by Emily Beyda
I come back into my body, heavy. I thought that we were done with this, that she had forgiven me. Of course it isn’t that easy. I adjust my expression to be more thoughtful, somber.
“You haven’t seen the kids in ages. Or me, for that matter. Everything is different than it was before. And you seem different, too.”
There is a disease I read about once in my old life, where people become convinced that their loved ones have been replaced by an impostor. Someone who looks the same, shares their memories, says all the right things, but is a different person entirely, strange to them. No one else notices the change; no one else will believe them when they talk about it. A small difference isn’t the end of the world. People change every day. Every second a new version of ourselves comes into being. Marie expects to see Rosanna. And here I am. She has no choice but to believe in me. The alternative is madness. I look her in the eyes, look right at her, and smile.
“Reformed, right?” I say. “I’ve got the glow of the chosen.”
We stand there in silence for a moment and I think, Now, now I will open the door a crack. I will let the light shine in.
“It’s funny, though,” I say after a few minutes of silence. “Somehow I don’t actually remember the last time I saw you. Where were we? Do you remember?”
I try to keep my voice light, dispassionate, like her answer doesn’t matter. I reach out and take her hand. It’s smaller than Max’s, cold. This is something I had envied her and Rosanna, their closeness, their easy physicality. It’s mine now. I can feel the rough edges of her nails. Does she bite them? The small imperfection comforts me.
“It doesn’t really matter,” I say. “I’m just curious. My memory seems so fuzzy lately.”
Marie untangles her fingers from mine. I try to hide my disappointment.
“It was the dinner,” she says. “You remember, at my house? The market dinner. You brought your new boyfriend. I was so happy that you were finally seeing someone nice instead of sneaking around with that married guy you were always so mysterious about. I still don’t know what you were thinking. But there was some weird tension between you two. You were acting distant. Sad. You barely spoke to me at all that night. And after that, poof!”
She makes a little explosive gesture in the air. A boyfriend. Rosanna’s boyfriend. And before that, another boyfriend, a boyfriend with a wife? I feel as though some larger picture is snapping into place, some rejection, some pain that has driven her away from the world. And why is Max withholding this information from me?
“I was sad that night,” I say. “I remember. I just felt awful. I guess that was what made me realize how badly I needed a break. My whole body hurt, every part of me, just this vague horrible ache. Like I was slowly being crushed. Everything that had been happening, with the married guy and everything, it caught up to me. And I felt awful. I just felt like the most terrible person in the world.”
Marie looks at me with such concern that I want to keep talking, to tell her the truth, not about who I am, of course, but about how I feel. How every day I’m slipping further and further into a darkness whose mysterious pull I do not understand. How I am eroding. Fading away. I keep my face tilted toward the blur of the city below. I am having trouble focusing.
“I’m sorry,” Marie says. “You should have said something. I wish I had known.”
“Yeah,” I say, forcing myself to continue, “it was bad, especially since that guy was such an asshole. Even if he wasn’t married, it was hardly an upgrade. We were totally fighting.”
“No,” says Marie slowly, considering, “not fighting. But it was weird. It seemed like you were avoiding him, like you were trying not to talk to him. Or me, for that matter. I worried that you were about to disappear into one of your misery phases. And when you stopped showing up after that, stopped responding to my texts, when a month passed, and another…”
“You worried,” I say.
On the hill below us, blackened by wildfire, stands a copse of scrubby palm trees, pointing like accusing fingers toward the sky. I look at them and think, They know. I hold my breath and wait for Marie to accuse me of all the terrible things Rosanna has done. I deserve it. We both do. Instead, she sighs.
“Yeah,” she says, “but I let you disappear. I haven’t been a very good friend.”
“Oh no,” I say, “I don’t—”
But she cuts me off. “Don’t make excuses for me. I know how you must have felt. Hearing you say that just now, how badly you were suffering, you were right. I knew that. I knew you were in pain. And I should have tried harder to get in touch. But you didn’t reach out to me, either. At least I have an excuse—I have Edward and the children. My whole life is about them now, about their needs. Not like in the old days, when it was just us two and we could do whatever we wanted. It’s amazing to think we were ever so young. But we grew up. I grew up. And you were gone. One day we were having dinner, talking about the future, and the next, nothing. Canceled plans, a few texts, then silence. I didn’t know what to think. I knew how bad it could get for you, of course I worried. You took two months—two months, Rosanna—to respond to an email I sent checking in. Rosanna, I thought you were dead. I understand trouble, of course. You’ve been in trouble before, we both have. But you didn’t think to give me any warning. You didn’t ask for help. I could have helped you if you had asked. The whole time you were gone, I thought you hated me. You must have.”
“No,” I say, “no, I could never. I couldn’t hate you if I tried. I’m so sorry, Marie. Really I am. I didn’t want to bother you. But I should have told you what I was going through. I should have known that you wanted to know. From now on, I’ll always tell you, I promise. I’m different now. I’m a better person. I’m a different person, Marie.”
She shakes her head, looking so sad I can hardly stand it. I am full of a sick rage, nauseated by my own selfishness. How could I do such a thing to her?
“I’m not going to ask you where you’ve been,” she says. “I know you’d tell me if you could. But you can never disappear on me like that again. Never. I won’t take you back next time you do. For both of our sakes. You can never worry me like that. Promise me, and we don’t have to talk about it anymore. It will be like nothing ever happened. I just need to hear from your own lips that you’re back for good, and staying. That you’re okay.”
“Of course I am,” I say.
I am trying so hard not to cry, but it is no use. The tears are leaking hot from the corners of my eyes, and Marie wraps me up again in her arms. And now I am really crying, sobbing, my body shaking, gasping for breath, drowning in this new feeling, this real feeling crashing over me in powerful waves, pulling me down, and I crumple into her and she holds me, stroking my back lightly with her close-bitten nails. It has been so long since I was held like this, with a true and deep affection. Marie loves me. And I love her. It’s as simple as that. I will never leave. I will never hurt her again. I will help Rosanna keep her best friend close.
“I promise,” I say. “Marie, I promise.”
In her arms, I feel so stupid and small, alive to the world around me, to the smell of smoke in the air, to the gentle press of her skin on my skin. So alive it’s painful. Below us, the city spreads itself out, enormous and pale, the ocean glinting at its edges like a distant fire. Marie unwraps me from her arms. She places one hand, gentle, on my cheek.
“You know something?” she says. “I kind of hate you right now. But I missed you. Of course I did. I’m glad you’re back.”
“I missed you, too,” I say.
* * *
—
At the bottom of the hill we embrace, and I climb into my car alone. I don’t know where Max is, but he isn’t here. And for now I don’t care. For now it’s good to be alone, just me, with the same back of the driver’s head, the same landscape of scrubby brush and traffic. Everything the same, everythi
ng shining with a new light. The low hum of my background anxiety is gone. I am glad to be alone with my thoughts. I have a friend. Marie likes me! Talking to her made me feel as though a locked door inside me was opening up. Now I will be able to access new parts of Rosanna, aspects of her that even Max didn’t know about. I am filling up the blank spaces of myself with her. We will be closer than ever now, joined by the medium of Marie, another triad, the three of us counterbalancing Max, me in the middle, Rosanna on both sides. I take my phone out of my pocket.
“It was so good seeing you!” I type. “Let’s get together again soon.”
I picture Marie, moving away in her car, growing farther and farther from me with each passing second, checking her phone in the back seat, or not yet, maybe. She still hasn’t responded. Maybe it’s because she’s driving. Maybe Marie gets to drive her own car. Maybe someday I will, too. As the driver pulls up to the curb, I quickly delete the messages off the phone. They’re harmless, of course, totally harmless, but still unsanctioned. I remember what Max said about not getting too close to Marie, not letting her take up too much of my time. I get the feeling he wouldn’t approve.
* * *
—
Max is waiting for me in the living room. He doesn’t turn around when he hears the door open. His shoulders are hunched tight.
“Have fun?” he says. “Did you have a nice time with your little friend?”
His voice is sarcastic and flat. I feel so excited about my progress, so full of buzzing energy, that I don’t really mind. I know he’s jealous, but this is a big deal. I will infect him with my happiness. It went so well, better than I imagined. Another hurdle successfully cleared. And more than that. I have a friend now. Someone who understands me. Someone who brings me as close to Rosanna as I can get.
“Max!” I say. “Yes! I had a wonderful time.”
Still nothing. I thought he would be excited. He should be excited with…for me. I want him to acknowledge what a big deal this is. If he’s in a bad mood, that’s his responsibility, not mine.
“Seriously, Max, it went so well. We really didn’t have to worry at all. Marie’s great, and the hike went perfectly. You were right, she was easy to talk to, stiff at first, definitely angry with me, Rosanna, but then she opened up, and it was so great. I really understand her, and she gets me, you know? Rosanna will be pleased.”
“So you liked her so much that you decided to go make your own plans. Even after I warned you. I told you this would happen.”
I’m silent, scrambling for an excuse, but he continues before I can say a word.
“You thought I wouldn’t see this text, maybe. Thought you two would sneak around behind my back, have a laugh at my expense? I told you she was bad for you. A distraction.”
Of course he was keeping a close eye on things. He probably had his phone open the whole time I was gone, keeping tabs on me. How could I have been so stupid?
“No,” I say, “it was for you, I thought…I thought it was what Rosanna would do. They do like to talk often, don’t they? I thought it was a good idea. It’s how she would behave.”
“So why did you delete it?”
“Oh, did I?” I say. Shit. “I’m sorry, I’m still new to this smartphone thing, I didn’t realize. Should I resend it? Or will that look desperate?”
Max finally turns to look at me. He puts out his hand.
“Give me the phone,” he says.
For a moment, I hesitate. My escape route, I think. My way out. Gone.
“Okay,” I say.
He snatches it from my hand and moves closer to me. His voice is gentle now. Dangerous.
“Did I tell you to make plans?” he asks. “I did not. I said no such thing. You think you know how to do this better than I do? Better than Rosanna?”
I remember what Marie said before. What Rosanna said. Don’t trust him. He should be happy for me. His job is to be happy. He isn’t doing his job. I am doing my job. I am doing what Rosanna wants me to do. I straighten my spine and look him in the eye.
“Of course not,” I say.
He needs to believe I trust him. For now, at least. While he still has the phone. While he still controls my access to the outside world. Until Rosanna comes, I need Max to love me. I wrap my arms around his back, the same pose I took with Marie. I feel his stiffness in my arms. But I convinced her. I can convince him, too.
“Of course I don’t think I know better,” I say. “I wouldn’t even be here without you. This is all because of you, you know that. Everything I am is yours, Max. It’s thanks to you it went so well today. We really get along, she likes me. She’ll do whatever Rosanna needs her to do. That’s all you, Max. That’s all thanks to you.”
He still won’t look at me. His gaze hovers somewhere around the arch of the ceiling. His body, in my arms, remains stiff.
“You don’t get it,” he says. “You’re no one to her. She doesn’t like you.”
I blink. “What are you talking about? Yes, she does. Of course she does. I’m her best friend, she was totally convinced, she likes me a lot.”
“She doesn’t like you. Nobody likes you. She likes Rosanna.”
“But I am Rosanna,” I say slowly, like he is a child I need to explain these things to. He’s the one who doesn’t get it. Who else would I be, out there? What else is left for me? “For her I am Rosanna, now.”
Max pushes me away and begins to walk back and forth across the room, kneading his hands together, palm against palm, in a slow, repetitive motion. Counting. There is a look on his face I cannot bring myself to understand. I will not let myself be frightened of him. Rosanna has the power here, not Max, whatever he might think. He is temporary, a stopgap, a stumbling block.
“Max,” I say, “look at it this way. She’s my oldest friend. If I can convince her, I can convince anyone. I am so close, Max, and it’s thanks to you. I want so badly to do well, and I am doing well, she likes me. She likes me because of you. Because I am the way you made me. And she’s wonderful, Max. She really is. I can see why Rosanna likes her. I like her, too, very much.”
He laughs, a tight, bitter little laugh. “Your oldest friend?”
“Well, Rosanna’s.”
“Rosanna’s friend?”
“Yes.”
“Not yours.”
“No.”
“Who is your friend?”
“No one,” I say.
“Not no one,” he says. “I’m your friend. You know that, don’t you? That I’m your friend?”
And all at once I understand what’s going on. He just wants to know he’s safe. He wants to know I still belong to him, the way Rosanna never will. That he is the most important person in the world to me. I make my voice soft and small. I put my hand on his arm.
“Max,” I say, “of course you’re my friend. Truest and only. You’re the one person who knows me as I really am. And I am so happy to be here with you, working together. Aren’t you happy with me? Isn’t Rosanna happy? Haven’t I done everything you asked? Haven’t I done a good job?”
He takes my hands in his, holding them softly, pressure in his fingertips. I try to memorize the way they feel, the smooth warmth of his palms, the little callus on the base of his ring finger, the bend in the knuckle of his pinkie. I want to know him even better than he knows me. For the future. Just in case.
“I’m trying my best,” I say.
“I know you are,” he says.
His grip begins tightening. “But you’re making it harder for yourself when you send messages I haven’t told you to send. You’re making it harder for Rosanna. It’s my job to look out for you both in this dangerous world. I’m your only friend. You need me to take care of you. Bad things will happen if you don’t let me take care of you.”
His voice is gentle, but his hands are wrapped tight around mine, my fingers sta
rting to ache. Next time I will figure out some other way. Next time he won’t find out.
“I only want what’s best for you,” he says. “For both of you. I hope you know that.”
Around me, I can feel the quiet weight of the empty building, pressing itself in around us, as cold and silent as a tomb. There is nobody here to protect me. I lie into the empty air.
“I know,” I say. “I know.”
With each passing day there are more and more new articles. I pin them to the wall, adding them to the images of Rosanna so that over and over again we are “Just Like Us,” “Stepping Out,” the two of us side by side in a series of perfect outfits, little sister, big sister, twins, the wall an echoed mirror of our faces, her face. I feel increasingly detached from what’s going on around me, the outings, the people Max has me meet, the beautiful things I buy, he buys, Rosanna buys for me. I am swimming underwater, everything languorous, heavy, and strange.
I spend my days floating through a world that feels increasingly unreal. I spend my nights with the tapes. Max leaves me boxes of the footage I’m already familiar with, the safe stuff, he thinks. He doesn’t know that nothing is safe with me. I have started breaking the footage down more and more microscopically, looking for clues. I switch from scene to scene, arranged thematically, spending huge chunks of time with Rosanna angry, or sad, or reading magazines, or talking to her housekeeper in the kitchen, the camera angled down from a high shelf. I watch her float in her bright square pool, eyes closed, the Hollywood Sign glowering down from a hill across the canyon. It’s disorienting watching her life broken into perfect little chunks like this. What would my life here look like, packed away in darkness for some stranger to discover?
I sit on the couch watching, drinking one Diet Coke after another, a metallic blood taste building at the back of my throat. I used to hate this stuff, I think. I’m not even sure if this is true. If I hated it before, I love it now. It has become the only thing I can stand putting into my body. Everything else feels heavy and violent and rotten. I really eat only when Max sends me out to lunch with someone or comes around for my dream-girl binges, when I pretend that I don’t count calories, that food is nothing to me, as it is to Rosanna, with her army of nutritionists and personal trainers. The fridge is empty except for rows and rows of slim silver cans that clink softly against one another when I open the door at three in the morning, the fridge’s light filling the apartment, a physical presence in the dark, quiet room.