The Girl She Used to Be

by David Cristofano

  The car comes to a stop and the engine is turned off; we have either reached our destination or someone needs to get a drink or relieve himself. I open my eyes and see the red sheen of a Sheetz convenience store sign beam into the car and, though thankful we are still on the road, I realize I must lift my head.

  Sean casually strokes my hair—fixing it, really—as he stiffens his back, stretching.

  “You need anything?” he asks.

  I shake my head. “We almost there?”

  “Another hour.”

  The deputy gets back in the Explorer and the air that rushes in is warm and moist and the smell of the sea remains long after the door has closed. My command of typically useless rudimentary math finally comes in handy: 4.5 hours, heading south, at an average forty-five miles per hour, with two five-minute breaks. Then I factor in the smell.

  “Virginia Beach?”

  Sean laughs. “Close.” The other deputy tosses him a pack of Hostess CupCakes. “We’re not crossing the Chesapeake. We’ll be staying at the end of the Delmarva Peninsula, in a town called Cape Charles.”

  Never heard of it, and I’m not surprised. I do know this much, though: The town will consist of a smattering of fast-food joints, a couple of gas stations, maybe a bank; the motel in town, the only motel, will be a dump; the rooms will have old, noisy radiators and the walls will be thin and I will be able to hear the conversations in the neighboring rooms, including the phone calls of the marshal who is protecting me, who is complaining of me, who is wishing he was home, because he has a home, and there is no place like home.

  Sean wrestles with the wrapper and I catch the waft of synthetic cream-filled cake. “Do they have the orange ones in there?” The two guys look at each other. I smile and say, “Sorry.” Out goes the driver.

  Your tax dollars hard at work. Again.

  Sean shoves half a cupcake into his mouth and stares inside the Sheetz. After a mighty gulp, he says, “You really want to know why I left the FBI?” In goes the rest of the cupcake.

  In all my years on the run, this is the first time a marshal has ever offered one shred of personal info; I seize. “Sure.”

  Sean responds with a laugh, as though preparing me for a naive notion. “I joined the Bureau because I wanted to help people—protect people. Kids, mostly. Take down child abusers and child pornographers.”

  “Certainly noble.” I catch his eye. “Were you successful?”

  He shrugs a little and wipes his lips. “Somewhat. We nailed some bad guys, closed some rings. We were gaining some momentum.”

  “Were? What happened?”

  “Nine-eleven happened. Suddenly, the only thing anyone cared about was terrorism.”

  “They cut your team?”

  “That was only part of it. All the prestige and excitement had shifted to working on the terrorism cases. I’d get guys on my team who were annoyed to be there. Heaven forbid you got detailed on the Ashcroft porn cases, where you were going after illegal pornography. Most of those agents were whining all the time, calling themselves the porn police. You know, the why are we worried about porn when our country is in danger sort of thing.” He turns and looks into the Sheetz again. “Once you’ve seen the crap I’ve seen, you quickly realize our country has been in danger long before the towers came down. Just because it’s not biological or chemical doesn’t mean it’s not a poison.”

  Sean ends his rant and I watch our driver jog back to the car. The deputy hops in the front seat and tosses the cupcakes in my general direction and they fall to the floor. I pick them up and ask for a napkin but he ignores me and pulls onto the road. Sean hands me a half-empty pack of tissues.

  Though I know in my gut the reason Sean joined WITSEC was to continue to protect people, I ask, “So your solution was to leave the FBI and abandon the effort of ridding the world of abusers and pornographers altogether?” I unwrap my beauteous imitation-orange-flavored treat and wait for him to answer.

  He snickers, like I could never understand his plight, and raises his cupcake for me to clink as if we are toasting. “Here’s to running.”

  I smile and bump his cupcake with mine and a little orange gets on his and a little chocolate gets on mine, and that’s as close as we’re going to get to becoming one tonight.

  The deputy driving is getting either bored or annoyed, as his speed is topping the posted limit by at least fifteen miles per hour. Sean and I are getting too chummy for his taste, I would imagine.

  “I read in your file that you never asked for a specific job type until we moved you to Columbia. Why’d you want to teach math?”

  “If you’re asking why I wanted to teach, it’s pretty simple. Summers off, steady union pay scales with mandatory increases, spring break, Christmas break, blah, blah, blah. You guys gave me five inauthentic years of teaching experience, which landed me forty-five grand a year. Not bad for ten months of work. But if what you’re really asking is why I wanted to teach math, well… that’s a different story.”

  “I am.”

  I lick the sticky, orangey residue from my fingers and think of how to answer, wondering how to explain that I might be in love with the discipline as much as I could ever be with any man. I inhale and breathe out my answer. “It’s rigid. It’s firm and unyielding. It never lies.”

  Sean smiles, and for the first time it seems he has realized there is some depth to me that he does not understand but wants to make the journey there.

  I continue, “It is always right, and all you have to do is take the most logical path to find an answer. It brings reality and truth to every scene on earth. Every business that has fudged its numbers gets flamed out in the end. Every woman who riskily toys with her menstrual cycle increases the odds of yielding human life. If you have six chambers and two bullets, the worst you will do is pull that trigger five times. Everything comes back to math. Build a bridge, cut out paper snowflakes with your kid, balance the federal budget—everything gets answered, built, and destroyed with math. It always tells the truth.”

  “Like, the whole is always equal to the sum of its parts?”

  “No, more like… no matter how many times you cut a number in half it never reaches zero.” I giggle suggestively. “You’re not going to seduce me with your amateurish Euclidean axiom.”

  “You’re right,” he says. “I’m not going to seduce you.”

  Lousy chocolate-cupcake-eating, wedding-band-twirling, garlic-and-onion-breathing scumbag.

  Oh, what do I care; he’s a nice guy and a good-looking guy, but the most alluring part of this young marshal is his compulsory interest in my well-being.

  Sean drinks half a bottle of water and I can’t help but imagine he used to do the same with Gatorade on the sidelines of some game. He nods at me, like he’s waiting for more.

  I deliver. “I became obsessed with math after my parents were murdered. I spent all my free time going through puzzle books, but they became too easy. I started working through high school math textbooks, then moved on to college textbooks.” I shove in another bite of cupcake and say through a full mouth, “I pretty much mastered everything through differential equations and linear algebra.”

  “Sounds like a blast.”

  “Yeah? I’ve got a super book on stochastic processes I could lend y—oh, that’s right, I left it back at my apartment in Columbia.”

  “Now, that’s a shame.”

  “You know what’s most valuable, though? The math that every person on this planet should be forced to master?”

  “I’m trembling with anticipation.”

  “Probability. You’ll use it every day of your life.”

  “I’m not much of a gambler.”

  “You think probability is just for Vegas? Here, let me save you some time: The odds are in favor of the house. Now go save some money.”

  “Thanks for the tip.”

  “But if you really want to put this to some use…” Sean suddenly looks bored. I need to bring him back around; the fact that I�
�m going to make my point is incidental. “What are the odds you’ll get hit by a car crossing the street?”

  Sean shrugs.

  “About one in eight thousand. How about this: What are the odds you’ll die from food poisoning—not from terrorism, mind you, just your everyday case of salmonella?”

  He shakes his head.

  “About one in twelve thousand. But what do you say we get more practical.” I lean in toward Sean, close enough for him to smell the orange cream on my lips. “What are the odds I’m going to live a full, normal life?” He swallows. “There is a number, Sean, and I want to know what it is. As my protector, I want you to apply the math and bring me the honest, perfect truth.”

  He licks his teeth, though it seems it’s more of a nervous reaction than a need to clear his molars of chocolate cake. “I don’t know.”

  “Let’s work the numbers. How many victims and witnesses have entered WITSEC since its inception?”

  He takes a deep breath. “About seventy-five hundred witnesses. If you include the family members and loved ones, it’s closer to seventeen thousand.”

  “And how many have been murdered while active in WITSEC?”

  Sean thinks, but it seems like he’s pondering whether to tell the truth. He lowers his voice, I assume to keep the other marshal from hearing, and says, “Forty-seven.” He scratches his head and adds, “So, roughly one in four hundred.”

  “Not so fast, Slick. How many of the forty-seven were from Mafia cases?”

  “I would guess all of them.”

  “How many witnesses and family members are tied directly to Mafia cases as opposed to drug- and gang-related cases and so on?”

  He clears his throat. “About five thousand, give or take.”

  I move a little closer. “And how many of the thirty-seven deaths were tied to the Bovaro family?”

  He stares into my eyes, and it seems that for the first time he’s noticed their color. “At least… at least twenty-five.”

  I move closer still, so he can feel my breath. “And how many witnesses and family members were being protected because of the Bovaro family?”

  He swallows. “No more than two hundred fifty.”

  I fall back into my seat. I grab the other orange cupcake, break it apart, and shove a piece in my mouth. “That’s one in ten, Sean. The odds of my survival are one in ten. Not too good, huh?” I gobble the rest and wipe my fingers on my jeans.

  I can feel him staring at me, stuck.

  Eventually, I say, “You asked me if I ever get to the point where I feel safe. The answer is no.”

  He reaches over and touches my leg in a way that is not romantic. “C’mon, no one is going to hurt you. We’re going to keep you safe.”

  I wash down the remainder of the orange cake and savor the flavor, as though it may be the last one I ever eat. “Like I said, Sean… math never lies.”

  Cape Charles is just as I imagined: another freaking pit stop. In this case, it’s your last chance to take a potty break before crossing the arduous Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel, a twenty-mile-long combination of bridge spans and tunnel pieces that must be the nightmare of every gephyrophobe and claustrophobe on the planet. If you’re going to take a break, this is a good place to take one. Though a bed-and-breakfast or two and a few antique shops give this town character, it still holds no more promise for me than any other two-month layover.

  And sure enough, we make our way to the motel with the paper-thin walls and the old radiators. The managers know we are coming and, like always, they are not happy. We walk around the side of the motel and it seems the only thing going for this place is its location right on the bay, with a hundred yards of grainy beach that points toward the bridge spans and the Chesapeake.

  The other marshal hands Sean the car keys and gets in the passenger side of another Explorer with a marshal who was waiting for us at the motel. Sean and I watch the vehicle speed away. We are now alone.

  As we head toward our rooms, Sean scopes the place, looking around every corner, behind every tree, up every stairwell.

  I cannot take my eyes off the water and the stream of cars flowing over the bay, all with a destination, with intent. I’m equally jealous and depressed.

  It is mid-May and it seems summer has arrived early in this part of Virginia. A breeze pushes us along to our rooms and it’s warmer and more inviting than anyone who works at this dump.

  “Listen,” Sean says, “are you curious about your last name at all?”

  I laugh at him. “Government issue. What is it?”

  “Howard.”

  “Geez, Michelle Howard. You threw me an extra syllable. How lavish.”

  We reach the door and he hands me my garbage-bag-suitcase, then gives me an additional plastic bag. “You’ll need this, too.”

  “Let me guess. Scissors and hair dye.”

  “And some other things, but the scissors and dye are the items you’ll need to use tonight.”

  I reach in the bag and pull out the box that has L’Oréal on the label. “Creamy Caramel?”

  “It’ll match your eyes.”

  “Probably not better than my natural color.”

  “Which is what?”

  I play with the doorknob to my room. “When I was six, it was sort of blond. It’s been dyed ever since. Based on the other hair on my body, I’m guessing it’s still blond. Or gray.”

  He reaches for his doorknob too. “Well, no matter what, I’m sure it will be stunning.”

  “And stiff.”

  He smiles and suddenly Matthew McConaughey returns. “I’ll be right over here. You need anything, just tap on the door or poke a hole through the wall or something.”

  I walk up quickly, stand on my toes, and kiss his cheek. “Thank you, Deputy Marshal Sean Douglas.”

  He blushes and loses his smile. “Sleep well, M. You’re safe with me.”

  I INDEED FEEL QUITE SAFE WITH SEAN NEXT DOOR. HIS MERE SIZE—and commitment to acting as a valid protector—are enough to warm the cockles. I drop my head to my pillow and feel a rush of warmth that suggests slumber is a moment away. Even with being in a strange town and a strange bed and my hair now short and stinking of chemicals, I feel safe. Very safe.

  But now that there’s a knife pressed against my neck? Not so much.

  This is the moment I have imagined a hundred times over, the nightmare that has caused me to wet my bed regularly since I was six years old. And the fact that I have lost control of my bladder once again is a reminder that this is not a joke. This is not an exercise.

  This is not a dream sequence.

  I reach for my neck as anyone in my situation would and suppress my scream just as I’ve practiced for when this day might come. I cry under my breath, “Ow.”

  The response I get is odd and unexpected: “Oh, sorry.”

  The assailant weakens his grip and I touch my neck and feel no blood.

  He leans over the bed and whispers in my ear, “I’m gonna let you go. Do not scream, do you understand?”

  I nod, fast, repeatedly grabbing my neckline in an attempt to find that crimson wetness.

  He slowly releases me and steps back. He stays there for an uncomfortably long time and it runs through my mind that this guy may have rape on his mind instead of murder—and, if so, will not be happy when he realizes who’s staked out in the next room.

  I gingerly slide out of bed and we stand a few feet apart, the only sound a few droplets of bodily fluid running off the edge of my pajama bottoms onto the cold tile floor. Panic subsides. A little.

  We are both waiting for something.

  “Um,” I whisper, “now what?”

  I can tell he’s trying to look around the room. “Is there a light anywhere?”

  I squint, even though it’s dark. “A light?”

  “Hold on,” he says, then fishes through his jacket—very loud leather—and pulls out a tiny flashlight, turns it on, and starts whipping a minuscule beam of light around my scummy motel room.
He finds the switch and turns on the lamp.

  I stand still—frozen—as he slowly walks in my direction.

  “You know who I am?” he asks, no longer whispering. His voice is rich and deep and soulful, and it reminds me of a young Morgan Freeman or a forgotten Baldwin brother. Or a smoker. He steps a little closer and his youth—still older than me, though—becomes immediately apparent. I am hoping his age equates to inexperience.

  Then he says, “I’m John Bovaro.”

  And with those words, I start to shake. My chin wrinkles, my face loses its blood, the room spins. And I am pathetic; the best I can do in my quivering posture is half whisper my guardian’s name.

  “Sean… Sean!”

  John smirks and casually points to the bed for me to sit, as though nothing physical—sexual or violent—is on his mind. “If Sean is that clown in the next room, he won’t be here too soon. Have a seat.”

  I gasp and bring my hands to my chest. “You killed him?” My knees buckle. No matter how many times you imagine nearing death, you simply cannot prepare.

  He laughs and reaches in his pocket for what I imagine is the knife he had to my neck or a loaded gun, but he pulls out a pack of cigarettes, puts one to his mouth, and lights it. “Killed him? No, he’s out on the beach, walking the shoreline.” He takes a long drag, then turns his head to avoid exhaling in my direction. “He’s got his dress pants rolled up like he’s going digging for clams. I gotta tell you, that guy’s a useless fu—” He glances at me. “Fellow.”

  I feel like I’m going to fall to the ground and I quickly take him up on his offer to sit on the bed.

  He puts the cigarette to his lips and the end glows red. I can actually hear the paper and tobacco burn. “You know what that guy makes a year? About forty thousand. Seriously, what kind of protection is forty thousand gonna get you?”