by Emily Beyda
And then I feel her. Just a slight whisper, a tingle in my fingertips, but she is there. She is in the back seat of this car with me, Rosanna, consistent, faithful Rosanna, protecting me when Max cannot. Inside me I feel a heaviness, the tingling weight of her arrival. Outside, the men with the cameras chatter and shift, preparing to ask their questions. Rosanna doesn’t ask questions. She doesn’t worry. She does what she wants to do. Her voice is close and tender in my ear, whispering these truths, our truths, so sweetly I feel my breath slow.
“Sorry,” I say to the driver.
But I’m not sorry. It feels good. I take one deep breath. Another. I smooth down my hair. I fix my skirt. I step out of the car.
“Rosanna,” they say, cameras clicking. “Rosanna.”
“Good to see you, boys,” we reply.
* * *
—
Every expensive store looks the same. I have never been to this one, but I know how to move naturally though spaces lined with overpriced consumable goods. Everything looks like something Rosanna, I, already own. I know how to nod to the salesgirl like we are old friends, how to not react when she pretends to keep doing whatever she had been doing when I came in, acting like she doesn’t recognize me. Of course she does. Everyone does. I watch her in the mirrors of the open dressing rooms, how she sneaks glances through the curtain of her hair. She knows who I am. This centers me, being recognized, known. I know the script. I can do this without Max.
“Hey,” I say, catching her eye in the reflection. “I love your top!”
Going for approachable today. Engaging. Rosanna when she wants to please, still newly reemerged, friendly to everyone, putting on her best public face.
The girl looks startled, as though one of the mannequins has turned its blank face toward her inquiringly.
“Thanks,” she finally says, and then, braver, “Is there anything I can help you with today, Miss Feld?”
An uncertain smile here, a pause. She wants to make sure she’s said the right thing, that I won’t mind being recognized. It’s a nice store, a nice neighborhood. She must be used to people like me. I feel a kinship toward her, for the way that we are both quietly keeping things running for people with more money and more power than we will ever have. She plays her role as I play mine.
“Please,” I say, “Rosanna.”
“Rosanna,” she says.
I name myself not only for her, but so we both remember who I am. And her face lights up at this small intimacy, a gift, so easy for me to give.
“I’m looking for something special,” I say. “A little present for myself.”
I will give it to Max, I think, and he will give it to Rosanna. A sign that I have been out in the world without them. A token of my regard. So she’ll know that I know she’s with me now, so he’ll know we’re doing fine without him.
“Sure,” the salesgirl says, “I can help you with that.”
She takes a tray of jewelry from under the glass of the counter, some understated gold bangles, a line of rings nestled into a velvet case. Small, subtle, expensive-looking. Very Rosanna. I lean forward and pick up a bangle, slide it gracefully over my slim wrist. I feel like a dancer performing a familiar routine—fluid, easy, empty. Automatic. I imagine watching myself from a distance through the eyes of the men waiting outside, through Max’s eyes as we watch the footage, later tonight. I hear the admiring tone of voice he uses as he points out the warmth of her expression, the precise way she moves. Again I feel the strange sliding feeling of being both here and not here. Both the observer and the observed. Both the tourist in the jeep, camera pressed tight in my sweating hands, and the lioness outside, licking her bloody claws.
“See,” I hear Max say, his voice as strong in my ear as if he were really there beside me, “the way she touches the salesgirl’s wrist? Establishing a moment of rapport. She’ll remember that when she talks to the magazines later. It will make her speak kindly of Rosanna.”
I reach out. I touch the salesgirl’s wrist. “Beautiful,” I say. “Thank you. Do you have a favorite piece?”
One necklace catches my eye. It’s nothing Rosanna would wear, a small gold snake curled into a figure eight. It’s wrong, not for her. But I want it. Not for Rosanna, for me. I can feel the weight of it in my hands, smooth, the gold warming in between my fingers, breathing itself into life. I want desperately for her to take it from the case, present it to me, mine. But she passes over it, picking up a thin chain of a bracelet.
“See,” she says, “the subtle pressed gold design on the edges? If you hold it up to the light, it shines, it’s so delicate, hand-engraved, you’ll barely even know you’re wearing it.”
Rosanna is at the level of wealth where you want your money to disappear into the things you buy. To be totally inconspicuous. Whenever we briefly had money, growing up, we pumped it into things that looked expensive, shiny watches, purses with enormous logos glowering on the sides, things easy to sell once the money was gone. Rosanna’s watch has a narrow face, a thin calfskin leather strap. It looks like nothing. It costs more than all my old clothes put together. Not hundreds, thousands. Not a single thousand, tens. The salesgirl slips the bangle around my wrist. She’s right. I can scarcely feel its weight. If I hadn’t been looking straight at it, I wouldn’t know it was there at all. Beautiful, discreet. It’s perfect for Rosanna.
“It’s perfect,” I say. “I’ll take it.”
From a distance, I watch Rosanna reach forward, pick up the bangle. I look down at my wrist and see her bones mirrored beneath mine. She is there now, hidden in her house, slipping the bangle on over her wrist, a small gift, a souvenir from the outside world. From me. And don’t I deserve a little something, for being as thoughtful as all that?
“And this necklace as well,” I hear myself say.
I get the bangle gift-wrapped, put it on one of Rosanna’s heavy-metal cards. I wear the necklace out of the store, tucked hidden under my clothes. I pay for it with a few bills peeled from the roll of cash in my purse. What Max doesn’t know won’t hurt him.
* * *
—
Rosanna emerges into the afternoon light alone, a small white bag hung over one arm. The men waiting at the door open into a scattered cloud, buckshot, covering the most ground to do the most harm, shouting questions like thrown rocks.
“Rosanna, how’s your boyfriend?”
“How does it feel being alone?”
“Rosanna, are you lonely? Take me with you! I’ll be your man.”
The pictures where I look miserable make the most money. So I smile. I keep smiling. I smile and smile and smile. Rosanna says nothing. Rosanna doesn’t care. She smiles her famous smile with me, and together we climb into the back seat of the car.
* * *
—
That night in the apartment, the phone lights up again. Max. I let it ring twice before I answer, a small withholding that makes me feel a bright flash of power. I feel the shape of my new necklace against my skin under the soft cloth of Rosanna’s nightgown, pulsing like a second heartbeat.
“Hello?” I say.
He knows that I know who it is. But it’s fun to pretend. I like the thought of making Max just a little nervous. Making him worry about who else I thought might call.
“Did you miss me today?” he asks.
I’ve never heard him sound this way before, his voice soft and sleepy. On nights when he used to stay over, he would sit and watch me until I was unconscious. Now his voice is like the belly of a small dog, rolled over on its back and wiggling for approval. It’s like he’s not talking to me at all, lost in the memory of some other late-night conversation long ago.
“That depends,” I say. “Did you miss me?”
“I was born missing you,” he says. And then, after a pause, “You understand why I had to send you out alone, don’t you?”
“Yes,” I say. “I do.”
“I wanted you to understand what it’s like for her.”
“I understand,” I say.
Better than you do, I think.
“I wanted you to see that it’s harder than you think it will be. It’s important that you realize I won’t always be there to protect you. I can’t always be there for Rosanna, either. I needed you to understand that.”
I feel a fierce wave of protectiveness for her, for us. I can be alone. I am never alone, I realize that now. I carry Rosanna in my bones. She doesn’t have the same consolation. And she has already lost so much. More and more I realize I understand her in ways he cannot. Rosanna will always be outside of Max, above him. I have taken her inside me. We are the same. I feel her loneliness, heavy as glass, wrapped cold around my heart.
“I don’t need you,” I say. “Rosanna does. I don’t mind going out on my own. I don’t mind anything. But you need to stay with her, Max. Make her feel safe. That’s why I’m here, right? So she never has to be alone. Promise me.”
But there is only silence on the other end of the line.
“I bought her a present,” I say. “Will you give it to her from me? Tell her that I’m thinking of her. I hope she likes it. I want her to know that I’m nice.”
I lie back on the futon, phone pressed sweaty between my ear and shoulder, and listen to the silence. I feel like a teenager—well, a movie version of a teenager, anyway, maybe the kind of teenager Rosanna was, the kind with a quiet family and peaceful nights, with lots of friends to call. Max is still quiet. If I listen hard, I can almost hear him breathing. It is as though he is lying here beside me. For a long time, I am silent, too.
“So how did I do?” I ask finally.
I make my voice as small and soft as I can so he’ll have to hold the phone close to hear me. He will have checked the gossip sites already, read what the salesgirl said to the paparazzi after I left. He has already analyzed the most minute of my movements, my gestures, each word I said. Wherever she goes, Rosanna disturbs the world around her, a rock rippling smooth water. Did she join Max in analyzing the evidence of my day? Is she watching me, the same way we’re watching her? She’s not with him now, I can tell. He’s alone.
I try to picture Max’s apartment. Messy, I think. When I moved in here there had been a thin layer of pale, sticky dust covering every horizontal surface. And that was my space, my life, which he is otherwise so meticulous about. I think of him sitting alone in a large room, expensive and anonymous, pre-furnished beige, no books on the shelves, no pictures on the walls. But no, he wouldn’t be at home. Maybe he doesn’t have a home at all. He has spent the day with Rosanna, taking care of her. She has had some kind of episode, so he had to leave me alone to take care of her. Now, finally, he has gotten her to sleep. He lies on that rough-textured gray couch in the office. He wouldn’t be bold enough to go into the living room, the sitting room, the den, places she actually uses, places he still considers her property, lines too thick for him to cross. He is curled up there with his jacket folded under his head, close enough that if she wakes, she can call him and he will come to her. Not beside her bed, though. Not as close to her as he is to me. But still, it’s good to know he’s close to her. That if she wakes in the dark, she won’t find herself alone.
“It was a good start,” says Max. “You look good. You bought jewelry? Always a safe bet.”
My voice on the phone must be different enough from hers that he can speak about us as two separate people. Out there, I am Rosanna. In here, alone, I am not. I remember the way my body felt, the sun hot on my face, the cool gold on my skin. That was me, I tell myself. I was there. He can’t deny me that truth.
“You know, I’m really proud of you,” says Max. “I knew you could handle it, but still it was a surprise that you did so well. Perfect, really. Not a hitch. Which is good, because we’ll have to start sending you out on your own more and more now.”
“Without you?” I ask.
I can feel Rosanna’s energy shift inside me, prickle to attention. Without Max, I think. With me. On our own.
“Without me,” he says. “We’ll have to find you someone else to be out in the world with. I heard the questions the paparazzi asked, and they’re right, it’s starting to look odd. Loneliness is not aspirational.”
Who is Max to talk about loneliness? Does he have friends? How can he? He spends so much time with me, and when he’s not here, he’s with Rosanna. I remember what Holly said to him—there’s no way he could talk about this with anyone else, this hidden life we share. It’s hard to speak about anything else while carrying the weight of so many secrets. You might say something wrong, you might start talking and be unable to stop, talk and talk until you had given yourself away. It was better to stay by yourself, not to say anything at all. That’s what I had done. It’s what Rosanna had done, too. And now Max, the three of us together, all alone. Loneliness compounding loneliness, clinging to our skin like a bad smell.
“I’m not lonely,” I say. “I have you.”
Max sighs. “In a way, yes, I know. But it looks bad. You must realize that. Soon we’ll have to start introducing you to some of Rosanna’s old friends. Not that Rosanna had a lot of friends. She didn’t like most people.”
It’s disorienting, the way that he does this, switching from past to present like Rosanna is flickering into and out of existence depending on the time of day, his mood. At times, it is as if she is a story he is telling me. As if he had made her up.
“Had?” I say. “What about now? Does she have friends now?”
I want to make him say it. I want to make him tell me what she’s like.
“Of course she does,” he says. A pause. “But she doesn’t get out much. So no, not really. Now she has me.”
* * *
—
Max doesn’t come for the next few days. When he’s not with me, I sit as still as I can, thinking about Rosanna, looking out the window for the car. I try to feel her inside me. I walk back and forth across the room, measuring the length with my steps: ten to the door, ten to the window, five to cross from the futon to the wall. If the driver comes, I go wherever he takes me, shopping, to the movies, on walks, alone, in the park. It’s exciting at first, the wide feeling of the whole world opening up around me, but I quickly get used to it. In the evenings, when the parrots come back to the garden, I try to teach them words to say back to me. I lean out the small window over the courtyard, speaking simple phrases for them as they circle and squabble, pecking at one another. I want to teach them to tell me I exist.
The more time I spend alone, the more I find that small parts of my old self come leaking back unbidden. The light on the popcorn ceiling in the basement, the fake orange smell of the fluid we used to clean the bathrooms in the group home. They are stones in my pockets, pulling me down, keeping me further from the truth. I say mantras, count cars passing, find shapes in the clouds, anything to stay distracted. When that doesn’t work, I go into the kitchen and hold my hand over the hot plate. Nothing that will leave a mark, just a little jolt of pain to bring me back into my body, to remind me that I am only body, all body. That for now my body is enough.
At night, in bed, I work on erasing my memories. I have a very precise method. I let some image from my old life rise up to the surface—my father, say, picking me up and putting me on his shoulders, the way that his big hands catch hold of my small waist, the dizzy lift in the pit of my stomach, the giddy, nauseating joy of being so small and so fragile. Slowly, carefully, I transfer the memory to Rosanna. I picture the same strong arms, the same feeling of safety. Now the arms belong to Rosanna’s father. And I am Rosanna. Night after night I focus on the same memory, making small changes, adding the way he laughs low in his throat when he visits her in the videos, the smell of the cigarettes he smokes clinging to the fabric of his jacket. Slowly my own fat
her’s shadow fades until there is nothing left of him. The memory that appears is now Rosanna’s. I focus on that feeling until I fall asleep, slipping into dreams that are not my own. I wake up feeling a little lighter. I am cleaner and cleaner, more and more pure. When Max comes, he will speak to me like I am a person he knows. He will look into my eyes. Outside the window, the birds will call in a chorus: hello, they will say, hello. Whoever, whatever I had been before is disappearing. Soon there will be nothing left. Soon I will be gone.
* * *
—
Max comes by the apartment with a bottle of wine. I’m not sure what day of the week it is, what time. It is warm, late. I have been alone all day. I have been alone for a while, I can’t remember how long. There is a fire, he tells me, somewhere in the hills, and the sky outside is flat and pink and troubled-looking, with the spongy texture of a battered stucco wall. The sun is a dim pulse in the sky. We are leaning on the edge of the open window, watching the world burn. There is nothing but us and the sun and the ash and the silence of the canyon. The streets are empty even of parked cars. I wonder if we’re supposed to evacuate. I wonder if the neighbors are already gone. Max stands close beside me, his arm brushing against mine every time he lifts the glass to his lips. I watch the ash float down from the sky, some of it landing in my glass. When I drink, it clings to my lips, chalky. Like the ashes of some long-dead thing.
“We’re ready to start booking you appearances,” Max says. “Talk shows, first. Now that we’ve established your presence in the city, I want you to make your public debut. That’s why you’re here, after all, to help Rosanna further her brand. You’ve been doing so well with the paparazzi, I think you’re ready for your first interview.”