The Passenger (9 page)

R

October 3, 2009

To: Ryan

From: Jo

Who paid for my mother's rehab? I know her insurance didn't cover any ninety-day program. Is she still with that man you told me about? The one whose primary virtue was that he didn't beat her?

I don't even know why I care.

J

October 23, 2009

To: Jo

From: Ryan

I haven't seen that guy around. You know who paid. Why do you even ask?

R

November 11, 2009

To: Ryan

From: Jo

You're right, I knew he paid. Has he been paying for other things? What is my mother to him?

November 13, 2009

To: Jo

From: Ryan

I don't know. I don't ask.

November 15, 2009

To: Ryan

From: Jo

You don't question anything. You just sit quietly and do as you're told.

B
LUE
made it seem so easy, this life we led, like an endless game of hide-and-seek. She went on with her days, not worrying for a moment about the past catching up with her. I have no doubt that Jack was a bad man and maybe he did get what he deserved. I've met my share of bad men in my day; sometimes I think I wouldn't mind killing one or two of them, but if I did, I would feel it afterward. It would have meant something. I'm not saying I wouldn't take the opportunity if it arose, but I couldn't keep humming in the shower in the carefree way that Blue's voice looped the jingle she'd just heard on the television.

A few days after it was all over, my nerves had finally settled down to a slow vibration, like a piano wire after the last note of a song. I checked my finances and decided that I couldn't dip any further into my paltry savings. I was down to just over seven hundred dollars and I didn't pretend that I could remain a guest of Blue's without contributing anything to the household.

When I'd first struck out on my own, ten years ago, the only work I could get was manual labor, specifically janitorial or maid services. I wouldn't have minded a construction job. My old friend Edie Parsons's parents had a hardware store. We used to hang out there some afternoons. Mr. Parsons taught us a few things. I knew how to wield a hammer and I wasn't inept with a table saw. I'd refinished the hardwood floors in my childhood home after I got a few too many splinters on my feet and it was clear my mother wasn't going to do anything about it. But I discovered, after a few failed attempts, that men don't hire women for construction jobs. They'll tell you you're not qualified, but what they're really thinking is that you can't pull your weight. Literally.

Once I met Frank and those cleaning days were long gone, I promised myself they'd never return. But you make all kinds of promises to yourself in life, and most of them you don't keep. I printed flyers at the library offering my domestic services with my phone number fringed on the bottom. I waited only a few days before the first call came in.

His name was Kyle. A confirmed bachelor, from the looks of things. He rented a one-bedroom apartment near the capitol building. It has been my experience that men of little means who like a clean home will clean it themselves. They like it done just so. The rest hire maids to keep their apartments from turning into giant petri dishes. As it turned out, Kyle's last housekeeper had quit. He said it was family trouble, but I could tell from the odor that hit me when I walked in the door that she just didn't have the stomach for it.

Kyle hired me on the spot and left for work. He was one of those closet slobs. Looked put together and just fine on the outside. Handsome, maybe even a heartbreaker judging from the collection of used condoms under the bed. I wore thick yellow gloves and a surgical mask. While I had done this job before, and it kept me afloat, I can't say that I ever took to it. Every time I left a home spic-and-span, I didn't feel the satisfaction of a job well done. Instead, I felt like the filth I had touched had somehow transferred onto me. No matter how many showers I took, the invisible layer of scum would remain.

The next call came from the daughter of an old woman who was near the end. I would have to clean around Mrs. Smythe and her oxygen tank and her humidifier and her day nurse, who, as far as I was concerned, didn't seem to do much of anything other than watch television, deliver a rainbow of pills three times a day, and tell Mrs. Smythe to quiet down so as not to disturb her programs. The television always blasted at a notch above the rattle of Mrs. Smythe's respirator. It was one of those old houses where every corner was etched with ancient grime. The grout in the bathroom held mold with a history unto itself, impossible to return to its original whitish hue. I vacuumed around the day nurse, who stayed put on the couch. I couldn't do much about the overall odor in the air. That came straight from the old lady, and after three weeks of working there, I got the feeling that sponge baths were as rare as a rainstorm in the Sahara. I even offered to do it myself one time after I got a whiff so nauseating I had to choke back bile. The nurse returned my offer with a chilling stare.

I had some funny idea that I might find one good house in my mix, one place I could visit that restored my belief that the world wasn't composed of filth and sin.

When I'd return to Blue's place, I'd take a half-hour shower and then slide onto the couch, turn on the television, and try to pretend that none of this was my life. But every morning I'd wake up and realize that this was it and maybe it wasn't ever going to get any better.

One night Blue tried to cheer me up with a home-cooked meal, the kind people who have lives and families eat. She made pasta carbonara and salad and we drank two not-bad bottles of wine that Blue had nicked from May's Well. After dinner, we ate strawberries with cream and Blue picked up the newspaper and began studying the obituaries.

“They don't usually mention unidentified bodies in the obits,” I said.

“Oh, I'm not looking for Jack,” Blue said.

“Just ghoulish curiosity?”

“Amelia-slash-Tanya, you still need a new identity, unless you want to spend the rest of your days living as a maid with no name. I honestly think you'd be happier as a bank robber.”

“Perhaps,” I said.

“Well, if you're open to it, I've noticed the security at the Fairview Savings and Loan is lacking . . .”

I honestly couldn't tell if she was serious or not. I poured myself a drink and let the question hang in the air.
Maybe
, I thought. Was there really any reason for me to remain a law-abiding citizen?

Blue returned her attention to the obits. “There's a promising corpse at Morgan and Sons mortuary. Allison Wade. Car accident. The funeral is tomorrow at eleven.”

A
STORM
came through that night and decided to stay awhile. The next morning, outside the funeral home, all you could see was a knot of blackness, like a murder of crows. Umbrellas shaded mourners from a torrential downpour. Blue and I rushed from the parking lot to the awning, our feet dipping in puddles along the way and soaked by the time we were indoors.

Inside it smelled like damp wool. Throngs of mourners mingled and cried, and my eyes caught the shimmer of light on metal. Men in uniform, police uniforms, everywhere. Had to be about twenty cops in the room.

“What's going on here, Blue?”

Blue looked surprised herself, and maybe a little agitated. “There seems to be a large police presence here,” she said.

“You don't say.”

A man in a sergeant's uniform was sitting in the back pew. He tried to look stoic and strong, but as each mourner approached him with their treacly comforts, his resolve seemed to weaken.

I walked back to the exit, swiped a black umbrella that I could not claim ownership of, and stepped outside, opening the umbrella under the persistent downpour. Blue followed my lead.

“We hardly got a look at her,” Blue said.

“Even if I found my doppelgänger, I don't plan on impersonating the dead wife of a police officer. I understand that risks are involved in my particular predicament, but this is about as sane-minded as rewiring your house without turning off the circuit breaker.”

We left, defeated. The drive home was that kind of noisy quiet where all you can hear is that brutal voice inside your head telling you there's no way out. Before computers and mammoth databases and the NSA, I could have picked a name, moved to a new town, and run with it. But now it felt like every time I wanted to try on an identity coat, it began to unravel the moment I slipped my arm into the sleeve.

Back at Blue's place, I climbed onto the couch, covered my head with a blanket, and tried to sleep away my worries. Blue retired to her room and stayed mute. Sometime in the early hours of the morning, I heard sounds emanating from Blue's room. Rustling, creaking, shuffling. She wasn't even bothering to be quiet. I checked the clock: 2:48 a.m. The light in her room was on and her door was slightly ajar.

I padded over to the light and peeked inside. Blue was packing a suitcase. Not so much with clothes, but papers and books. She set a large wool coat on top of everything.

“Blue, what's going on?”

“Good, you're up,” Blue said. “Would you please make us a pot of coffee?”

Since there was no chance I was going to return to the land of unconsciousness, I figured I'd rather deal with my Blue inquisition caffeinated. I brewed a pot of coffee, waiting patiently for the drip to near its end; poured two cups of bitter brew; and returned to Blue's bedroom.

I passed her a mug, waited a moment for some of the caffeine to hit her gut, and then asked the obvious question.

“You going somewhere, Blue?”

“No,” Blue said. “You are.”

It had only been a matter of time before I wore out my welcome. I wasn't surprised, although I couldn't account for Blue's packing a suitcase that was neither mine nor contained my belongings.

“I can pack on my own,” I said. “And I don't have any need for your—whatever all those papers are.”

“I don't think you understand, Tanya-slash-Amelia,” Blue said.

“Feel free to enlighten me.”

“I found you a new identity,” Blue said.

“Who?”

“You're going to become me. Debra Maze.”

I
T TOOK
a few ticks of the long hand for the words to register. Once they did, it took a few more ticks for them to register again.

“I think it's possible I misunderstood you,” I said.

“You did not,” said Blue.

“I believe your plan has a few holes in it.”

“Probably, but nothing that some creative spackling can't fix.”

“Answer this, then. If I'm you, who are you going to be?”

“I'm going to be Amelia Keen.”

“Have you conveniently forgotten about the two men who recently tried to kill Amelia Keen?”

“I have not,” said Blue. “However, those men and whoever sent them seem to know what you look like. So, I don't think they've got anything particularly against the name Amelia Keen. I think they don't like the person who has been inhabiting that name, and the name before that. If they manage to track me down, they'll find
me
, not you. Once I have the identity, I could get married, take my new husband's last name, mix up my social security numbers—I hear that's a good trick to stay off the grid—and the next thing you know, Amelia Keen is gone. I'm now Amelia Lightfoot.”

“Lightfoot?”

“In my fantasy I've met a beautiful Native American man and we live on a reservation. But I could be just as happy and invisible with a man named Jones or Smith.”

“Blue, I appreciate all that you've done for me, but your identity comes with about as much baggage as mine.”

“I'm offering you a life. A real way out. What was your plan?” Blue said. “To leech off of me forever?”

Her voice was calm and even, but the threat was clear. I did this or I was out. I tried to figure what Blue's angle was, what my identity could do for her, but in my desperate state my mind fumbled over possible outcomes. All I knew was that my run as Amelia Keen, my hiding out with Debra Maze, was done. Still, I had to ask the obvious question.

“What do you get out of this, Blue?”

“I get to leave the past behind.”

“Isn't your past buried in a nature preserve?”

Blue traveled into the kitchen and poured herself another mug of coffee. Then she grabbed the whiskey and added a shot. She took a sip, closed her eyes, and leaned against the wall. It looked like she was taking a standing catnap. Then she opened her eyes and her expression humbled some.

“I don't think anyone is looking for Debra Maze. But with Jack missing and me missing, one can hypothesize as to what his extended family might do. When they do come hunting for me and they find you, they'll know they've hit a dead end. Besides, there is surely more than one Debra Maze in this universe. My maiden name should serve you well for a while. But you'll want to change it as soon as you can. I wouldn't bother with a legal name change. You need someone to vouch for you. I recommend getting married. He doesn't have to be the love of your life, just a guy you get hitched to for a few months with a name you can swap out. Then do that social security number trick. Even if someone tracks you down, they'll figure they were mistaken. We can help each other. You don't want to be Amelia anymore, and I don't want to be Debra.”

“Have you really thought this through?” I said. It was my final attempt to talk her down.

Blue strode into the bedroom and lugged a pile of books and papers out of the suitcase. She slid a certificate out of a plastic sheath and passed it to me.