by Julie Clark
Eva stood and said, “I think I’ll go get those drinks for us.” A drink was the very least she deserved.
Claire
Wednesday, February 23
I leave Eva’s office strewn with paper and move across the hall, determined to know for certain what I’m beginning to suspect—that nothing Eva told me about herself, or what she was running from, was true. I throw open the door to her closet, pawing through the hangers, looking for evidence of the husband she adored. At the very least, there should be big, empty spaces where his clothes used to be. But all I find are a few nice tops, a couple dresses, boots, and flats. All of it Eva’s. I yank open dresser drawers, finding shirts, jeans, underwear, and socks, flashes of my unfamiliar new profile startling me in the mirror, so similar to Eva’s I can almost believe for a moment she’s returned. That she’s here and I’m the one who died. Freaky fucking Friday.
I sink down on Eva’s bed. Everything I believed—about Eva, about her life, about why she didn’t want to be here, lay in pieces at my feet. If there was no husband, there will be no investigation of his death. And if there’s no investigation, there has to be another reason why Eva was so willing to trade places and disappear.
I begin to laugh—the hysterical spiral of an exhausted woman teetering on the edge of sanity—and think of all the lies she told, straight-faced and sincere. And then I hear her voice in my head, and imagine her telling me to calm down and get the fuck out of her house, and I smirk at how sharp it is, how perfectly I can still recall it.
Neither of us could have guessed this was what would happen. We were only trading tickets. I wasn’t supposed to drive to her house, unlock her door, and step into her life. Whatever I’ve walked into, I’m here because I chose to be.
* * *
Back in Eva’s office, with the Doc open on the screen in front of me, I take a closer look at one of Eva’s bank statements, scanning her monthly expenses. Food, gas, coffee shops. Automatic payments every month for everything, including cable and trash service, with a balance of two thousand dollars. There are two direct deposits from a place called DuPree’s Steakhouse, each for nine hundred dollars. Not nearly enough income to warrant an all-cash purchase of her home.
And as I expected, no medical bills, no copays. No pharmacies. I feel a sliver of admiration at the outrageous fabrication rendered with the finesse of a con artist. The smooth way she set her boarding pass on the bar between us, a quiet temptation I was too preoccupied to notice at the time, the way she described how easy it was to blend in to Berkeley. The subtle way she reflected my own desires and fears back at me, allowing me to fall into step alongside her.
According to her car registration, she drives an old Honda, which is most likely hidden in the attached garage. A woman smart enough to orchestrate something like this isn’t going to leave her car parked at an airport or train station, identifying that as her starting point. I don’t want anything to do with it, though. If someone’s looking for her, they’ll surely begin with her car. But it’s nice to know it’s there, if I need it.
I make quick work of the rest of Eva’s desk. More dried-out pens and paper clips in a tangle, empty envelopes, a few charging bricks with no cords. But none of the other things you’d expect to find. No saved birthday cards or appointment reminders. No photographs, notes, or sentimental keepsakes. Not only was her husband a fabrication, I’m beginning to wonder if Eva was too.
I look to the left of the desk, where an empty trash can sits, and my gaze catches on a small piece of paper, partially concealed behind the desk, as if someone meant to throw it away and missed. I pick it up and smooth it. It’s a small card, the handwriting a neat cursive, the slanted, loopy kind you don’t see beyond elementary school. Everything you ever wanted is on the other side of fear.
I try to imagine the circumstances upon which Eva wrote this and then later discarded it. If perhaps she didn’t need it anymore, or whether it stopped being something she believed to be true.
I carry it across the hall to Eva’s bedroom, tuck the card into the edge of the mirror over her dresser, and begin to tidy the mess I’d made. As I refold her shirts, the smell of her—flowers with that chemical undernote—stirs in the air around me. I come across a Red Hot Chili Peppers T-shirt, and I hold it against my chest. Oversized and well worn, it’s from their Californication tour. The Chili Peppers were one of Violet’s favorite bands, and I had promised her that when she turned sixteen, I’d take her to a concert. One of the many things she never got to do. I drape the shirt over my shoulder and close the drawer. This, I want.
I finish tidying the dresser, confirming no hidden money or jewelry. No diary or love letters stashed away from prying eyes. Fictional husband aside, no one—except perhaps me, living in Rory’s house—lives a life this empty.
Across the room, I sit on the edge of her bed and open the top drawer of her nightstand. Another tube of expensive hand lotion that smells like roses when I rub it into my arm. A bottle of Tylenol. But tucked along the inside edge of the drawer is a photo, the only one I’ve seen in the house so far. It’s a novelty shot of Eva posing with an older woman outside a stadium in San Francisco. Enormous Giants Baseball banners hang behind life-sized cutouts of players, and the women pose, their heads tilted together, Eva laughing, her arm draped over the woman’s shoulders. She looks light and happy, as if whatever shadows were chasing her hadn’t shown up yet. I wonder if this was a friend, or someone else Eva had tricked. Whether everything Eva did had been calculated for her own benefit.
I imagine Eva, spinning her lies. Making this woman believe Eva was someone who needed help. I study the woman’s face, wondering where she is now, whether she might come looking for Eva, and what she’d say to find me, with the exact same haircut and color as Eva’s, living in Eva’s house, wearing her clothes. Who’s the con artist now?
At the back of the drawer, underneath a pair of scissors and some tape, I find an envelope. Inside it is a handwritten note dated thirteen years ago, clipped to some pages behind it. I remove the clip and flip through them, paperwork from a place in San Francisco called St. Joseph’s. A convent? A church? The handwriting is spidery and faded, and I tilt it toward the window so I can read it better.
Dear Eva,
I hope this letter finds you well, studying hard and learning a lot! I’m writing to let you know that after over eighty years, the St. Joseph’s group home is finally being absorbed into the county foster system. It’s probably for the best, as we are all getting older here—even Sister Catherine.
I remember you used to frequently ask about your birth family, and while we were prohibited from answering your questions at the time, now that you’re over eighteen, I want to give you all the information we have. I’m enclosing copies of our notes on your intake and the general records from your years here. If there are any specifics you want to know, you’ll have to petition the county for your official records. I think the social worker who worked on your case was Craig Henderson.
You should know that I tracked down your mother’s family after your last foster placement failed, hoping they might have had a change of heart. But they hadn’t. Your mother struggled with addiction, and her family was overwhelmed with the burden of monitoring and caring for her. That was a large part of why they surrendered you in the first place.
But despite that beginning, you’ve grown into an incredible person. Please know that we talk of you still—and are so proud of your many accomplishments. Sister Catherine scours the newspapers for your name in association with a magnificent scientific discovery, although I have to remind her you’re still in school and that’s probably a few years off yet. We would welcome a visit or a call to learn what kind of wonderful life you’ve built for yourself at Berkeley. You are destined to do great things.
Much love in Christ,
Sister Bernadette
I set it aside, looking at the rest of the pa
pers that were attached with the clip. They’re photocopies of handwritten notes, dating back over thirty years ago. They describe the arrival and adjustment of a two-year-old girl at a Catholic group home.
Child, Eva, arrived at 7:00 p.m.; mother, Rachel Ann James, declined interview, signed documents for termination of parental rights. St. Joseph’s submitted paperwork to county, awaiting response.
Another page, dated twenty-four years ago, was less clinical.
Eva returned to us last night. This was her third placement, and I fear her last. We will keep her as long as the Lord guides us to, and give her a spot here at St. Joe’s. CH is the social worker assigned to her case this time, which means we won’t be seeing much of him.
A student at Berkeley explains the science textbooks downstairs. Perhaps she never finished—either because she couldn’t afford to, or her grades weren’t good enough to graduate, leading her to become a server at a steakhouse. And a con artist, spinning lies in a New York airport.
It also explains why the house is so bare, empty of anything Eva might have accumulated from a family—photo albums, birthday cards, notes. I know what it’s like to wake up alone every day, with no family to worry about your well-being. Your heart. Whether you’re happy. At least I had that for the first twenty-one years of my life. It’s possible Eva never did.
This is what it’s like to die, having left so much unfinished. It still tethers you—like an unbreakable thread, always leading your thoughts back to if only. But if only is a useless question, a spotlight shining on an empty stage, illuminating what never was, and never will be.
I tuck the letter back into the envelope and return it to her drawer, trying to imagine this new version of Eva into existence. But she dances, like quicksilver—a flash and then gone. Never settling long enough to see her clearly, an ever-shifting shape just outside my peripheral vision.
* * *
I need a shower, stray pieces of hair making the back of my neck itch. The only clothes I own are the few items I grabbed from my suitcase in the bathroom stall at JFK. My jeans. One pair of underwear. No bra or socks other than the ones I’m wearing. I look between the bag and Eva’s dresser, filled with clothes that don’t belong to me. Not just jeans and shirts, but intimate things. And it hits me again. I have almost nothing. I hesitate before sliding open her underwear drawer again, my stomach clenching, steeling myself against the idea of wearing her clothes. I close my eyes, thinking of other people who have had to resort to much more horrific things to survive than wearing someone else’s underwear. It’s just cotton and elastic, I tell myself. And it’s clean.
I pull my own clothes from the bag, wondering if a person can live indefinitely with only two pairs of underwear, and hurry into the hall where I pull a towel from the linen cupboard. In the bathroom, I run the water hot, letting the room steam up and obscure my reflection in the mirror until I’m just a faint outline. A blurry facsimile of an anonymous woman. I could be anybody.
* * *
When I’m done, I dress and stand in front of the mirror in Eva’s room, the unfamiliar rose scent of Eva’s soap and lotion hanging in the air around me. A stranger looks back at me with her cropped blond hair and sharp cheekbones. I step over to the dresser, where Eva’s wallet sits, and pull out her license, comparing my face to hers, a flutter of optimism growing inside of me.
I recognize this feeling, the excitement of being on the cusp of a new life. I felt it when I met Rory, when everything seemed to glitter with possibility, standing on the edge between who I was and who I wanted to become.
A cover story starts to form, an explanation I can give to anyone who asks. Eva and I grew up together in the group home. I can speak with authority about Sister Bernadette and Sister Catherine. And if they ask where Eva went and why I’m here, I’ll tell them I’m getting a divorce, and Eva is letting me stay here while she travels.
Where did she go?
I stare at my reflection in the mirror—not quite Eva, not quite Claire—and try out my answer. “New York.”
* * *
Back in Eva’s office, I begin to tidy up, sorting Eva’s papers into stacks, unsure of what to do next, when text pops up on my computer screen. First, a single sentence, typed by Rory. The Detroit trip. Then, on the right-hand side of the computer, Rory adds a comment.
Rory Cook:
What did you do with the FedEx package?
A reply comes almost immediately.
Bruce Corcoran:
Money in the drawer. The ID, passport, and the rest of it have been shredded.
Rory Cook:
The letter?
Bruce Corcoran:
Scanned, then shredded.
Rory Cook:
How the fuck did she get her hands on a fake passport and ID?
Three dots show Bruce responding, and I hold my breath.
Bruce Corcoran:
No idea. Homeland security has cracked down on forgers, but what Claire had looked real. I checked her cell activity in the few days leading up to the trip. There was a number she called that morning that we can’t match to anyone she knew. We’re still looking into it.
I wait for them to continue, but nothing new appears. Then the comments disappear, one by one, and the text in the Doc itself also vanishes. In the upper right-hand corner, Bruce’s icon disappears, leaving only Rory’s behind. I need to be careful. There’s no way to differentiate my presence in the Doc from Rory’s, and if I start clicking things, that activity will show up on his computer with his name attached. So I’m stuck, a silent observer, unable to follow up or have my questions answered. All I can do is watch this play out on the screen in front of me.
* * *
Out of tasks, with still hours to fill until I can go to sleep, I open a new tab and navigate to CNN’s home page and search for news coverage of the crash. There’s a small item reporting that they’ve planned my funeral, scheduled for a Saturday three weeks from now. Plenty of time for Rory to plan something grand, probably in the city, a guest list thick with dignitaries.
Then I click on Kate Lane’s picture. Her most recent television segments are there for me to rewatch. I scroll down and click on the news conference from last night so I can listen to the NTSB director answer reporters’ questions.
After rehashing the details of what had already been released, he closes the press conference. We are still in the search and recovery phase. More information will emerge in the coming days. I ask for your patience in this matter. Vista Airlines has been cooperative and is complying with all federal requests.
It’s as I expected—more questions than answers. But right before the camera cuts back to Kate in the studio, my eye catches on something in the crowd. I back it up and watch the end of the news conference again, hitting pause when I see it. In the lower left-hand corner is a familiar flash of color tucked in among the typical black and brown parkas and navy windbreakers. The blurred image of a platinum-blond woman wearing a bright-pink sweater decidedly out of place for a frigid February evening in New York.
Eva
Berkeley, California
August
Six Months before the Crash
The man’s name was Agent Castro, and over the next few days, Eva began to see him everywhere. She’d thrown away the business card he’d dropped through her mail slot, and tried to pretend he hadn’t followed her to her house, walked up her walkway, and knocked on her door. But he kept cropping up. In the parking lot at the supermarket. Driving down Bancroft Avenue as she exited a coffee shop. He even showed up at DuPree’s, taking a table in a different section and causing Eva to mess up several orders while he slowly ate a prime-rib dinner and drank a Guinness.
It worried her, how unconcerned he was about being seen. And it made her wonder how long he’d been watching her before deciding to make his presence known.
When Dex fina
lly called her back, she demanded they meet immediately. “How did you get that Brittany referral?” she asked him. They were at a sports bar on Telegraph Avenue, sitting across from each other at a beer-sticky table in the basement dining room next to a pool table while semidrunk students around them watched a preseason football game on the big-screen TV.
“This guy I grew up with moved to Los Angeles. He knows her from down there. When she moved up here, he gave her my name. He told me she’d be a steady client. Why?”
Eva studied his face, looking for any signs of a lie, tension, or a flash of guilt. “I saw her talking to a federal agent after she tried to buy from me. Now he’s following me. I see him everywhere.”
Dex set his burger down, his expression serious. “Tell me exactly what happened.”
Eva described how Brittany appeared to be strung out. The jittery way she spoke, and the scabs on her hands. “I guess my question is why you sent me someone you hadn’t vetted yourself. That’s not the way it’s supposed to work.”
Dex’s gaze darkened. “What are you suggesting?”
“I’m pointing out that shortly after I met with a client you referred, I’m being tailed by a federal agent.”
“Fuck.” Dex tossed his napkin on the table. “I want you to stop everything. Don’t make or sell anything until you hear from me.”
“And how will you explain that to Fish?” she asked.
“I’ll handle him,” Dex told her. “My job is to keep you safe.”
Eva stared at him, weighing his words, knowing how this game was played. At the end of the day, if the choice was jail or selling out a friend, people in their business did what they had to do. She didn’t delude herself into thinking Dex would be any different, and she wasn’t entirely certain she would be either.
And yet, Dex had been the one to teach her how to evaluate risks, to identify who might be an undercover agent or an addict who could expose her. She couldn’t picture him leading her into an abyss that would surely pull him in after her.
