The Passenger

by Lisa Lutz

  “Do you have it?” I said.

  “Yes, I have what you requested,” he said.

  “I don’t want to wait. Tell me now. What is my name?”

  “Amelia Keen.”

  “Am-me-li-a Ke-en.” I sounded it out slowly. Then I said it again, trying to decide whether it suited me. I thought it did. “That’s a good name.”

  “I’m so happy you’re pleased,” Mr. Oliver said in the tone of an automaton.

  “Who was she?”

  “Just a girl who died a year ago in a house fire. No one is collecting death benefits. She wasn’t married and didn’t have any children. She was twenty-seven when she passed, which makes you twenty-eight now.”

  “You got the age right. Form of ID?”

  “Social security and a passport without a photo. Do you have an address for me?”

  “Overnight the documents care of Jane Green to the Swan Lake Inn on Clyde Avenue in Norman, Oklahoma. Then wire five grand to Amelia Keen at the Western Union office on Clyde Avenue. I’m going to ditch my phone after this call, so everything better be in order.”

  “You—Ms. Keen,” he said. “I suppose you should start getting used to it.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Ms. Keen, be careful out there. If you get caught, you’re on your own.”

  “Wasn’t I always?”

  “You’ll have what you need tomorrow. I don’t expect we’ll need to speak again.”

  “I have one more favor I need to ask of you.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t try to kill me.”

  AMELIA KEEN. Amelia Keen. It was a name you could make something of. Maybe Amelia Keen had some ambition. Maybe she would go to college, learn another language. Amelia Keen could become a teacher, a businesswoman. Maybe she could fly airplanes, maybe become a doctor. Well, that was probably a stretch. But Amelia Keen could be educated. She could take up tennis or skiing; she could mingle with folks who did more than play pool at a bar every Saturday night. She could marry a man for more than his pretty last name.

  I walked down to the lobby of the Swan Lake Inn. I almost wanted to meet the misguided soul who’d named it, just to ask if he or probably she had bigger plans that had fallen through the cracks. It tried harder than the last fleabag motel, which made it somehow seem even more forsaken.

  I spoke to the desk clerk. She couldn’t have been older than nineteen. This didn’t look like a stop along the way—she was doing hard time at Swan Lake. You could tell from the way she clamped her mouth tight over her teeth that whatever dose of ambition she was dealt as a child she’d already squandered on booze and meth. She had checked me in without an ID, no problem. Her name tag said “Darla.” I’ve always been fond of name tags, since I’m terrible at remembering names. Or maybe I don’t see the point of learning someone’s name when I’ll just have to forget it later.

  “Hi, Darla,” I said. “How’s your day going?”

  “Good, Ms., Ms. . . .”

  “Jane Green.”

  “Right,” she said, pupils as unfocused as a blind man’s.

  “I’m expecting a package to come for me tomorrow. It’s really important. Can you call my room as soon as it arrives?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Darla said, writing herself a note.

  I gave her a twenty-dollar bill, even though she’d called me “ma’am.”

  I turned off my disposable cell, trashed it in a Dumpster outside the Swan Lake, and bought a new one at the corner convenience store. I strolled down the main drag, found another diner, and ordered a burger and fries. I made it clear to the waitress that I wasn’t into small talk. I avoided eye contact with every person who passed my way.

  Having no name is dangerous. One false step, someone discovers that you’re no one, and eventually they find out who you really are.

  I spent the night in the motel room, watching people on television pretend to be someone else. I realized I had to have a new personality, new mannerisms, inflections, likes, dislikes. I picked up the scratch pad and the cheap ballpoint pen by the bed and began jotting down character traits that I might try to shake.

  Tanya hated broccoli and avocados. She called everyone a bastard, even in a friendly way. Sometimes she just used it as a replacement for a name that had slipped her mind. Tanya had a tattoo on her ankle. Something stupid she got in high school. Tanya was always twisting her back or rubbing her shoulder, trying to align herself between adjustments. Every once in a while, she stole Frank’s pills—he had a bad knee. Unfortunately, Frank wasn’t much for sharing narcotics and was very good at basic math.

  I looked at the piece of paper on Tanya and thought how fucking dull this woman was. How lucky I was to be able to leave her behind. I found a book of matches at the bottom of my purse. Tanya’s purse. I ripped the page off the pad and set the corner on fire, dropped the ashes and last bit of flame into the toilet, and let her go.

  Then I scribbled some ideas for what Amelia Keen might be like. She’d have good posture. She’d look like someone who read books. She’d read books. Amelia was a good swimmer, but so was Tanya. Maybe Amelia should take up running. It might come in useful sometime. Maybe she was the kind of person who made friends easily. No, that wasn’t a good idea. One thing I knew for sure about Amelia Keen: she was a single woman and she was going to stay that way.

  DARLA CALLED me in the morning. The package had arrived. I tossed a sweater over my pajamas and rushed into the lobby, trying to swallow my adrenaline.

  Darla held out a large brown envelope. I forced a warm smile, said thank you, and made a swift departure.

  I got a paper cut rushing to unzip the seal with my index finger. A small dot of blood landed on my new birth certificate. Amelia Keen, born 3:32 a.m. on November 3, 1986, to George Arthur Keen and Marianne Louise Keen at Providence Hospital in Tacoma, Washington. A Scorpio. Powerful, magnetic, jealous, possessive, compulsive. My mother used to read charts obsessively. I never bought into it, mostly because I was a Pisces, which always sounded a lot like a jellyfish without the sting. But looking back, maybe that’s exactly what I was.

  Now I could change all of that. Change everything about myself that I didn’t like, starting with my hair. I had become a blonde a long time ago when I realized that men look at you differently when you burn the color out of your hair. I wondered how they’d look at me as a brunette. Maybe they wouldn’t look at me at all. It would be nice to be invisible for a while.

  I took the shears into the bathroom and took inventory of what I saw. A cheap dirty-blond dye job, hair too long to style, light brown eyes shaded by dark circles. I sliced a few inches off the bottom, into one straight even line. I had been cutting my own hair for years. Not because I was cheap or particularly good at it, but sitting in that chair, the hairstylist asking all those questions, always gave me a knot in my gut.

  I gave myself bangs, even though I knew the hair would tickle my forehead and drive me mad, but I already looked less like Tanya and more like Amelia. I mixed the auburn and brown together with the developer and began drawing lines on my scalp with the plastic bottle. After my hair was soaked in product, nostrils burning with chemicals, I checked my watch, slipped off the gloves, and turned on the television.

  There was a movie playing, set in a college. One of those old campuses, stone buildings with pillars and staircases everywhere. Students reclining lazily on the grass under the shade of hundred-year-old oak trees. I liked the way this one girl looked. She was trying to get people to sign some petition. I didn’t catch what it was all about. She was wearing faded blue jeans that seemed as soft as an old T-shirt, a white tank top, and a green army jacket; dog tags and a house key hung from her neck. She looked like she didn’t care what anyone thought of her. And she looked really comfortable. At the bar I always wore dresses or skirts and impractical shoes that took bites out of my feet. Amelia Keen wasn’t going to wear anything that hurt her.

  I washed out the sticky dye and dried my hair, leaving dark s
tains on the sandpaper-rough motel towel. I combed out my new ’do and sharpened the flat line of the bangs, snipping a few wayward strands. I slid into an old pair of blue jeans and a navy blue sweatshirt, stuffed the rest of my clothes into my suitcase, and left Swan Lake a different woman. A brown-haired, brown-eyed woman. Five foot six, one hundred and twenty-five pounds, mid to late twenties. I looked like so many women you’ve seen before I doubt you could’ve picked me out of a lineup.

  I DROVE to a photo shop and had my passport photos taken.

  “Don’t smile,” the photographer said. It was the first time I could remember that I wanted to.

  While I was waiting for the photos to be developed, I drove to a stationery store and bought a laminating sheet. Then I went to a drugstore and bought a razor blade, a baseball cap, red lipstick, black eyeliner, and mascara. No blush. Amelia Keen didn’t have a rosy glow. I returned to the photo shop to collect my pictures. I set to work on my passport in the backseat of my stale Buick. I used a tiny dot of glue to keep my photo in place on the blank passport. I placed it on top of my hard-shell suitcase for the next step. I took a clear sticky laminating sheet and poised it over the page. My hands shook some and I waited until I got my nerves in check; I had one chance to get this right. I laid down the laminate in one clean, even motion. I used the back of the razor blade to sweep away the air bubbles. Then I sliced around the edges until the passport lifted up from the suitcase.

  I looked over my handiwork and was satisfied. Probably wouldn’t pass customs, but I had no intention of flying anywhere.

  Next, I found a thrift store. Bought more denim and plain button-down shirts. One checked, one plaid. I tracked down an army surplus store and got a green jacket like I saw that girl in the movie wear. While I was there I picked up a pair of size-eight combat boots. I bought cheap underwear. Amelia Keen would spring for something nicer when she had a job. I tossed Tanya Dubois’s suitcase in a Dumpster behind a gas station. For a moment I let myself reminisce over the last time I threw away my life. It hurt back then; I didn’t feel it much the second time around.

  I slid back into the Buick and checked myself in the rearview mirror. I painted my lips bright red. It was my one indulgence in vanity.

  I drove to the Western Union office and parked across the street. Maybe I could just walk into the money store, flash my shiny new ID, and get out clean. But I’d just committed light extortion and my victim, so to speak, might have had other plans besides a simple payoff. I’m not a cop, a private investigator, ex-military, or a mercenary. I’m an almost-average civilian with no special surveillance skills to speak of. I don’t know how you evade a pursuer. I only had basic logic and a strong survival instinct, and the feeling that maybe this transaction wouldn’t go down as seamlessly as I would like.

  I scoped the vicinity around the Western Union storefront. Behind the glass doors there appeared to be three people besides the employees—two men, one woman, as far as I could tell. My Buick was parked between a Range Rover and an Audi. A middle-aged man was smoking a cigarette in the black Range Rover. The Audi, I noticed, had out-of-state plates. In an old Thunderbird in front of the shop, a man, maybe in his twenties, leaned back in his seat, sunglasses on. Looked maybe like he was sleeping, but that would be a good cover.

  I could sit and wait and see what happened next. But if they were professionals they’d probably outlast me. And I couldn’t stomach sitting in this sour, musty car much longer. If I looked a man in the eye, I’d know his intent. I wasn’t always like that, but I’d learned over time. I shoved my hair into the baseball cap, put on a pair of sunglasses, and walked right over to the Range Rover.

  The man saw me as I approached. He rolled down his window when he realized I wasn’t moving on.

  “Hello, sir.”

  “Good afternoon . . . miss?”

  I think the boy’s clothes, hair tucked in the baseball cap, and lipstick threw him off.

  “Are you planning on killing me?” I asked.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I think that was a pretty straightforward question,” I said.

  “Why would I want to kill you? Is this some kind of joke?” The Range Rover man was clearly taken aback, scared even.

  “Relax. Just asking a very simple question. All you have to do is answer it and then I’ll be on my way.”

  “No, I don’t want to kill you.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “That’s very good news. Have a nice day.”

  I strolled past his car and walked up to the corner. I heard his engine turn over and watched him angle out of the parking spot and drive off. There was only one other possible attacker. The sleeping sunglasses guy. I walked across the street and knocked on his window. Either he was an excellent actor or I woke the man from a deep slumber.

  He rolled down the window, tipped his sunglasses onto the edge of his nose, and looked me over with tired, hooded eyes.

  “Can I help you, miss?” he said, a frog in his throat.

  “Do you know me?” I asked.

  “Huh?”

  “Do I look familiar in any way?” Surely my would-be killer would have a photo to go by.

  “Did Clara send you?” the recently awakened man asked.

  He was not my killer.

  “Excuse me, I was mistaken,” I said as I walked away.

  “Tell Clara it’s over!” the recently awakened man shouted after me.

  I spun in a circle outside the store. Nothing struck me as suspicious. I could leave without the cash, or take the risk and start my life off right as Amelia Keen. I strolled into the Western Union store, waited in line, collected my money, and walked outside. I returned to the Buick and drove ten miles, looking in the rearview mirror more than the road in front of me. I pulled the car onto the shoulder, collected all of my recently purchased possessions, and walked half a mile, with my luggage in tow, to another used car lot. I bought a half-decent, decade-old Toyota Camry for $4,950 cash. Technically, Tanya Pitts bought it for Amelia Keen, since Amelia didn’t yet have a driver’s license. I put my possessions in the trunk and drove off the lot, not stopping for the next four hours.

  Driving seventy after night fell, I felt this internal shift, almost as if my DNA were restructuring itself. I could feel Tanya Pitts-Dubois’s death. She was where she had always been, was always supposed to be. I was now Amelia Keen.

  October 22, 2005

  To: Ryan

  From: Jo

  I know I’m breaking an unspoken rule by writing to you, but no one has to know unless you tell them. You’ve kept some secrets pretty well. I’m hoping you can keep this one. Maybe you’re surprised to hear from me. I’m surprised I’m writing. I haven’t quite gotten the hang of this new life. Some days I honestly think about coming home and accepting my fate. I can’t tell that to anyone here, so I’m telling you. You’re the only person who really knows me. Knows what I’ve done and what I haven’t done. I think that’s why I’m so surprised by what you did. But I’m not writing to punish you. I’m writing because I’m lonely.

  I miss home, I miss Edie, although I don’t miss the look she gave me the last time I saw her. When I’m feeling generous, I miss my mother. I miss you, mostly. I miss you all of the time even though the rational part of my brain tells me I should hate you. There were many different ways I imagined our future playing out. In some variations you ended up with someone else. It never occurred to me that I might not see you again. But that’s the truth, isn’t it? One day you’ll have gray hair or no hair, but I’ll only remember the boy. Do you ever think about those things?

  I don’t want to talk about what happened. I guess I just want to know how everyone is doing. How their lives are turning out. You can call it curiosity, nostalgia, homesickness, or just plain sickness. I miss knowing people. I don’t know anyone anymore. And no one knows me.

  Please break the rules and write back. I just want to hear about what I’m missing. Maybe you’ll tell me there’s nothing to miss. Maybe I got out
of that town before it turned into a junkyard.

  I think that’s all.

  Jo

  November 2, 2005

  To: Jo

  From: Ryan

  Your e-mail practically gave me a heart attack. But it also got my attention. That was the point, wasn’t it? You knew I was going to write back, but you also know that this is a bad idea for so many reasons. I had hoped that maybe you’d found a place that suited you. I even had a notion that maybe you were happier there than here. I suppose I just wanted to ease my conscience. I’m sorry about how things turned out. I know that you’ll never understand what I did. Sometimes I don’t understand it. But if you asked me to make that choice again today, I’d do it the same way.

  I still love you and I still miss you. When I let myself think about you. I don’t let myself do that too often. A few months ago, I started pretending that you had died. There’s an unmarked grave behind St. Gabriel’s Church. I pretend it’s yours. I pick flowers from that meadow behind the high school and I pay my respects. It sounds sick, I know. But you were there and then you were gone and I had to grieve in some way. I really did think I’d never hear from you again.

  If you think it’ll help keep your head straight, I’ll tell you about home. But, remember, you need to keep your head straight.

  I don’t socialize as much as I used to, so this is all I know: Nelly is engaged to Brad Fox. That enormous mole on his forehead is now gone. They’re demolishing that run-down apartment building on Green Street and building upscale condos. The gentrification of Bilman has begun. Edie is back in town. She decided to take a year off before college. The girl-most-likely-to-succeed is working full-time at her father’s hardware store. I saw Jason Lyons once over the summer. He asks too many questions. If you ever think of contacting anyone, please don’t. We’re all hanging from a ledge right now.

  I know you want to hear about your mother. She’s the same. Not any worse, if that makes you feel better. I think she’s seeing a guy. He’s better than the last one from the looks of him. I haven’t seen her with any bruises lately. That’s the kind of stuff you want to know, right?