The Passenger

by Lisa Lutz

  If I had to do it over again, I probably would. But I would do it knowing that the person I used to be, the person I dreamed of returning to, was completely gone. It wasn’t as simpleminded as a shift from good to bad. I wasn’t evil. But some kind of disease was spreading in my gut, and eventually it would take over my entire body. I hadn’t yet realized anyone could see it from the outside.

  “Did you hear about Earl?” a customer with a handlebar mustache asked the owner.

  “No. What?”

  “Got caught in some kind of animal trap at Camp Wildacre.”

  “What was he doing there?”

  “Hunting with Gary and Lou and I think Mike.”

  “Who set the trap?” the bartender asked.

  “They say a teenage boy, probably a runaway, had set up camp there. When Earl got caught, the kid made a run for it. They got a partial license plate number, but Mike doesn’t want to call it in because you ain’t supposed to be hunting at Wildacre.”

  “Do they think the kid set the trap?” the bartender asked.

  “That’s what Gary figures. He might be one of those paranoid kids, the kind that blow up schools.”

  “Sounds like he just set a trap,” said the bartender. “Maybe he was hoping for some venison for supper.”

  “Who the hell knows? Kids today.”

  My Jeep was parked outside, with the partial license plate right on display and dotted with bullet craters. I didn’t think I looked like a teenage boy up close, but I finished my beer and got out of there.

  As I drove back to the Frazier home, I pulled onto the shoulder of the road a couple of times to let cars pass me by, even slow ones hauling tractors. There wasn’t a single witness as my car pulled into the private drive of my secret home.

  AFTER TWO and a half weeks of keeping house in the Frazier cottage, I’d come to feel as if I knew them, knew the whole family. Subtle clues were strewn about—organic cleaning supplies, the denuded garden beds in the backyard, and of course their incoherent movie collection. A woodshed stood behind the house. It took me five hours to find the key for the padlock. It was a small art studio where Mr. or Mrs. Frazier painted amateur landscapes. They weren’t half-bad to my eye, but what I found intriguing was that none of them had been hung inside the house. There was humility to that, which I respected. Behind a stack of paintings I found an aborted attempt at a portrait of Toby.

  I went to the library one day and searched “Toby Frazier suicide.” I read an article in his college paper about his death. Friends and family described Toby as a reserved but kindhearted young man. Sensitive. His suicide happened on the heels of a breakup with a girl. She was unnamed. He was survived by his fraternal twin brother, Thomas, a Yale sophomore, and his parents, Gina, a math teacher in Manhattan, and Leonard Frazier, an investment banker.

  That was the last time I looked into the private lives of the Fraziers. I left the rest of the letters unopened in their box, although I felt them calling to me every night.

  Sometimes I thought I could feel the sadness in the house, as if I knew the Fraziers personally. After two and a half weeks of living in their home, I no longer felt like an intruder. I was simply a houseguest staying for an indeterminate period of time. I treated the home with respect. I washed dishes after every meal, dusted on occasion. Washed the floors and cleaned the bathroom at least once a week. I even scrubbed down the windows, which I was fairly certain they would notice once they returned. But it seemed like the right thing to do.

  As with anything, I adjusted. I’d adjusted to being on the run; I’d adjusted to a new name, and another new name; I’d adjusted to being a liar; I’d adjusted to being a thief; I’d even adjusted to being a murderer. It wasn’t that hard to adjust to a new home. I had even begun sleeping through the night. I was sleeping as if this life I led was perfectly ordinary. I was Sonia Lubovich, houseguest of Gina and Len Frazier, until I woke up one night and I was someone else.

  Paige

  Chapter 21

  * * *

  HELLO? Hello? Is anybody in here? Hello?”

  I didn’t wake as the car traveled up the winding driveway; the Prius might have stirred some gravel, but the engine was as quiet as a mouse. I didn’t wake when she put the key in the lock; I didn’t wake when she quietly shut the door behind her. But when her foot hit the floorboard in the entryway, I shot straight up in bed, adrenaline pumping too fast for my lungs to catch up.

  The bathroom had a window without a screen. If I ran right then and crawled outside, she wouldn’t see me. My bag with my wallet and cash was at the foot of the bed, but the keys to my Jeep sat on the desk in the front hallway. I wouldn’t make it far on foot, and I was at least ten miles from any form of civilization.

  “Hello?” she said again.

  “Hello?” I said.

  I was still working on the next thing I would say when Gina Frazier entered the bedroom. She resembled her photo in so many ways—the same practical haircut, the strong bones of her face, the sturdy physique—and yet she also looked like someone else. Her eyes had deep pools under them. In the dim glow of moonlight, she looked haunted. For a brief moment I found her terrifying.

  “Paige, is that you?”

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  She stepped closer, her eyes adjusting to the dark, trying to make me out in the dim light. She wasn’t afraid. She knew me, or thought she knew me.

  “I thought you were coming next week,” she said.

  “No. This week.”

  “Did you get all of your things?” Gina asked.

  “I think so. Thank you. Should I go?”

  “It’s late, Paige. Where will you go?”

  “A motel. Anywhere,” I said.

  “It’s fine,” Gina said coldly. “You can stay the night.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Frazier.”

  “Mrs. Frazier? Really?”

  “Gina,” I said hesitantly as I crawled out of bed. “I’ll take the couch. You sleep here.”

  “That’s very kind of you,” she said unkindly. “But I’m not quite ready for bed. I’m going to make some tea,” Gina said, leaving the bedroom.

  I followed Gina into the kitchen and living area, where she turned on the kettle. She wrapped her coat tightly around her body and strolled over to the thermostat.

  “It’s freezing in here. Why didn’t you turn up the heat?”

  “I wanted it to be like I had never been here,” I said.

  “Interesting,” she said as she cranked up the thermostat.

  I could hear the boiler kicking on in the basement, sending vibrations through the entire house, matching the thrumming of my nerves.

  I was standing aimlessly in the middle of the room. These days I saw every challenge in the form of a map, my mind traveling different routes to find my way out. With Gina, I kept hitting dead ends.

  “Sit down,” she said. “You’re making me nervous.”

  I sat on the couch.

  “I’m surprised you don’t have hypothermia,” she said.

  I was cold. But it was always warmer than the camp. And the Fraziers had hot water.

  “I was fine,” I said.

  Gina kicked off her shoes and curled up on the other end of the couch. She looked at me again, tilting her head at different angles.

  “You look different. I guess it’s the haircut,” she said.

  She had seen this Paige before, I guessed. I was fairly certain that if she turned on an overhead light, she’d know immediately that I was a fraud. I tried to modulate my expression, but I had so many other things to keep in mind, like gathering my cash and my keys and making a run for it, that I doubt I had much control over my facial muscles. I must have looked confused, because she clarified.

  “I made him show me a picture once. Your hair was long.”

  I’d gotten pretty solid at being anyone other than myself, but Paige was proving more difficult than the others. Who was Paige?

  “I cut it,” I said.

 
“You sure did,” Gina said knowingly. “Women do very strange things over men.”

  “I was drunk,” I said.

  “Ah,” she said.

  Gina spotted the family photo facedown on the mantel. She got up from the couch and righted it. She sat down, lifted her eyes to mine, and gave me an inscrutable gaze. I turned away.

  “How have you been?” I asked because it was the kind of question I thought Paige, or someone who knew something of Gina’s life, might ask. I also asked because I wanted to know.

  “How do you think I am?”

  “I guess that was a stupid question.”

  “It was an especially stupid question for you to ask,” she said.

  “I assume you came here to be alone,” I said.

  “I came here to get away from my husband.”

  “Why?”

  “I can’t manage his guilt and my own,” Gina said.

  The constant edge to her tone was chipping away at all those friendly feelings I’d felt toward the woman before I knew her. She had looked kinder in the photos.

  The kettle whistled. Gina jumped, startled. Her nerves might have been as raw as mine. She walked over to the stove.

  “Would you like a cup of tea?” she asked in an oddly professional tone.

  “Okay.”

  “Peppermint or chamomile?”

  “Peppermint.”

  She poured two mugs of tea, passed me my cup, and sat back down in the same spot.

  “I wanted to meet you,” Gina said. “Len didn’t think it was a good idea.”

  “I wanted to meet you too.”

  “Liar.”

  I didn’t know what to say to that. I sipped my tea and burned my tongue.

  “Where are you going for Thanksgiving?” she asked.

  For the last eight years we’d had an “orphan dinner” at Dubois’. That was always the worst day of the year for me, including Christmas and my fake birthday.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “You?”

  “We’ll be at my sister’s,” Gina said.

  “That sounds nice.”

  No one said anything for a while. We drank our tea and I tried to look for an excuse to depart in the middle of the night.

  “Do you feel guilty?” Gina asked.

  “All of the time,” I said.

  “Good.”

  The radiator made a clanking sound, like an out-of-tune musical instrument. I could feel the heat coming into the room, but her response sent chills through me. My best guess was that Paige was the unnamed girlfriend of the dead son, the girl who broke up with Toby right before he killed himself. I stared blankly at Gina.

  “It wasn’t all your fault. I know that,” she said.

  “Wasn’t it?” I said.

  What reason did Paige have to visit the cabin?

  “How did you two meet?” Gina asked.

  “He never told you?” I said.

  “I never inquired.”

  “Right.”

  “So how did you meet?”

  The woman in front of me had a darkness and cruelty that I hadn’t seen in a long while. Being the recipient of this kind of grief and anger reminded me of things, of people, I’d just as soon have forgotten.

  How did Paige meet Toby?

  “In a bar,” I said. I could have said a party, but she might have asked whose party. I could have said class, but then I’d have been foiled by specifics.

  “In a bar,” Gina repeated as if it left a bad taste in her mouth.

  “It’s a cliché, I suppose.”

  “The whole thing is a cliché.”

  Her voice was as sharp as the tip of a sword. Her eyes narrowed into dark crescents as she looked at me searchingly.

  “What did he see in you?”

  I didn’t know why she was asking that question, but it felt all too familiar. I used to ask myself what he saw in me. Later I had to ask the more important question: what did I ever see in him?

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “You must have amazing tits,” she said.

  “What?”

  Her words felt like a whiplash. I didn’t know who I was supposed to be anymore.

  “There’s nothing else to you, besides youth. You’re just a shell. You seem empty inside, as if your personality has been hijacked.”

  I felt like I was being clawed from the inside out. My face flushed deep crimson and my eyes welled with tears. I went into the bedroom and began to dress. I could no longer impersonate a real human being without carving out the last chunk of my old self and leaving it behind. Everything Gina said to me was true, even though she was talking to someone else. She followed me into the bedroom and watched me dress.

  “Are you leaving?” she said, as if surprised.

  “Yes.”

  “I said you could stay.”

  “It’s all right. I should go.”

  I shoved all of my clothes into my bag, searched the house for anything incriminating that I might have left behind. Two words repeated over and over in my head. Get. Out. I took the key to the cabin off of the ring and left it on the desk. I turned and looked back at Gina as I opened the front door.

  “I’m sorry about everything.”

  “What are you sorry for?” she said, this time with genuine curiosity.

  “I’m sorry about your son,” I said.

  “My son? Why? You didn’t know him.”

  Was she speaking figuratively? Maybe I wasn’t who I thought I was. I stepped onto the porch. My Jeep was only a few steps away. All I had to do was walk ten paces and I’d be free.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” I said as I stepped off of the porch.

  “That’s what you’re sorry for?”

  “I’m sorry for so many things,” I said.

  “Are you sorry you fucked my husband?”

  I tripped on the last step. Once I got my legs under me again, I turned back to Gina. Her face was as still as the stonework around her home. She saw me as her enemy, but I couldn’t return the favor. I had stolen her hospitality for over three weeks. I figured I owed her, and I didn’t have much to give. So I gave her all I had.

  “I’m sorry I fucked your husband,” I said.

  “Thank you,” she said as she stepped back inside and closed the door.

  Jo

  Chapter 22

  * * *

  THE clock in my truck read 3:05 a.m. as I pulled onto Maple Lane. I had no place I needed to be or wanted to go. I was awake now. Wide awake. I had to keep moving, keep driving. My hands needed something to grip or they’d turn into fists looking for a target to swing at. I followed the country road until it spat me out on Route 9. I turned right, heading north. Plenty of miles stretched ahead of me before I’d hit the Canadian border.

  By morning, I was in the foothills of the Adirondack Mountains. I’d stopped just once overnight at a gas station to fuel up, use the restroom, and buy a bottle of water. I drove another two hours. When dawn broke, the glare on my windshield blinded me. I pulled into the parking lot of a small grocery store, Walt’s Market. I leaned the seat all the way back, covered my eyes with my jacket, and tried to sleep.

  Three quick raps on the window woke me. I pulled the jacket off my head and saw a police officer standing by the truck. He motioned for me to roll down the window. I did.

  “Good morning,” he said. His eyes were hidden behind aviator sunglasses.

  “Good morning,” I said as I tilted the seat upright.

  “How are you doing this morning, ma’am?”

  “Fine, thank you.”

  “Do you know how long you’ve been parked here?”

  The clock on the dashboard read 11:24 a.m.

  “I’m sorry. I just stopped to rest my eyes.”

  “I got a call from Walt. That’s his store over there. Walt wanted to make sure you were okay. You’ve been parked here for four hours.”

  “I didn’t realize it was that long. I’ll be on my way.”

  “Where are you hea
ded?”

  “I was just taking a drive, seeing the sights.”

  “You from around here?”

  “No,” I said, in case he asked for ID. Where was Sonia Lubovich from again? “Indiana.”

  “What brings you to New York?”

  “I’m visiting an aunt in Red Hook,” I said, in case he asked for registration. The car was still registered under the name Mildred Hensen of Red Hook, New York.

  I was plain fucked if he asked for proof of insurance.

  “I hope you enjoy your stay,” he said.

  “Thank you.”

  He started to walk away, then turned back.

  “Sure you got enough shut-eye?” the officer asked.

  “I’m awake now,” I said.

  The officer returned to his squad car. He made a right turn out of the parking lot onto Route 9. I took a left, beating a return path on the same road I’d traveled all night long.

  My run-in with Gina had left my mind jumbled and confused. I felt like I was roaming unfamiliar grounds in a blackout. My only plan was the same old plan: find another mark with a vacation home and remain an uninvited guest until circumstances caused my eviction. I didn’t have a plan for money, which was running dangerously low; I didn’t have a plan for becoming someone else, someone who could exist in a real way in this world. I most certainly didn’t have a plan for how I was going to live the next forty or so years of my life.

  With the way things were going, though, a full life seemed unlikely. As I drove, even knowing the exact road I was on and where it would lead, I felt more lost than I had that first time I left anyplace, so many years ago, without any idea of what the future might hold.

  I decided to take a detour to Saratoga Springs. The air outside was cold and wintry. I roamed the town for a while, pretending to be a regular tourist. I didn’t turn any suspicious heads. Christmas lights were strangling street signs and dangling across roadways. When I figured out what day it was, I realized it was only five days to Thanksgiving.