by Emily Beyda
In the stillness, I find my breath. I clear my throat. My lips move. “What the hell are you talking about?” I say.
My voice is shaky and filled with outrage. I try to remind myself of what being Rosanna feels like. Of what being a person feels like. This is a normal reaction, I tell myself. I am reacting normally. What Leo is saying is so strange. My heart beats so loud I can hear it, my wrist throbbing and aching in his grasp. Still, no one speaks. I shake my head, pretending I’ve misheard him.
“Leo, are you okay? What are you talking about?”
There is nothing that I have seen that helps me imagine how Rosanna might feel about being accused of impersonating herself. All I know is how I feel—confusion, nausea, rage. I have worked so hard, how dare he? How dare he suggest such a thing? This man who knows nothing about the real Rosanna, nothing about me. I try to fill my voice with that uncertainty. What Leo has said is an obviously crazy thing, surely we can all see that, a bizarre and delusional accusation. They, we, have no reason to believe him. But I have to move carefully. There is no room for sloppiness now. If Leo has caught me, there must be some tell, some sign he has picked up on. Like my father picked up on my mother’s signs, knew to wait in the car out front until the lights came on, exposing us. There is always the moment of failure before the end, the slip that you don’t catch, the error that passes silently and ruins everything you’ve worked so hard to build. The wrist, I think, yes, where he was looking, but more than that. I have made some fatal, invisible error that made him think to check.
Eleanor comes closer and gently puts her arm around Leo, shielding him—from what, from me? I have to make her believe she is shielding her husband from himself. That we are in this together. Worry, I think, tenderness. We both love him in our own way. We are joined in our concern for him in this moment, poor Leo, so confused, saying such strange things.
“Is he okay?” I ask.
“Don’t talk to her,” says Leo. “Babe,” he says, turning to Eleanor, still holding tight to my wrist, and now he’s shielding her, trying to force her to look into his eyes as she gazes past him, looking at me with confusion and alarm. “Listen to me. She’s been acting so strange all night, I could tell something was wrong, and now I know for sure. Eleanor, believe me. Look at her wrist! It’s not her! I know what I’m talking about, look.”
Eleanor doesn’t listen. Her eyes are clamped tight on my face, searching. I look just like Rosanna, I remind myself. My body is her body, my face her face. When Eleanor looks at me, it is Rosanna she sees.
“Honey,” she says to him, small-voiced, “let go of her arm.”
He lets go, maneuvering his body to stand between us, like I am something dangerous, a bomb about to explode. I massage my aching wrist, look at him with as much compassion as I can summon up. Somehow I am sorry not to touch him anymore. There is another long and painful silence. But the silence is good. Silence means that they are uncertain, that he is uncertain, that it is in my power to keep them here, in this uncertain space. I run through the night, my mind clicking along like I’m flipping through my flash cards: every gesture, every word, shifting landscapes of dark and dark and light. But there is nothing there to help me. There is only this silence. Nothing matters but this long silent moment, the four of us together in the gathering storm.
“This is so fucking weird,” the blond man mutters.
He’s talking to himself, I know, but I decide his words are mine. They’re meant for me. That’s the reason he’s here, so I can have an ally. He’s finally doing his job.
“Shut up!” says Leo. “Who are you, anyway? You don’t know us, and you don’t know her. You’re useless. Nobody wants you here.”
He’s getting angrier and angrier. Good. This undermines his credibility. The first person to show his emotion, to flinch, is the one you don’t believe. He is unraveling before us all.
“Stop!” says Eleanor. “Leo, why are you so angry? Will someone tell me what the hell is going on?
I give her a sympathetic look. What Leo is saying is insane. But there’s still a chance that Eleanor, his wife, the person who loves him most, who is the most familiar with the contours of his mind, will believe him. It’s easier for her to believe him than to accept the obvious conclusion that her husband is having some kind of breakdown right in the middle of their overpriced beachfront property. I need to balance the scales, make sure the blond man, at least, is on my side. It becomes easier and easier to believe a lie the more people already believe it. If I can convince him, I can convince Eleanor. And she can make Leo feel like he’s going crazy.
“I know,” I say, ignoring Leo. “I’m so sorry. I promise you he’s never been like this before. Maybe I shouldn’t have brought you here. It was inappropriate, I see that now. But I had no idea that things were so bad with Leo. I’m sorry you have to see him like this. Please don’t judge him by his behavior tonight. He is a really good guy, I promise, and brilliant—well, you’re an artist yourself, you understand. You know what artists are like. I just hope this hasn’t been too upsetting for you.”
I look into his dull blue eyes, full of gentleness, my voice even and low and sad.
“It’s not your fault,” he says.
I feel the tears welling up in my eyes, poor Rosanna. And he’s right—poor Leo, he’s sick, this isn’t my fault. Eleanor looks from Leo to the two of us, her eyes slick with doubt. I can feel the power in the room begin to shift.
“Thank you,” I say. “I appreciate that.”
“She’s lying,” says Leo. “Don’t listen to her.”
I don’t bother responding. Let him talk to himself, it only makes him look crazier. I turn to Eleanor. Direct gaze, tight mouth, raised eyebrows, you poor thing. I walk to the bar and pour us all glasses of whiskey so I can turn away from them for a moment, compose myself, make sure my hands aren’t shaking too badly. They aren’t. Good. I bring the tray of drinks back to the others so they can see the steady liquid, my unshaking grip, my graceful Rosanna walk.
“Here,” I say, “I think we could all use a little calming down.”
The blond man takes his drink. After a brief pause, so does Eleanor. Leo leaves his on the tray.
“Don’t drink those,” he says. “Since when did Rosanna get anyone else a drink? Since when did Rosanna offer to help? Something is very, very wrong. This isn’t Rosanna. I promise you. I don’t know who it is, but it’s not her.”
He is still standing as far from me as he can get, one hand tight on Eleanor’s arm. I have been so patient. Now it’s time for my patience to come to an end. I drink my whiskey in one gulp, clang the glass down on the table. They all jump.
“Jesus Christ,” I say, “Leo, I’m sorry, I really am trying to be understanding, I know that it’s been a while. Maybe you’re stressed, you’re drunk, whatever—I don’t know what’s going on with you—but you’re really scaring us, especially Eleanor. Pull yourself together! Look at me, Leo. It’s me! It’s just me. You know me. You know who I am.”
“You are not Rosanna,” he says, slow but firm. Certain. Like he is talking to a child. “I don’t know who you are. I don’t know where she is. All I know is that you are not her.” He turns to the others. “She’s not Rosanna. She’s manipulating you, don’t listen to anything she says. I don’t know who she is, but from the second she sat down with us I knew there was something off about her. Not quite right. And now I know for sure. Look at her wrist, Eleanor. Her birthmark is missing.”
I hold my wrist in the loop of my fingers. I can feel the thin skin, blood pulsing quick in my blue veins. Max. He’s marked me. The way mothers do with twins, dressing one in blue, another in pink, the way surgeons mark the diseased limb to make sure they don’t incise the healthy half. This isn’t Rosanna’s doing, not her fault. She would never set me up to fail like Max has. Eleanor looks at me. There is something in her eyes, not doubt, not quite. A
willingness to doubt. But I feel calmer than ever. I close my eyes. I sigh. I have him now. He’s told me the one thing I didn’t already know.
“Okay,” I say, “okay. I didn’t want to talk about that. But if it will make you feel better, help shatter whatever delusion has you in its grip, I guess I have to.”
I pause. Everything is still again. Leo is listening. Even the blond man sits rapt on the edge of the couch, waiting for whatever is coming next.
“I can’t really talk about what happened before I left. About what happened when I was gone. I can’t, and I don’t want to. But things were bad at the end. Things were really bad for a while. I didn’t want to see anyone, do anything. I didn’t want to be alive anymore. So…”
I turn my wrists over, angling them to my chest.
“There was scar tissue,” I say. “But they lasered it off. Anything is possible now. I didn’t think of replacing the birthmark. I thought it might be a sign that I had changed. I just hoped…I don’t know. I was so ashamed. I didn’t want anyone to know.”
I let my voice grow heavy with intimated tears. Eleanor rests her hand gently on my lower back.
“It’s okay,” she says. “It’s okay. You don’t have to talk about it. We shouldn’t have asked.”
“That’s bullshit,” says Leo. “That’s bullshit and you know it. Rosanna would never do something like that.”
“I didn’t think so, either,” I say. “But then…” I pause. I hold back tears. I let my shoulders shake. “I did.”
Eleanor looks between us, back and forth. She loves him. She wants to believe him. But she hasn’t seen what he saw. She probably can’t even picture the birthmark. Leo knows me better than she does. He knows my body so well. And right now she can’t let herself think about that. I give her the same look I had given the actor—look at us, the sane ones, having to deal with this poor deluded person—but for her I fill it with compassion. Good for you, I think, you poor thing. She looks away. Guilty. She’s still angry, but she believes me. The alternative is too outrageous. She has no other choice.
“Leo,” she says, “honey, do you need to lie down?”
He finally looks away from me, lets go of Eleanor’s arm. Now he’s angry at her. Good. He comes closer to me, his body language aggressive. But I am not afraid of him. If he knew what was good for him, he’d be afraid of me. For a fraction of a second, I look right back at him so he can see I’m not scared, and then I flinch away so that the others will see I am. Eleanor springs forward to hold him back.
“Rosanna,” she says, “I’m so sorry, he’s harmless, I swear.”
“Of course,” I say, “I know that, it’s fine, he doesn’t know what he’s saying.”
“No,” says Leo, “I know exactly what I’m saying, and I don’t need to lie down. Nothing’s wrong with me, I’m fine, but it’s not her! I tell you, it’s not her!”
“Okay, sweetheart,” she says, “I know it seems that way to you right now. But you must realize how strange this sounds. It’s so late, and we’re all tired, and maybe the coke was a bad idea. I’m sorry. Rosanna, I’ll call a car for you and your friend. This is all my fault. I’m so sorry about all this.”
She looks like she is going to cry. And I feel so sorry for her, I really do, poor Eleanor, who is aging so expensively in her outdated house, whose husband is delusional and sleeping with god knows how many women. I cross the room and stand beside her. It seems important, somehow, to move as much as I can, to let them see me from every angle, prove there are no hidden flaws that need concealing, no bad side I’m trying to shield. Leo tracks my movements with his eyes. A trapped animal. I stroke Eleanor’s back, ignore the way she flinches from my touch.
“Eleanor,” I say, “please. You have nothing to apologize for. I should have thought about the effect that seeing me again would have, after such a long time apart. It’s all just too much, isn’t it? Not just for poor Leo. For all of us.”
I fill my voice with as much gentle solicitude as I can manage. Slowly her hands stop shaking. Slowly she lets herself go limp. I pull her body toward my own, soft, eternally soft.
“Do you have anyone we can call? A doctor? Does he have a psychologist he works with? It’s nothing to be ashamed of. We all need help sometimes.”
She looks at me, her eyes filling up with tears, and shakes her head. “I don’t know,” she says. “I don’t know what to do.”
Behind her, Leo starts to pace back and forth across the room. I smooth Eleanor’s hair back from her forehead. I look deeply into her eyes. I know that we can’t actually call anyone in. Leo might talk, and as crazy as his story is, there is a chance, a vanishingly slim but dangerous chance, that someone might believe him. I have to appeal to her sense of shame.
“Of course,” I say, “I don’t want us to be too hasty, if you think we can handle this on our own. Maybe the best thing is to have him go to bed, see how he feels in the clear light of day. You can call me in the morning if you need to. If he wants to talk all this over. I know what it’s like, being in the public eye. What a strain it can be, having everyone airing your dirty laundry. I can’t imagine how difficult that would be for your children.”
She lets go of my hands now, nervous, fluttering, adjusting her hair.
“Oh no,” she says. “No, it’s fine. He’s fine. He’s never been like this before, you know that. That coke must have been cut with something, and you know, we don’t really do it anymore, we’re not used to it, it’s been so long. We’re all tired, aren’t we? It’s been a long night. It’s that, and the stress, just stress. He takes on so much, poor Leo, he always has, he works too hard. Please don’t call anyone. Nobody needs to know.”
Her voice fades. She is looking away now, not to me or her husband, but out the window, toward the sea. The wind beats against the glass, pressing stronger and stronger, trying to come inside. How did her life become this way? How did she become the woman reflected in the dark glass against the storm, no longer young, no longer perfect, no longer anybody’s golden girl? I can tell she is trying not to cry. Good. I run my fingers gently through her hair. Rosanna probably wouldn’t have been so nice. But Eleanor didn’t really know Rosanna. And she is past the point of noticing, anyway. Leo isn’t. He looks at me with those hard, flat eyes. I look right back at him.
“Stop talking about me like I’m not here,” he says. He’s trying to sound calm, but his voice grows tight, climbing high into his chest. He is determined to appear reasonable, sane. But it’s too late. I can feel the relief, the triumph of it climbing hot into my throat. It is all I can do not to shout out loud.
“Don’t worry,” I tell Eleanor. “Please don’t worry. Let’s just calm him down, get him to bed. I won’t tell anyone. This stays between us. It will all be over soon.”
“I’m not crazy,” says Leo. “I’m your husband, Eleanor, don’t you trust me? I know what I’m talking about.”
“Stop talking,” she says, suddenly loud, full of unexpected certainty. “Just stop. How did you know about her wrist? How do you know about her body? Every day, Leo? Every day? I thought I had done something wrong, I thought it was my fault when you started pulling away, acting so distant. But it wasn’t my fault, it was you. It was you, Leo. You love her, don’t you? You pulled away from me because she left. You were mourning a breakup, and you made me think it was my fault. So shut the fuck up, you hypocrite. I don’t care about your insane delusions. I don’t want to hear you say a thing. Because no, I don’t trust you. I don’t trust you at all. You haven’t earned anything from me. Not this. Not anything at all.”