The Girl She Used to Be

by David Cristofano

  After a few seconds of sitting, I notice how cold and wet my clothes are, and it appears that all of the nightmares I had as a child were simply dress rehearsals for this final moment.

  I garner the strength to look at him but I cannot speak, nor can I stop shaking.

  He takes a double drag and holds it and extinguishes the butt on the floor. “I like your hair this way.” He exhales from the side of his mouth and a cloud fills the corner of the room.

  I look beyond him, at the mirror, and it seems the caramel isn’t looking too creamy at the moment. I look like a boy.

  He stares at me, as if it’s my turn to say something.

  All I can offer is the predictable canned line from a million lousy movies: “What do you want from me?”

  He throws his hands up. “Geez, I don’t know. Fifty bucks?” He reaches back into his jacket for his cigarettes and holds them out to me. “How rude of me. Cigarette?”

  I swallow. My nervousness fades enough for me to say, “My parents always told me cigarettes would kill me.”

  He laughs. “The death I can handle. It’s the bad breath and yellow teeth I find troublesome.”

  “Why not try the nicotine gum?” I’m stalling, hoping Sean will hear this conversation and burst through my door—though now I, too, am starting to think he’s useless. And should I survive, Sean will receive a long diatribe about what it means to be someone’s protector.

  “Yeah, I’ve considered Nicorette, but you can’t intimidate someone by snuffing out a chewed piece of gum on his forearm.” He chuckles.

  This guy is way too cavalier, almost goofy. I rub my eyes and analyze him on the off chance that I may need to remember him for a lineup or a sketch artist. The stupid ones always talk too much.

  So I start recording data: deep, raspy voice; wild, green bloodshot eyes; olive skin—as expected; thick black hair—this time Mediterranean instead of Irish—in a short progressive cut; medium nose—no hook; clean-shaven—no, fresh-shaven; strong chin; wry smile; full red lips. It hits me that, if you take away the deadly weapon, he’s kind of attractive. But here’s the odd part, the piece that doesn’t match the name Bovaro: black, small-rimmed glasses.

  He leans against the dresser before I have a chance to gauge his height but I’m thinking maybe six feet tall, and bulky on top but average from the buckle down. This is the best I can do.

  I look away. “John Bovaro,” I say, loud enough that if Sean has returned to his room he could hear me. I get not so much as a stir out of the marshal’s room. I’m getting pissed off at everybody. “But let me guess, I should call you Johnny?Or is it Little John?”

  He adjusts his glasses and says, “Actually, if you really want to know, I prefer Jonathan.”

  I cannot suppress a giggle. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “I shi—er, kid—you not.”

  He smiles but it annoys me; with the hair and the glasses and the Jonathan, I feel like I’m being threatened by an investment banker.

  He scratches his cheek and thinks. Then he reaches over to the chair next to the window and tosses me my robe. “Here. Why don’t you slip into something dry.” I pause before taking it. “I’m sorry if I scared you.”

  I stand, put the robe on, turn my back to him and take off my panties and pajama bottoms, close the robe, and pull it tight enough to cut off my circulation.

  As I spin back around and sit on the bed, he says, “Can I ask a question?”

  “You may ask a question.”

  “I’m gonna cut you a break on the attitude because you’re a teacher—sort of.” He sighs. “How did you know I was on to you back in Maryland?”

  I lick my lips and shake my head. “I had no idea who you were until two minutes ago.”

  He looks down, concerned. “You mean, someone else from my family threatened you?”

  “No.”

  “Then why are you being relocated?”

  I hesitate, but I really don’t care anymore. “I… decided I was bored and needed a change.”

  He smiles brightly. “You mean… you made up a threat to get the government to relocate you and get you a new identity.”

  I think and nod. “Yeah, pretty much.”

  “Because you were bored.”

  I smile a little. “Yeah.”

  “Stickin’ it to the man!” He throws his hand up for a high-five. I slap it, mostly because I have no idea what’s going on here. “You’re all right, girl.…You’re all right.”

  I cross my legs and wiggle my foot a little. “You’re not going to kill me, are you.”

  “Please,” he says. “If I’d come here to kill you, you’d be fighting rigor mortis and I’d be halfway back to Brooklyn. That fed they got protecting you—what, was he gonna step in and save the day?” He reaches in his pocket and pulls out his Marlboros, stares at them, then puts them back.

  “Sean’s a good guy,” I say, like I’m defending my spouse.

  Jonathan looks at me, stern, like he might have changed his mind about slitting my throat. He takes a few steps toward me. “Do you feel safe right now?”

  I can’t look at him, so I bite my tongue and stare at the floor as I slowly shake my head. “No.”

  All of a sudden, he flips his wrist over and checks his watch. “Well, I’m afraid we’re out of time.”

  I frown. “Meaning what?”

  “Just get a good night’s rest. I’ll be back for you tomorrow. I just wanted to let you know I was here—and that you’ll be leaving with me.” He walks to the window, peeks outside, and reaches for the doorknob.

  “Wait! What do you mean?”

  “What confused you, Melody?”

  Hearing my birth name from someone other than a deputy marshal throws me off. He is a real human being in the real world who actually knows who I am, the first person in twenty years to discern the genuine and uninvented me, a superhero recognized without her mask; I feel a subtle pull inside, the rise of a new and inconvenient emotion. “Where, uh… where are we going?”

  “A road trip.” He turns and faces me. “Melody, listen—I promise I am not going to hurt you. But you have to come with me. And we have to move very quickly.”

  I’m totally muddled, and instead of asking what his intentions are, I say, “What about Sean? What will I tell him?”

  “Nothing. Just have breakfast with him and tell him everything is okay.”

  “But he’ll find out about you. He’s—”

  Jonathan sighs, then waves me over. “Come here.” He pushes up one blade of the blinds and points to the water. “Are you telling me that guy is gonna be your hero?”

  I stare out the window and watch as Sean sits in the sand, picks up a handful of shells, and gently tosses them into the water.

  “He probably just misses his wife,” I say. “Marshals need chill time too, you know.”

  “Sure, but that guy isn’t married.”

  “Yes, he is.”

  “No, he’s not.”

  “Yes, he is.”

  “No, he’s not, Melody. What, you think only the feds can do research or check someone out before getting involved?”

  As I stare at Sean sitting on the shoreline, Jonathan manages to slip out—and he must be good because I never heard a step and I never heard the door close, and if I wasn’t confused before, I sure am now.

  After stripping the wet sheets and replacing them with a few abrasive blankets, I curl up in bed and play with the straw that has become my hair. I cannot fall asleep. I mean, who’s ever heard of a wise guy who wears trendy glasses or makes sure he’s not blowing smoke in your direction or genuinely tries to refrain from using profanity in your presence? I couldn’t even detect a New York accent.

  And at first I imagined that the term road trip meant it would be easier to bury me in a field somewhere rather than at the toll plaza for the Bay Bridge-Tunnel, but now I think he might actually be planning to take me somewhere. I just don’t know why.

  I dissect my situation and t
hough my sensibility suggests that I should knock on the wall and tell Sean about my visitor and be whisked away yet once more, my heart suggests that I have been running for as long as I can remember and that, in some way, I have been waiting all my life for this moment.

  For it all to end.

  And for some reason I feel free, that I have been in touch with both sides, with the light and the dark of my existence, and that I have somehow managed to find peace. Whether there is validity to this notion is irrelevant; right now, it feels valid. I’m not going to destroy it by overanalyzing.

  I hop out of bed, undress completely, wash myself clean, and turn up the heat. The old steam radiators burble to life. I pile on the remaining blankets from the closet and slip into bed naked.

  This is not a metaphorical womb, but it sure is warm.

  I close my eyes and I can feel sleep coming fast. I let go, and the wave lifts me and carries me far, far away.

  SEAN KNOCKS ON MY DOOR AND THOUGH I TRY TO OPEN MY EYES, they ache—apparently the only part of my body lacking moisture; my room is a poor man’s sauna and I wake to find myself sprawled nude, lying diagonally across the damp bed, a thin layer of sweat covering me from head to toe, and in all the years of coloring my hair I have never seen it bleed onto the sheets like this. I begin to think I really was murdered last night.

  “Hold on,” I say, pretty much to myself. I walk to the door and open it textile free; the thought of throwing anything over my body is revolting. I hide the important parts behind the door.

  “You okay?” Sean peeks in and the heat rushes out to meet him. “Holy—what, is your heat broken?”

  I rub my eyes, hoping to squeeze out a little fluid. “No, it was intentional. Let me turn it off.” I close the door—or at least I think I do. I get to the heater and turn the knob and as I look back toward the door, I notice it didn’t latch. Sean casts a curious eye. It is either that I met my captor last night and he seemed convincingly nonthreatening or that the heat is making me woozy, but I am slow to cover myself. I smile at Sean and grab my robe on my way back to the door.

  “Your wife know you’re a peeping Tom?”

  “What?”

  “You just saw my naked body. Don’t pretend you didn’t.”

  “I don’t have to—because I did not see your naked body. I was looking beyond you at the stain on your sheets.” And he’s right. The stain was directly behind where I was standing and in the time it took to turn off my heater it would have been impossible for him to scan me and analyze the mess on my sheets.

  Miserable seashell-tossing, assassin-ignoring dirtbag.

  I quickly throw on the robe and swing open the door, mostly to let the heat out. “That’s not blood on the bed. It’s your government-grade, over-the-counter hair color.”

  I turn around and walk into the room and Sean follows me. I look in the mirror and stare in horror at the reflection. My creamy caramel looks like someone left it on a dashboard on a sunny summer day. Sean looks over my shoulder and grimaces a little.

  “Interesting,” he says.

  I bite my tongue.

  “Have you ever had your life stripped out from beneath you?” I ask. “Ever been forced to change your clothes, your name, your address—and your hair color and style—all at the behest of some clod who claims to be your guardian?”

  Sean stares at me, or rather my hair, clearly with no intention of answering. His silence vexes me.

  I think for a second, then try to provoke him with my insider info. “I guess I can’t expect you to understand that kind of thing on forty grand a year.”

  Sean’s eyes move about in confusion. “I have no idea what relationship income has to comprehension, but I make a little over fifty-three thousand.”

  Never trust your captor.

  “So,” he adds, looking around my room in a surveillance-oriented way, “you sleep well last night?”

  I turn to him and smile widely. “Like a baby.”

  He nods, continues his inspection. “Well, that’s what we’re trained to do: bring security.”

  “Sean, I can tell you that you managed to bring a whole new level to my idea of security and safety last night. You’re really in command of this situation.” His eyes cease wandering and land on my face. “I need to shower.”

  Sean nods and inspects the bathroom, comes back out and says, “I’ll wait right here,” and flops down on the sofa next to the bed.

  I walk toward the bathroom and check, from the corner of my eye, to see if he is watching me. My robe is short enough that its magnetic pull might have the required strength to drag his eyes my way, but I get nothing. I slow my pace. More nothing. I sigh and drop my head, for just once I would love to be pursued for something other than being murdered or the prevention thereof.

  I close the bathroom door and run the shower. The head sputters a few times, then red-brown droplets begin to fall from the multi-decade–old shower massage. I’m certain the Chinese could never have contrived a water torture this slow and painful and overly chlorinated.

  I drop my robe and look at my sighing body in the mirror. It seems I am starting to sag all over, which I want to blame on getting closer to thirty, but it might just as well be from sadness or lack of use. The last time a man had his hands on it was three name changes ago, when I shed my common sense and consumed a third gin and tonic—one too many, as it turned out. In a local bar outside Lawrenceburg, Kentucky, I managed to convince this man—a man whose name I never acquired, by the way—that I was sexy and dangerous and ready to ignite.

  He believed my lie.

  All I’d wanted was a kiss. I wanted to feel the way my parents did when I was young. I cannot recall a moment, before that fateful day at Vincent’s, when my parents would see each other that they did not embrace and kiss, whether it was after a business trip or having just come back from the kitchen. Whenever they slept, they would be entwined in a manner suggesting they wanted to be part of each other for every moment of their lives, awake and otherwise. With all of the discussions I’ve had with federal marshals about being secure, I cannot convey to them the veritable security my parents brought to me through their ardent love. But they were emotionally long gone by that point, their immediate affection slowly destroyed by that unexpected encounter with Tony Bovaro. They managed to get through the tough times—the initial move and the few others after that—but eventually I watched their love turn a dull gray. The constant failure—my constant failure and inability to be true to our fiction—destroyed my parents. They became distant. They became untwined. Their bodies were eventually separate on the bed, equidistant even in their movements, like two human wipers on a satin windshield.

  Their broken hearts eventually broke mine.

  I managed to categorize all their lessons of love and harbor them deep inside, ready to recall them whenever in need. My mother told me you end up making love long before you think, that the act should be reserved for your one true love, but that so should the first kiss, because the first time you kiss is the first time you open your body up to someone else, the unprecedented moment when someone else is inside you. And after watching my parents all those countless times, watching as they would take each other by the hand and smile while gazing into each other’s eyes, pulling each other closer, and—then the real magic—the closing of the eyes, and finally, as if by command or celestial force, their lips would slowly, softly meet and they would push against one another until the act had produced the sufficient and expected ecstasy.

  All I’d wanted from Nameless Guy was a kiss.

  I’d wanted a chance to feel love, no matter how temporary or imaginary.

  The gin was talking. Screaming.

  We managed to make it back to his place and we weren’t in the door two minutes before I could read his libidinous mind. I wanted that slow-motion attack, the gazing, the eye fade, the lips, the pressing.

  This guy quick-stepped it over to me and instead of a brief embrace or a longing look, he grabbed m
y left breast and started swirling his finger around searching for my nipple, as though my boob was actually his sixth martini. I nudged his hand out of the way and hugged him, mostly to give him an opportunity to start again.

  He backed off and made a little progress by kissing my neck lightly, running his fingers through my hair. Then he whispered my name—or what my name was at the time. “Shelly…”

  I let him do it a few times, hoping it might work for me, but having paired my bogus name with his traversing my chest, along with the dreaded effects of the alcohol, I said this: “Call me… Melody.”

  Somehow, this made me naughty.

  Nameless Guy pulled back, smiled at me, and moaned softly. Then, suddenly returning to his impassioned search for one of my nipples, he muttered, “Yeah, babe… call me… Steeeeve.”

  Now I still consider him nameless because of the way he said Steve, like it was this highly forbidden thing. And the truth is, what bothered me most wasn’t that he was creepy, asking me to whisper some different name, but that he somehow found the name Steve to be lurid. It was throwing me off. I kept thinking, “Steve?” I mean, who was he fantasizing he was? Steve Carell? Steve Austin? Steve Buscemi? Each possibility was worse than the last.

  My interest was quickly retreating and, though sobering, I had just enough alcohol in me to say something totally moronic. “No, I want you to call me Melody because it’s my real name.”

  He smiled and moaned again and said, “Yeah, baby, I’ll call you Melody if you want.”

  I pushed him off but his hand remained superglued to my chest. You’d think he was searching for a wire or a wad of twenties.

  “My name is Melody.”

  He shook his head. “You told me your name was Shelly.” He laughed a little. “C’mon, no one names their kid Melody.”

  I took a deep breath and straightened out my clothes. “My parents did.”

  His tone changed as the mood of romance decidedly vanished. “Get real.”