Siri, Who Am I?

by Sam Tschida

  I call my mom back. “Uh, Mom, it might not be the best time for us to hang out right now…”

  “Why?”

  I think about making up an excuse—I have to leave in a hurry, or I would prefer to visit her or…I have a headache. I can’t come up with any good reason, though, so I go with the truth. “I was caught up with some bad people and I think it would be best if we catch up in a couple of hours or even tomorrow morning.”

  In the background, I hear the engine of her car roar to life. “I’m coming to get you, honey.”

  At this point, there’s nothing to do but invite the police, too.

  62 Pretty sure I didn’t go to college. Writing an essay seems like a stretch.

  63 Don’t overthink walking out on JP this morning, Mia!

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-FIVE

  The music is pulsing and the lights are dim. One girl is doing a half-assed routine on the stripper walk for a single customer. It’s like an episode of The Sopranos, except in this version I’m Tony Soprano—and I’m about to host an impromptu gathering with my mom and a drug kingpin. Either way, I guess a strip club is as good a venue as any. At least there’s liquor. And lots of it.

  Officer Denise explains, “I’m going to be in the dressing room listening in, so if you need me, I’ll be just a second away.”

  “Try to get a selfie with the girls, would you?” I so want to post that picture on my Instagram tour of honesty. “Or is there some departmental policy against that?”

  She ignores me. “Ask him questions. Get him to talk about reasons that Crystal might be scared. If we can get a confession out of him…” She takes a breath, as if putting Kobra away tonight will save the world a heap of trouble.

  Maybe we can take a selfie after. An honest one.

  “Don’t worry. I’m going to keep you ladies safe,” she reassures me.

  I nod appreciatively and smile. I’m not going to rule it out or anything, but dying isn’t my number-one concern tonight. It never is. That’d be no way to live.

  Mostly, I’m preparing for the coming awkwardness. My mom—who knows what she’s even like. Trailer trash is my number one guess, based on me. I feel like I’m always trying a little too hard, which smacks of someone who wasn’t born into money.

  “Do you think I have a dad in the picture?” I ask Crystal. Denise is there too.

  “No,” she says authoritatively. “You have daddy issues. He’s either gone or an asshole. Do you know what your mom looks like?”

  Trailer trash with daddy issues sounds about right. “I’m expecting a lot of wrinkly cleavage, platinum hair, at least twelve rings on her fingers, some on her toes, neon-green short shorts, skinny-ass legs, and a smoker’s cough. Basically me in twenty years.”

  Crystal laughs. “What’s the matter with you?”

  I fan myself with a menu. “I’m sorry. This whole situation just has me sort of amped.” I don’t know what to do with my energy. My life has been insane since I woke up in the hospital, but this takes it to a new level. Luckily, if Kobra and my mom take long enough to arrive, I might be able to settle down a little. Now I know how I react to situations that I can’t control—I get hyper.

  Exactly twenty minutes after Denise sets me up with a vape pen fitted with a recording device, the door of the club opens and a patch of bright sunlight slants through the room, obscuring my view. My eyes have adjusted to the dark, windowless space so I can’t tell if it’s Kobra, my mom, or a regular old customer.

  When the door shuts with a heavy thud and the light is gone, I recognize the woman immediately. She’s Martha Stewart–level classy, but in yoga clothes. I whisper, more to myself than to Crystal, “Holy shit. I know her.”

  Crystal sighs and puts her hand over mine. “We all know our mamas, don’t we?” She looks all sentimental so I don’t tell her that I recognize my mother from photographs, not from my heart.

  It’s Lauren Montcalm.

  The woman married to Frederick Montcalm is my mother.

  I wasn’t having an affair with Frederick. I’m not a gold digger (at least in this instance)—my mom is!64

  She walks tentatively into the club. When her eyes adjust to the darkness and lock onto mine, she doesn’t smile. She breathes out slow and long. “Mia. Oh my God.”

  I walk slowly toward her. Is she happy to see me? Was she worried? She’s standing stock-still, her posture perfect, her expression inscrutable.

  “When the housekeeper said you’d been by the house, I thought you were just there to ask for money again. I’m so sorry.”

  When I explain that I lost my memory, her face softens and she says, “I’m sorry. Can I give you a hug?”

  “Of course.” What kind of fucked-up relationship do we have that she has to ask for a hug?

  When she wraps her arms around me she holds on tight for a very long time, tighter than necessary. My shoulder gets damp from tears, which is surreal. She’s reconnecting with her estranged daughter, a lifetime of love, failed expectations, and hurt between them. For my part, I’m a mannequin standing in for the daughter.

  “Why don’t you two ladies sit down and I’ll grab you both a glass of wine?” Crystal says.

  I mouth, “Thank you” at Crystal and she disappears behind the bar, her butt wiggling in a G-string. She returns, in a satin robe this time, with two glasses and a bottle. She says, “Just so you two know, we’re coming up to happy hour. I mean, it’s not gonna get real busy but it’s a strip club, so…”

  I steer my mom toward a high-top table and give her the highlight reel of my life since Tuesday.

  “I feel so bad. You came to that party to see me.”

  I can feel my eyes go silver-dollar-pancake big. I must be thinking about pancakes because I’m with my mom, though I suspect she doesn’t make them. She and Frederick definitely have a chef.

  “You apologized. You wanted to introduce me to your boyfriend.”

  JP. She would have loved him.

  “But I didn’t want to hear it. I thought it was just you upstaging my show, and my therapist wants me to focus more on me.”

  “How long has it been since things were…like this?”

  She takes a heavy breath. “Years. I married Frederick when you were in high school, maybe ten years ago. I thought things would get better, but…they didn’t.”

  I give her space to finish her story. She’s emotional. For my part, I’m just filling in details.65

  The DJ makes a loud announcement: “Our next dancer might be named Crystal, but she’s a real gem, a genuine jewel. This gem’s gots bills to pay so pull out your wallets and give it up for CRYSTAL!” He turns up the bump-and-grind music and Crystal struts out. She looks my way and mouths “Sorry” before she starts shimmying and running her hands up and down her body.

  My mom’s back is to the stage and she doesn’t turn around. “You started ditching school more after Frederick moved in.”

  High school flunky, adult con artist—everything is adding up. There is probably a reason my mom isn’t surprised to find me in a strip club—she probably saw this coming.

  “You only graduated from high school because Frederick donated some money. College was a no-go. Pretty soon you stopped coming around and when you did you were…not yourself.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say. Crystal, on the other hand, has nothing to apologize for. Right behind my mom, Crystal crawls on all fours across the stage and starts stroking the pole suggestively and makes a move like she’s going to lick it. Someone yells, “Lick it before you climb it, baby!”

  “What?” my mom yells. “I can’t hear over the music.”

  From what I can hear, it seems like communication between us has been bad for years. Crystal is pulling herself up the pole. Her upper body strength is off the charts.

  “I’m sorry,” I repeat. I’m gues
sing I have a side to the story, too, but at the moment, it doesn’t matter to me. “I don’t know what happened before, but I could really use a mom now.”

  The waterworks really break loose for both of us. Through her tears, she says, “Of course. Frederick is pretty much not there anymore—dementia. You don’t have to worry about him.”

  Crystal must have caught on that our conversation is going well and she smiles big at me from the pole.

  “What?”

  “Dementia!” she yells.

  I’m starting to get the impression that Frederick was a perv—and that my mom didn’t always side with me.

  “I’m sorry that I wouldn’t talk to you at the art gala. My therapist has been telling me that I need to establish healthy boundaries.” Crystal slides down the pole upside down and my jaw drops.

  Mostly, holy shit, Crystal! But also, my mom’s therapist comment makes me wonder. Are her “healthy boundaries” impermeable?

  “Your therapist?” A man’s voice cuts into the conversation, and Kobra sidles up to the table. His shirt is open to show off his python tattoo, as per usual. He’s strapped and there’s a big knife on his belt. Creepy as all get out, he says, “Boundaries are important. Some people don’t know when to stop.”

  Funny coming from him…

  “My therapist never shuts up about boundaries,” he says.

  Other people’s boundaries, I assume. “You go to therapy, Kobra?”

  He chuckles. “It’s California. Everyone goes to therapy. I got things I can’t talk to the homies about.” He takes a slow up-and-down look at my mom.

  “I’m Lauren Montcalm. Mia’s mother,” she says formally.

  “I’m Kobra. With a K. I’m one of her clients.”

  It sounds like “With a K” is his last name.

  “Clients?” My mom clearly thinks he’s a john. She can’t take her eyes off of his snake tattoo.

  “For the matchmaking service.” I lean heavily on the word matchmaking. “Actually, Mom, I hate to break this off but I really need to talk to Kobra and I don’t want to make you sit through it. Can we catch up again soon?”

  My mom looks at Kobra and then back to me and says, “No, I’m staying as long as he is.”

  Crystal, thank God, hustles over to the table. “Lauren,” she says, “I was wondering if you want a tour of the club?” I don’t think her outfit helps convince my mom that we’re not prostitutes.

  “Crystal!” Kobra gives her stripper outfit a once-over. “What are you doing here? I thought you were an actress,” he says. But he stands and reaches out for her.

  Then he looks at me and tips his hat. “You charged me thirty-five grand to go out with a stripper from this joint?” He starts laughing. “You crafty bitch.”

  “Fuck you, Kobra,” Crystal says, practically stabbing him in the chest with one of her fake nails.

  My mom’s eyes go huge. I don’t think she’s been out of Laguna Beach recently.

  “Don’t worry, baby. You’re still my girl. If you can shake your booty, who am I to complain?”

  Crystal cringes and makes a vomiting noise. “If you think you got a shot with me, think again. No way in hell am I shaking my booty for you.”

  “Baby, you can’t blame me for that. Sheba was hungry and I wasn’t watching. Those things happen. It was an accident.”

  “You have a twenty-foot hell-snake in a cage next to your TV and crates of drugs.” She takes her attitude to full power. “Is that even the first time she killed someone?”

  My mom gasps, but Kobra ignores her. “Pedro musta been messing with her. He was high as fuck.”

  I can see it now. Pedro was passed out in the corner and Kobra let his python out to impress Crystal.

  “It’s illegal to own those things. You should be in jail.”

  “Baby, you don’t understand. That snake’s an easy keeper. All you have to do is feed her once a month.”

  “Feed her what, your friends?”

  “Pedro wasn’t a friend.”

  “Like that makes it okay to feed him to your snake.”

  Kobra makes a face that suggests he thinks it was probably okay. “The snake always knows best. It’s just a miracle that she didn’t eat you. I think God was with us that day. She always spares the true and righteous.”

  The bootylicious—because let’s get real, Kobra.66

  Crystal gives him an are you crazy? look and says, “You know what I think, Kobra?”

  We already know what Crystal thinks based on the tone of her voice.

  I look at my mom and mouth, “Sorry,” as if I’m serving her a luncheon and I burned the chicken. This isn’t how I’d plan a reunion, but it’s an accurate representation of my life. The closer I get to my true identity, the more chaotic and insane things get. It’s no wonder I ended up in a coma.

  My mom doesn’t respond. She’s as still as a field mouse, waiting for the whole thing to blow over. I wonder if that’s how she approached my teen years…

  “You know what I think?” Crystal repeats. “I think you’re overcompensating for something with that twenty-foot snake.”

  He looks truly hurt. “How about we go in the back and you can find out for yourself.”

  “In your dreams.”

  This is going to play really well in court. They’ve gone over death by snake at least twice. Denise must think so too because she chooses this moment to storm out. “Kobra,” she says in a cop voice, “you have the right to remain silent. You have the right to an attorney. If you can’t afford one, one will be provided to you.”

  Does anyone ever listen to the Miranda warning besides lawyers? I’m taping it so Denise better get it right.

  At that, Kobra bolts, and Crystal cheers, “Get him, girl!”

  Denise unholsters her gun and takes off after him. “Don’t run. We have you surrounded.” Then she talks into her radio, just like a cop on TV. “Suspect approaching the front door.”

  Sure enough, when Kobra opens the door, another cop is waiting. That cop shouts, “Stop!” and raises his gun. My mom has hit the floor and is hiding under the table.67

  Kobra makes a move like he’s going to run anyway, but Denise walks up behind him and tases the shit out of him. I wish I’d gotten that job.

  “God, maybe I should be a cop,” Crystal says. “I think I would have shot him, though.”

  “You should be a cop,” I say. “If it doesn’t work being Mrs. JulesBrand Underwear.”

  She laughs. “I’m getting us a drink.”

  My mom is still cowering under the table, sweating through her yoga clothes. “Mia…” She obviously doesn’t know what she wants to say.

  I give her a hand up. “I’m super sorry about that. I really couldn’t back out of the meeting with Kobra.” It’s true. “And I think it ended up going really well. Crystal got a great confession out of him.” Today is going great! “Thanks so much for hanging in there.” She doesn’t say anything so I say, “He didn’t respect the boundary I set, so we had to get serious.”

  I think my therapy joke is funny but she doesn’t laugh. Maybe she will when she gets home and replays the whole afternoon in her mind. “I think I’m ready to go home now,” she says. “Do you want to come with me? Are you safe?”

  “Thanks so much, but I think I’d better stay.” I look around at the chaos. “The police probably want to talk to me.” And I still need to hand over my vape pen with a bug in it.

  My mom looks relieved and I can’t blame her. “Next time, let’s meet somewhere else.” She leans in. “I don’t know who pushed you into the Cupid sculpture, Mia, but there was a hashtag for the event. You might want to look on social media to see if anything jogs your memory.”

  Apparently my mom also thinks like an Instagram sleuth. “Thanks for the tip, Mom. You name the place, and I’ll be there.” Before she
leaves I snap a selfie of the two of us. She looks beautiful, if a little shell-shocked.

  Mostly I’m happy because there will be a next meeting. I have a mom and I’m ready to craft a relationship governed by healthy boundaries.

  After I talk to Denise and decompress for a while, I sit in a booth, just me and my phone. My mind drifts to Max and I decide to update my honesty project.

  First, I post the selfie of me and my mom. We look quite a bit alike. I caption it, Found my mom! Talked for the first time in years. It’s a pretty good picture, except for the stripper booty and the uniforms in the background.

  This is the first photo that Max likes. Now I know he’s paying attention and following along.

  I post the picture of us on the scenic overlook over Laguna Beach. Me and Max.

  I wait for him to like that one.

  “Oh my God, Mia. Stop staring at your phone like that. You’re going to light it on fire with your mind,” Crystal says.

  64 Guess I know where I got the idea for my business.

  65 Looks like I can delay Botox. I’m even younger than I thought!

  66 I don’t think he likes Crystal for her moral pulchritude, which is a word I know.

  67 This might delay our next reunion.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-SIX

  After the police clear out with Kobra in cuffs, I sit at the bar, order another glass of wine, and scroll through the #LBArt hashtag on Instagram. There are so many posts—and I have no idea how I’m going to get through them all. I hop over to Twitter and see a bunch of tweets and photos with the hashtag as well. It’s like everyone at the party spent the whole time staring at their phones. Which is probably true, especially given the theme of the exhibition.

  There are about five hundred selfies, most of which aren’t interesting, until I catch a glimpse of myself in the background of one of them. I stare at the photo, zooming in and looking at it pixel by pixel. I see JP with me.

  There’s another photo of JP and me standing next to a table of appetizer trays on the museum’s official Instagram account. I can see why they’d feature us. We’re young and good-looking and that yellow dress photographs amazingly. If only I still had the cape! But the longer I study the photo, the more it becomes clear how off it is. We’re standing too far apart, our bodies stiff and our smiles forced. I’ve read enough of those Us Weekly sidebars about the body language of celebrity couples to know when I see a happy pair and when I see two people who are in the middle of a giant fight about intellectual property.