The Body Double

by Emily Beyda

  He sounds frustrated, forcing a false comfort into his voice like he’s reassuring an unreasonable child. After all, I can sense him thinking I asked for this.

  “We’ll leave soon,” I say. “But maybe I need more time. A few days. Maybe I need to practice, just a little more.”

  I’ve thought so much about leaving my room. It’s all I wanted. But now I realize that in my absence the outside world has grown without me, become larger, more frightening. I have no home there anymore. I’m not ready to carry Rosanna with me out into the sunlight, that clear and bright and shining world. I am afraid I will fail. I will fail her, and this will all be for nothing.

  Max seems to sense my nervousness. He speaks more softly now, reaching out to put his hand on my arm.

  “You’re ready,” he says, “I know you are. And it’s a small thing, just a few hours. We’re starting slow. We’ll go to the restaurant, just me and you. You’ll order the things we’ve practiced ordering, smile for the photogs, that’s it. No big deal. We’ll chat, we’ll have lunch. You won’t have to talk to anyone but me.”

  I remember how tense I felt yesterday, how overwhelming Holly’s presence had been. The outside world will be far worse than that. So many things outside my control. But Max won’t let me say no. He takes my arm and pulls me over the threshold into the silent hallway. I keep my eyes closed, letting him lead me. I am afraid that seeing the hallway will remind me too much of my late-night walk after the surgery, that something will snap inside me and I will begin to scream.

  “You can do this,” says Max. “I know you can.”

  Walking out into the open air is like getting slapped in the face. It’s colder than I thought it was supposed to get in Los Angeles. Through my window everything always looks sunny and still, the world a perfect framed box, everything breathless, neatly contained. Out here, the wind kicks loose leaves up the street. The sky over the city is clear and cold, as blue as the water at the bottom of a pool. What month is it? I can’t make my mouth form the words to ask. My tongue lies heavy as a slab of meat, and I stand there, frozen, in the open door. Max pulls at my arm, hurrying me. All this is happening too fast. He is asking for the impossible. He is asking me to fail publicly, humiliatingly. He wants to ruin me. I want to push past him and run, run up into the hills, away from here, leaving him behind. No one has seen me as Rosanna yet. I can gain back my old weight, break my new nose, dig up my old clothes from whatever landfill they’re buried in. It’s not too late for me to uncover some fragmentary version of myself. But the light makes me squint, helpless. The air feels thinner somehow than it does in the small coziness of my room. Outside smells like car exhaust, like dust, like nothing at all. Outside smells like Max, his body close as he pulls me through the doorway, and then there we are, together, in the world. He whispers in my ear as we walk down the gravel pathway.

  “You look beautiful,” he says. “You’re doing so well.”

  The inside of the car is quiet. There is a driver in the front seat, maybe the same one from my first day, maybe someone different. I cannot see his face, just the back of his head, the soft fuzz on the neck there, a few red spots, the flush along the edges of his ears, a rash. Driving is the most surreal feeling. I try to figure out how long it has been since I was in this car, that strange first day, impossibly long ago. I should have been paying closer attention, marking time. I should have tracked the color of the leaves in the courtyard, the daily arrival of the birds, the quality of the room’s light. But it is always the same, endlessly sunny and green, green. Every day the same day, an anonymous smear of perfect weather like the spilled slur of a dropped watercolor box. It is too late now to ask what has happened while I was busy not noticing. The motion of the car, the soft blurred noises of the air conditioner and Max’s breath beside me, lull me into a feeling of surreal calm. The world around me feels strangely irrelevant, like a story someone else is telling.

  My neighborhood unspools as we drive down the hill, turning and banking, slowing at corners, the smooth movement of the car like the heavy strokes of a swimmer cutting through deep water. The streets open their arms, widening to accommodate the increasing flow of traffic, of other people in other cars, hunched over the wheel or texting at stop signs, all of them alone. I peer through the tinted glass trying to categorize every expression on every face, looking for some emotion I can recognize. One woman sings along to the radio, bopping her head from side to side. I am jealous of her freedom. She doesn’t even consider that there might be someone watching. She is so unselfconsciously assured of her own perfect right to be herself, to be unobserved, alone. Then again, she is wrong.

  * * *

  —

  I recognize the building we pull up in front of, the low striped awning, the gold frame painted on the windows, set dressing designed to make it look like a café in some small town in France, everything about it fake, pretend. It’s one of Rosanna’s favorite restaurants. Out front there is a group of men in black, pressing themselves back against the edges of the sidewalk, some of them standing in the street, waiting for something. Waiting for me. The thought lands heavy in my stomach. I watch them shifting, clumping together, pulling apart, a random pulse like the movement of insects. How long have they been here waiting? How did they know I would come? In the videos, there is always a crowd of them, parting like water as she moves through, security in front of her, haloed by flashbulbs, a force so large that it feels inhuman. But there are only a few men here, standing, smoking, all with the same harried look in their eyes. And I am just one woman, with a thousand imperfections that even Max’s fastidious eye has missed, my skin tight from the shower’s hard water, a small run starting in the toe of one stocking. I am just one woman, as good as alone, sitting in a stranger’s car. Max hands me a pair of heavy framed sunglasses, and I slip them on, grateful. I need something to protect me from the directness of their gaze, the pressure of their attention on my brand-new face. The driver unbuckles his seat belt, and I realize he is coming around to open my door for me.

  “Wait,” I say, “just a minute. Just give me one minute to breathe.”

  “Okay,” says Max, “be quick.” And I breathe just like I said I would—out, in—fixing my lipstick with the compact in my purse—out. I smooth down my hair, fix my hem. It is only a few seconds of contact. I can do this. I am ready. I am as ready as I’ll ever be. Without waiting for the driver, I open my own door.

  The light filters in, blue, blunted at the edges, like I’m watching it on film, the noise of the street outside rushing into the quiet. I try not to teeter on my too-high heels. I try to remember her smile.

  “Rosanna!” they shout. “Rosanna!”

  Their voices come at once, a chorus, and then they splinter off, each of them lifting their camera, smiling the same stiff smile, shouting questions at me like we know each other.

  “Looking good, Rosanna!”

  And

  “We missed you, Rosanna!”

  And

  “Who are you wearing?”

  And

  “Where have you been?”

  “Rosanna, where have you been?”

  Even the traffic seems to fall silent, the street holding its breath. I give them a little wave and glance behind me. Max is waiting in the shadow of the car. I see him like they must be seeing him, deferential, mild. My employee. Out here, Max belongs to me. I feel my new power flash through me, a rush of heat like blushing. Is this what being Rosanna feels like? I toss my new hair and smile my new smile. I say nothing. The crowd of men parts with the force of us, just like I imagined, a miracle. And then we are inside, the strange quiet of the busy restaurant. No one even glances up. There are so many people, so many bodies in this room, with their smells and heartbeats and secrets and pasts. I try not to think about the infinite little worlds all these strangers must carry around inside them, so many of them featuring my face. I stand tall
in my high heels. I smile my Rosanna smile.

  “Why isn’t anyone looking?” I whisper to Max.

  “It’s L.A.,” he says. “This is how we do things. Everyone’s acting like they’re too big a deal to care that you’re here. But believe me, as soon as our backs are turned, the phones will come out. Your name will be all over the news tomorrow. The reappearance of the mysterious Rosanna Feld, as beautiful as ever.”

  Beautiful, I think. He called me beautiful. Then no, I realize. He’s not talking about me. He’s talking about Rosanna. He’s picturing her face, beautiful as ever, beautifully alone in the silent dark.

  “Oh, Maxie,” I say, “please, you’re too much.”

  The hostess leads us toward the back of the room, up a slight skip of stairs to a red leather booth. There is a brass plaque on the wall with my name on it. As I slide in, I lay my hand flat on the cold surface of the dark wood, tracing the tiny indents of the letters with my fingers, those familiar shapes, the familiar prickle of my own name cold against my skin. I can see that Max was right. Across the room, people are studiously not looking at us, whispering to one another, typing away under the table. Soon everyone will know that I am here. I think of Rosanna, alone in her house, looking at pictures of herself at lunch, and try not to shiver. My performance feels more real and more uncanny out here than it did in the apartment—unnatural, somehow. Strange.

  “So nice to have you back with us, Ms. Feld,” the waiter says.

  I had been so distracted with all the strangers that I hadn’t noticed him approach. I smile up at him, an instinct, bathing him in her warmth. She’s here with me, I think. She’s here in my reactions, my instincts. She’s here keeping me safe.

  “It’s great to be back!” I say, smiling up at him.

  “Always good to see you, Alan,” says Max. “I’ll have a panino, please, with prosciutto and mozzarella.”

  Alan looks to me.

  “A Diet Coke, please,” I say, “no ice. And of course one of your wonderful Caesar salads. Thank you, Alan!”

  He smiles back at me, and makes a quick little note on his pad. “Coming right up!” he says.

  I have perfectly executed my waiter voice, light, casual, with a slight uptick at the end of every phrase. I am gaining confidence, gathering strength. Maybe everything will be all right after all. I look at Max to see if he has noticed, but he won’t look back. His face is blank and neutral. He has taken a calendar out of his jacket pocket and is pretending to point something out to me. I lean close to see what it is.

  “No anchovies!” he whispers.

  He speaks low enough that anyone listening in won’t be able to make out his words. His voice is pleasant, helpful sounding, innocuous, the voice of someone hired to walk me through the intricacies of my day. My stomach drops. He’s right.

  “How could you forget?” he says. “We’ve been over this a million times. You’ve seen so many restaurant tapes. What were you thinking? You forgot to tell them no anchovies. Rosanna is—you’re very particular about that.”

  I can see him catch himself as he says it. His voice goes even lower. He’s looking past me now, gazing out into the restaurant with an inane smile. But his eyes are hard, the corners of his mouth drawn tight.

  “You better hope they remember, or you’ll have to send it back when it comes, and that’s a bad look, and they’ll notice if you don’t, and if they notice that, they’ll start noticing other things and this will all be for nothing. Jesus, I thought you were better than this. I thought you’d be better by now.”

  Alan walks past our table, close, and Max lets go of my hand. I raise it up again, out of his reach, stroking the plaque with my name on it. I feel it again, that same familiar tingle. Rosanna is with me. She’ll tell me what to do. As I think this, a rush of confidence passes through me. A strange otherworldly warmth. I made a mistake. So what? I made a mistake, people like me make mistakes all the time. We never have to fix them. That’s what people like Max are for. This is his job. I pull a compact from Rosanna’s purse and pretend to adjust my lipstick as I whisper so no one can see my mouth.

  “You have to tell him,” I say.

  He looks at my reflection in the mirror, his eyes still hard. “Are you crazy?” he says in that light, helpful tone, smiling wide.

  “I’m not crazy,” I say, “and I don’t make mistakes. Not out here. Not in front of other people. You do. You didn’t remember to tell him about the anchovies. You need to tell him you were wrong. It’s the only way we can make this convincing. Out here, Max, you work for me.” I snap the mirror closed. Rosanna winks out of being. I give Max a bright smile.

  Max looks at me for a long time. I can see how angry he is, can tell that he wants to slap me, to shake me, to scream. But he can’t. He knows I’m right. Under the table, I wrap my fingers around his wrist. I pretend to be looking for something in my purse. Finally looking away from me, he waves Alan down.

  “Yes?” says Alan. “Anything else I can get you?”

  “Could you remind the kitchen that Rosanna doesn’t like anchovies in her salad?”

  I look up, noticing, and place my hand on his arm. “You’re sweet to think of it,” I say. “But Alan’s the last real waiter in Los Angeles, a true professional. None of this actor/singer/dancer business. He takes his work very seriously. I’m sure he remembered my usual order!”

  Alan smiles. “Well, you’re very memorable, Ms. Feld.”

  “Thank you, Alan,” I say. “You’re too kind.”

  I feel Rosanna’s name pulse, sending a burst of energy down my spine.

  “Christ,” I say, turning to Max, maintaining my normal volume, “what a day. I would kill for a cigarette.” I lower my voice so only Max can hear me. “That was good,” I say. “Right?”

  Max smiles back. “You were right. It was perfect. Exactly what Rosanna would have said. And how did you know about the cigarettes?”

  “I’ve seen the way she disappears from the table sometimes, for longer than it takes someone to use the bathroom. And you can never really get the smell out of her clothes. I know all about her sneaky little habits. You can’t just give me the good parts, Max. I signed up for Rosanna, the whole thing.”

  Max turns to me, his face open, something like wonder written on it.

  “So, what about that cigarette?” I say.

  “You really want one?”

  I nod. I do. “You know I always have a smoke when you do something stupid.”

  “Incredible,” he says. “Go through the kitchen. There’s a door that’ll spit you out into the alleyway.”

  I check the front pocket of my purse. It’s all inside, a cigarette case, a little red lighter, a slim blue pack of gum.

  “I wish you wouldn’t smoke,” Max says, almost loud enough for the people seated close to us to hear. “You know how bad it is for you.”

  I smile my warmest, most public Rosanna smile. “Oh, Maxie, you’re no fun. One cigarette a day won’t kill me. I deserve a few guilty pleasures!” I put my hand on his arm, giving him an affectionate little squeeze.

  “You deserve everything in the world,” says Max.

  And the way that he looks at me, I know he’s right.

  * * *

  —

  Max comes to the apartment with a stack of magazines as thick as a phone book. I’m leaning against the counter drinking lukewarm coffee and craning my neck to look out the window when I hear the car pull up. It’s been almost a week since we had lunch together, and I haven’t seen Max since. I have done the usual things I do while waiting for him, exercised and read and eaten piles of raw vegetables standing over the sink, but I haven’t been bored. I feel animated with a strange excitement. I know he’s coming soon, bringing word from Rosanna. I can feel the nearness of him like a low murmur inside me. The birds shift and clamor in the courtyard. I know he must be h
alfway up the stairs by now, but I don’t move. I remember how good it felt in the restaurant to have him listen to me, accept my way of doing things. I want him to know I can handle myself here, too. That I am doing fine on my own. Normally I can’t hide my eagerness to see him when he’s been gone for more than a few hours. I get so bored, so desperate for a glimpse of life outside my own head. I don’t feel that way anymore. I can feel the whole world opening up around me, as silent and slow as a blooming flower.

  “Hi,” says Max.

  “Hi,” I say back.

  I turn the page. I know what he has in his arms, but I can’t bring myself to look. That’s why he waited a few days. He was waiting for the magazines to come out so Rosanna could see how I did. I can’t tell from his body language whether I did well or not, if they’re calling me beautiful, welcoming me back, or saying all those horrible things he warned me about. If Rosanna is angry or pleased.

  “Well,” he finally says, “they’re in.”

  There’s a copy of one of the thin supermarket celebrity weeklies on the top of the stack, and he hands it to me. I am shaking a little, and the pages make a loud thwapping sound, like the crunch of dead leaves.

  “Page fourteen,” he says.

  There’s a Post-it marking the correct spot. I turn to it, and there’s Rosanna. Walking into the restaurant, smiling, the sun shining bright on her face. Just like any of the magazines I read every day, the magazine that’s wedged under my arm as I read this one. Only it isn’t Rosanna. It’s me. Even knowing this, for a moment I do not recognize myself. There is Rosanna, the slim-waisted grace of her, her smile, those eyes obscured by large sunglasses. But it isn’t her at all. Intellectually I know this. I can remember walking that sidewalk, smiling that smile. I remember, or I think I remember, passing through that crowd of strangers, all of them calling my—her—name. But I can no longer be certain. I feel like I am sliding out of my body, the way that when riding a roller coaster, you sometimes feel jolted out of yourself, lagging somewhere behind, stuck in a loop or upside down, both there and not there all at once, divorced from the immediate sensations of your existence. I know it’s me there on the page, that I am the one smiling, so self-assured, my hair lifted by a friendly wind, Max glowering behind me like my shadow. But it doesn’t look like me. It looks like Rosanna. There is the small half grin she uses to charm strangers, the listing sway of her hips. Her hands are floating in the air in front of her like two white birds, her back straight, head tilted to one side. She looks like she always looks in paparazzi photos, beautiful, carefree. I have never looked that way. I have never felt that way. I run my fingers over the slippery barrier of their paper, pressing hard, as though I can break through to that perfect, glossy world. I want to feel the same easiness in my body that she carries in hers, there on the page. But I don’t. I just feel like me, trapped in my heavy body. Weighed down by my flaws.