The Passenger (10 page)

“You could have a real life and a real job as me,” she said. “That's my teaching credential. I taught grade school for seven years. I have lesson plans in here for grades two through five. Do you like children?”

“I don't know. I think so.”

“At that age, they're pure, they're good. Well, every once in a while you'll find a bad seed. But mostly they're better than the rest of us. And I can say with certainty that being in a classroom is better than working in a factory, cleaning houses, or being a day laborer. When you go home at night, you won't think about your dead husband or any of those other demons you have. The chorus of untamed children will shove away all the voices in your head.”

Blue was shoving away the voices in my head that were telling me that this plan had as many holes as a Wiffle ball. Thing is, I liked the idea, as inconceivable as it was. I couldn't see going on as I had been, living without a name, without a home, finding jobs I couldn't report to the IRS. I wanted a real life; that was all I ever wanted.

I don't remember saying anything to Blue. Maybe I nodded my head once or twice. She interpreted whatever gesture I made as acquiescence.

“I'll go out for supplies,” she said.

An hour later, I was sitting on the edge of the bathtub while Blue painted my hair with bleach. My scalp burned and my eyes watered from the pungent chemical. An hour later, we washed out the bleach and Blue dried my hair. It was the color of straw, one of those obvious dye jobs you see on women all across the country. They're usually trapped behind a cash register that's trapped behind ballistic glass. I didn't look like Blue; I looked like one of them. Washed out and haunted.

“Don't worry,” Blue said. “I'm not done.”

She removed a box of Nice'n Easy golden blond from her plastic bag, mixed the color and developer together. Then she began striping my scalp with the creamy blend, which made my head feel like it was in a refrigerator. While we waited for my color to set, Blue unboxed her own disguise. Medium brown. She regarded herself in the mirror with a meaty pause.

“It's time I see how the other half lives,” Blue said as she passed me the bottle. “Will you do the honors?”

F
ORTY-FIVE MINUTES
later, Blue was a brunette and I was a blonde. I watched Blue remove colored contact lenses from a case and blot them over her cold, beautiful eyes. When she was done, she turned to me and said, “Well?”

What do you say to a woman who has lost her looks in just under an hour? I tried to picture her as an outsider would, but it didn't help matters. She'd rendered herself plain with her disguise as Amelia Keen, and I couldn't help but feel a twinge of guilt.

“I don't think even Jack could recognize you,” I said.

Blue applied red lipstick, which took a chunk out of the overall plain effect, but it was hardly the transformation that Blue was hoping for. She tried to hide her disappointment when she passed me a small plastic container.

“Your turn,” Blue said. “Those brown eyes have got to go.”

I unscrewed the cap and saw an ice-blue contact lens staring back at me.

“What are you doing with blue contact lenses?” I said.

“Oh, I have an entire set, including green and purple.”

“Purple?”

“I tried them once. It was disturbing.”

The first time I tried to stick those cruel craters into my eyes, my body revolted in convulsions, then tears. Blue served me a shot of whiskey and told me to take a couple deep breaths. I steeled myself for the task, yet again, and managed to shove those blue lies over my bloodshot golden browns. I looked in the mirror and saw someone else. It wasn't Blue, but it also wasn't me anymore. It felt deeply wrong, almost as wrong as I felt digging Jack's grave. Changing your hair color is like putting on makeup. It's a cheat, but a fair one. Altering your DNA, turning brown eyes to blue, is a deceit, and one you'd be reminded of every time you looked in the mirror.

Blue made up my face like her driver's license photo, which had been taken when she still lacquered on war paint as if she were on a high-stakes hunt for a husband. Sharp black eyeliner, gray eye shadow, crimson lips, and rose blush.

Blue stepped back and regarded her painting. She sighed with deep satisfaction.

“Almost done,” Blue said, rifling through her bag. “We just have a few practical matters to sort out. Here's Debra Maze's birth certificate and social. You'll need that for a driver's license. Now go get the pink slip for your Toyota. Tanya Dubois needs to sell Amelia Keen her car. It was risky for you to change the title before, but I think we're safe now.”

“And what am I supposed to drive, your VW Crime Scene?”

“That's a good point. I'll get rid of that car. You take the old lady's Cadillac.”

“It's not the best car for blending in, Blue.”

“But it's a beauty, isn't it? I wish I could keep it for myself, but practically speaking you need to take the car because it's mine. Myrna signed it over to me a few months ago during a lucid moment. The title is in your new name, so it's your car.”

“What does it get, like fifteen miles to the gallon?”

“Twenty on highways,” Blue said. “Why are you harping on minor details and such? Trade it in when you get settled. It's in mint condition. It'll get you where you need to go. And I'll throw in a little cash just to cover the fuel.”

We retrieved the pink slips for both vehicles, swapped names, swapped cars, and Blue gave me five hundred in cash. The paperwork was complete. It was time to say good-bye.

We walked outside to the car and Blue retrieved the gun she'd used on Jack. She put it in the glove compartment of the Cadillac.

“What's that for?” I said.

“It's a parting gift,” Blue said.

“I don't need a gun.”

“Take it,” she said. “It's a dangerous world out there, Debra Maze.”

As I drove away, the realization came into full relief. I had just taken over the identity of a felon, with the murder weapon sitting right in my glove compartment.

March 22, 2010

To: Jo

From: Ryan

Jo,

I've probably written this twenty times, scrapped it, and started over again. It shouldn't be this hard. At least it shouldn't be harder than anything else that has transpired between us.

I'm engaged. There, I did it.

You don't know her. She's not connected to anyone from our past. I'm trying to anticipate the questions you might have. It's a game I'm playing. How well do I know you? Let's see how I do.

I met her on a vacation last year in Hawaii. I didn't tell you about that, I know. It didn't seem right, me on a tropical island and you wherever you are—I'm betting on Wisconsin. I was miserable the entire time. Drunk by the swimming pool, starting each day with coffee and bourbon. I fell asleep under the blazing sun. She walked over to me, drizzled sunscreen on my chest in the shape of a happy face. When I woke up, she said, “You're turning into a lobster. But now you're a happy lobster,” and walked away.

She's a schoolteacher in Idaho, but she's moving out here. I know it would be better for me to go to her, but I feel like I have to stay, to stand guard and make sure that people do what they're supposed to do.

She's blond and, yes, she's pretty. Not beautiful, just easy on the eyes. She has rosy cheeks and gray eyes and perpetually chapped lips that she's always gnawing on. I know you want to know other things, but those are the questions you wouldn't ask. You would think it was undignified, so even though I can imagine your voice posing inquiries, I don't think I'll answer them.

Aside from being a schoolteacher, she's a churchgoer, knitter, baker, and charitably minded. I can see your face right now, as you're reading this. She's not you. Don't be offended by that. I couldn't be with anyone who reminded me of you because I'm already reminded of you more than I can manage.

Here's all that matters: She's sweet and kind and I feel like I can trust her. And she seems to be able to live with the fact that I'm a bit of a shell. When she sees my mind wandering, she doesn't ask me what I'm thinking. I've found that's the single most important trait I could ask for in a woman.

There, I told you.

I'm starting to wonder about continuing this thing we have. Isn't it time we played the cards we were dealt?

Yours,

R

April 29, 2010

To: Ryan

From: Jo

Fuck. Well, congratulations. I've just celebrated with five shots of bourbon. Whenever I need to drink myself into oblivion, I'm always kinda grateful that I married a barkeep.

Your wife sounds perfect. So, Carnac the Magnificent, here are some very basic questions of mine that you failed to answer. What is the name of your betrothed? And, do you love her? But I have so many more questions than that. What gives you the right to get married, to try to be happy, after what you've done? Shouldn't there be a penance of some kind? Three people died that day, not two. My only consolation, the thing that eases my envy—that word seems so small for what this is. The only thing that gives me comfort is knowing that you're not you. That She, whatever her name is, will never know you like I did, the old you, the you that was kind and sweet and had a bigger heart than anyone I ever knew. I used to think you were better than everyone. Now I could pick a dozen souls out on the street that surely surpass you in integrity.

Yes, I'm being cruel. But every day you don't tell the truth, you are being even crueler.

Jo

June 20, 2010

To: Jo

From: Ryan

I don't know what I'm supposed to say. I did what I had to, but I'm still sorry. I will be sorry every day for the rest of my days. I gave up living for six years because of you. It's a long life. Don't we all deserve just a bit of comfort? To answer your question, yes, I love her. It's a different kind of love. If she broke my heart, I'd stay the same. Do you know what I mean? Not like the last time.

R

July 2, 2010

To: Ryan

From: Jo

I didn't break your heart. You broke mine. Now twice.

Good luck with your life. I wish you the best. I really do. I think maybe I'll leave you alone for a while. You're right, it is a long life and this is not how I want to live it.

Good-bye.

Jo

I
T
was only as I sailed out of Austin in that gas-guzzling American classic that more doubts and questions compounded in my brain. Looking at my reflection in the rearview mirror, I still wondered whether a new life was possible. Could I really pull off being Ms. Debra Maze? Or was this just some long con that Blue had figured from the moment she laid eyes on my foolish soul at May's Well?

The Cadillac handled like a boat on the calm seas. After a few hours of sailing away from that sorry mess of Tanya Dubois and Amelia Keen, my memory of other failed attempts to start anew faded just enough for my sense of hope to come back to life. I gazed at myself once again and tried to believe it was possible. I was going to be whoever the hell I wanted to be.

Before I departed, when my brain was still a jumbled mess of suspicion and fear, Blue gave me the lowdown on acquiring a teaching position with her credentials.

“By the way,” she said all casually, “if you get a job, they're going to want your fingerprints.”

“I can't be fingerprinted, Blue. You know that,” I said.

“But
my
prints are still clean,” she said, sliding an official-looking card out of an envelope.

Black fingerprints, swirls in various forms, dotted the cards.

“I've done some preliminary research. I think it would be unwise to teach in Ohio, where I taught. But in Wyoming, they just mail the fingerprint cards to you. If you get a job, then they'll instruct you where to go to get printed officially. You're bound to find someplace where they're lax with the rules. Maybe you can deliver these prints straight to the principal, or maybe when you're being printed at the police station you can swap out the card at some point. I gave you five cards. You have five chances to beat the system.”

“And if that doesn't work?”

“I'd try one of those private Christian schools. They don't have the same appreciation for government protocol as public schools. Any other questions?”

“Yeah. These cards are for Wyoming. Will they transfer to any state?”

“No, sweetheart,” Blue said. I can't remember when she stopped calling me Amelia or Tanya, but it felt sudden and deliberate.

“So, the only way this plan works out is if I go to Wyoming. I don't have a choice of destinations?”

That was the one thing about being on the run that appealed to me, leaving town and just randomly choosing a new home off of a map.

“I think that's the best place to beat the system. Besides, Jackson is nice this time of year,” said Blue.

“How do you know?”

“I went there on my honeymoon,” she said.

It sounded like Blue had thought this through, but she had the gift of conviction, a salesman's heart.

T
HERE WASN'T
one direct artery from Austin, Texas, to Jackson, Wyoming. Every few hours I had to consult my map to make sure I was headed in the right direction. I got a late start my first day on the road. I drove until my eyes betrayed me and I began to see flashing red lights in my rearview mirror. I found a rest stop and slept until dawn. I drove another full day, under a bright sun passing through the untamed mountains of Colorado. I stopped for gas every few hours, worked the kinks out of my back and legs, and kept going until I reached Casper, Wyoming. I checked the temperature gauge the entire ride, certain that my antique vehicle would overheat in the mountains. The old lady must have treated her Cadillac with great kindness over the years. It was as reliable a ride as anything else I've driven, but not easy to handle on mountain roads. By the time I got to Casper, I decided I could use a proper bed for the night. I found a cheap motel called the Friendly Ghost Inn. I picked up a bag of pretzels and a soda for supper from the corner shop and retired to my room. I took a shower and stared at my new self in the mirror. The image staring back at me was so startling it was like waking up again. I couldn't sleep just then, so I decided to test the waters of my new identity.