. He is looking at Rosanna, Rosanna’s hair tumbling down around my new face, the gloss and bounce of it enveloping me like a protective curtain. It feels perfect. Holly did a good job.

  “I know it’s hard for you,” I say, “I know. But she’s seen me now. I know she said she’d be discreet, but she’ll mention it to someone, just one person, Max, and it’ll spread like wildfire. They’ll hear that I’m back. I’m in Los Angeles, locked up in some crappy apartment. People will talk. Our only option now is to get out in front of it. I have to go somewhere public, be seen. We need to go somewhere I can be in control. Reclaim the narrative. I look like her. I have her face, her hair, her name. I’m ready, Max.”

  I brush my new smooth hair out of my eyes and step toward him, entering his space, and he moves away from me into the living room. I think he will leave, but he just stands there silent, not turning on the lights, his back to the door. When he speaks, his voice is soft, hesitant.

  “We’ll have to practice,” he says.

  “We’ve been practicing,” I say.

  He looks away for a moment. He nods. When he speaks again, his voice is clipped, businesslike, all traces of hesitation gone.

  “Tomorrow would be best. Let’s get that hair photographed before you wash it again, yes?” He gestures at the futon. “Here, sit down. I’ll be the waiter, you order.”

  I’ve watched so many hours of Rosanna at lunch. Of course I know what to do.

  “A salad, please,” I say. My waiter voice is perfect.

  “Come on,” says Max. “You’re joking, right?”

  I roll my eyes.

  “A Diet Coke,” I say. “No ice, and a Caesar salad with no anchovies. Thanks so much!”

  I smile her distance-establishing smile, friendly but minimal, not too warm.

  “Good,” says Max, “again.”

  “Can I please have a Caesar salad? No anchovies, thanks! And a Diet Coke, no ice.”

  “Again,” he says, and I sigh.

  “Come on, Max, this is basic, can’t we do something else?”

  A tight frown crinkles his brow.

  “This is important,” he says. “It’s a small thing, but it’s important, and we have to practice. If you can’t take it seriously, maybe you’re not ready after all.”

  “I’m ready!” I say. “I’m ready. CaesarsaladnoanchoviesDietCokenoicethanks!”

  I don’t even pause for breath.

  “Okay,” says Max, perfectly calm. “Again.”

  We run through the sequence over and over until my words stop sounding like words, don’t feel tied to any meaning at all. Finally Max is satisfied.

  “There’s one more thing,” he says. “You know there will be people waiting for you. Photographers. You know from the tapes that they’ll be yelling questions, but I don’t know if you’re prepared for how ruthless some of them can be. They might be soft on you, since it’s been a while, but on the other hand, that’s when an image of you looking upset would be the most valuable. You can sell a lot more magazines with tragedy than joy, that’s for sure. So don’t say anything. Not a word. I don’t want them to trip you up. Besides, the more you say, the less money we can get for your first interview. We have to build as much mystery as we can so that your story will be desirable. The less you say, the happier Rosanna will be.”

  So there will be pictures. There will be images of me that will make their way into magazines, that Max will make sure get to Rosanna, so she will finally see me, see how convincing I am. All across America, maybe the world, people will sit and sift through those glossy pages, slump bathed in the blue light of their computers pagin
g through gossip websites, reading about Rosanna and looking at me. Maybe someone from my old life will see me. They will look at Rosanna, so glamorous, so self-assured, so perfectly composed, and they will never, ever know the secret she is, we are, keeping from them.

  “You can trust me,” I say. “I won’t say a word. Not even a sound.”

  The next morning when the car comes to drop off Max it stays, idling at the curb. I wonder if the neighbors will notice; the street is narrow and it seems suspicious, the same car parked out front all day. I swear I can feel the engine vibrating all the way up where we are. Suddenly my situation seems a lot more precarious than it did before. Maybe it’s just nerves making me worry. This was your idea, I remind myself. Your stroke of brilliance. Last night, in the contained space of the bathroom, it did feel right. But now the interruption of our routine is unbearable. Max has forgotten to bring me my coffee, and the light streaming in the window cuts sharp as a knife. Everything outside feels brighter than I remember it being. He seems nervous, too, insistent on picking out my outfit for me, switching shirts and jackets, spending a solid ten minutes making me try on a series of identical gold bangles. Nothing is quite right. Maybe it will never be quite right again, the comfortable order of our little world disrupted. There seems to be a filmy skin in front of everything, keeping me apart, cut off from the world. I wonder if Max can see it, too.

  At the door, I hesitate. In the apartment I am safe. Nobody can find me. Nobody Max doesn’t invite in.

  “Are we sure this is a good idea?” I say. “Because if you’re not certain I’m ready, maybe we should wait.”

  “We’re sure,” says Max. “And you’re right, we can’t afford to wait any longer. Holly will have already started telling people about you, how oddly you behaved. We have to get out there ourselves, get ahead of the narrative, show everyone you’re back, and better now.”