The Body Double

by Emily Beyda

  “Okay,” I say, “I get it. I’m sorry, I guess I’m a little nervous, this is big. It’s a big day.”

  I have talked myself into a corner. Now I really am starting to get nervous.

  “It is a big day,” Max says. “And I expect you to do well. If Marie is prying, just say something vague about wellness. Needing some time. Redirect the conversation to her life, her problems. It should be easy.”

  “But what if it isn’t?” I ask.

  Hearing the words float in the still air of the room, I realize the precariousness of my situation. I have gotten away with lying to strangers, the press, people who knew Rosanna vaguely from a distance or not at all. Of course, for them, I am close enough to the real thing. But this is different. This is Marie. She knows Rosanna as she really is, or as she had been before she disappeared. What if she notices something different about me? What if I’m not good enough for her? If she notices a change, she will go to Rosanna. And if she does that, everything is over for me. I feel something inside me skip, speed up.

  “It will be,” says Max. “Don’t think about it too much.”

  I feel around for a response in the blank spaces of my brain, going over the flash cards, images of Marie, her husband, their mutual friends. None of this helps. I close my eyes. I make myself relax. Somewhere deep down, quiet, I can feel the pull of her. Rosanna will guide me. She always has. Just be natural, I tell myself. Help her help you.

  If Max can tell that I am frightened, he doesn’t let on. Maybe he likes it. This is the one way in which I am not like Rosanna, will never be like her. Unlike Rosanna, I am afraid.

  * * *

  —

  Marie is waiting for me at the trailhead. It is a shock seeing her standing there. Real. In some ways she is so familiar, the way she stands, her tense, distracted expression as she gazes down at her phone. But she looks older than I expected. More human. In the videos, she is perfect, all sleek, toned muscles and easy grace. Here she is just another woman, waiting, nervous, her skin fragile in the full light of the sun. I feel a tenderness toward her that is so intense, so painful, I can barely move. It almost feels like the real thing.

  “Marie,” I say. “Hello.”

  She looks up. Tiny flashes of emotion break across her face like clicked-through slides in an old projector—longing, confusion, rage—appearing and disappearing so quickly that I barely have a chance to register them. She settles somewhere neutral, her face smoothly expressionless. Somehow it makes me sad, that she has to pretend for me. She shouldn’t have to do that. And I realize that she needs me to succeed as badly as he does. More, maybe. For her, I have to make this real. I need everything I say to her to be true. For Rosanna’s sake, even more than my own.

  “Hello,” she finally says.

  “Babe!” I say, plastering my face into the wide smile I use when Rosanna sees someone she knows. “So good to see you. It’s been too, too long.”

  I hope this is the right expression. I’ve never smiled for someone Rosanna knows as well as Marie. On the tapes they are affectionate with each other, embracing, air-kissing, each telling the other how beautiful she is, how much she loves her. I’m ready for that kind of warmth, that closeness. I need it, even if it doesn’t entirely belong to me. But Marie just stands there, looking at me with a strange open-faced curiosity. Finally she smiles. It is a tight smile, and it doesn’t reach her eyes, but it is a smile nonetheless.

  “Rosanna,” Marie says. There is a question in her voice, a hesitation. I feel that she is staring right through my expensive clothes, past my perfect body, to the stretch marks on my thighs, my surgery scars. Even with all the creams Max buys me, the vitamin oils and mineral pastes and positively charged crystal waters, they still shine angry red against the pale surface of my skin.

  “It’s good to see you,” I say. I spread my arms wide to embrace her, feeling the stiffness where they removed the fat from under my arms. I can only hope she won’t notice. Marie hesitates. And then she comes to me slowly, a little awkward, but close enough to smell that I am wearing Rosanna’s perfume, unwashed exercise clothes, close enough against my false surface to absorb the familiar presence of the woman she loves. Her friend. She relaxes, just a little, into my arms. I wrap them tight around her and give her a squeeze. A wash of emotion fills my throat, tears pressing hot against the base of my tongue. She loves Rosanna so much. Rosanna is so loved.

  “You, too,” she says.

  Still, she shifts away from me after only a moment. I let her go, afraid that if I hold on too long, the heavy smell of my own body will seep through, betraying me.

  “What are you even doing back here?” she says. “From the email you sent me I thought that you were giving up on L.A. for good.”

  “And you?” I say. “Never!”

  There’s a pause. Maybe I was wrong, I think. Maybe Rosanna has kept the truth from her. Maybe she doesn’t know.

  “Well, you look great,” she finally says. “The time away must have agreed with you. Maybe I should try disappearing for a year. Apparently it does wonders for the skin.”

  A year. It has been a year since Marie has seen Rosanna.

  “You seem to be doing well, too,” I say. “The website, and all of the interviews and everything, I’ve been keeping up! And I have so many questions for you, I don’t know how I’ll ever find time to ask them all.”

  I speak in a steady, enthusiastic voice. I do not show any emotion Rosanna wouldn’t feel, Rosanna, whose decision this was. Rosanna who left. Marie looks away from me. I can tell that she is fighting hard to keep her expression neutral.

  “Anyhow,” she says, “it is nice to see you. It really is good to have you back.”

  “I know it’s been a long time,” I say. “I’m sorry. I promise I’ll make it up to you eventually.”

  “I don’t think it’s a question of making anything up,” says Marie. “You’re living your life. I’m living mine. In a way, I guess it’s normal.”

  I can understand Rosanna walking away from everything else, or wanting to. Marie is her friend, though, or thinks she is. What terrible mistake must she have made to earn this kind of treatment? And why aren’t we talking about it now?

  “It might be normal,” I say. “But that doesn’t mean I like it. At least I’ve managed to keep up with your blog!”

  I shake the green juice in her general direction, the contents of the bottle sloshing muddy against the sides.

  “So you’re reforming?” she says, false cheer animating her voice. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

  “Well, I’m trying. As they say in therapy, it’s a process.”

  “Ooh,” says Marie, “therapy! What’s next, self-awareness? Don’t you go changing on me now.”

  And she smiles. This time her face seems to move more, her eyes wrinkling at the corners. A small smile, a mean smile, but a real smile nonetheless.

  “Very funny,” I say. “Now come on, let’s walk.”

  * * *

  —

  The path up the mountain is narrow, dusty. At first, on the lower slopes, we pass a few other hikers, most of them women, most alone, some walking tiny dogs or big ones who pull the women down the mountain with their bulk. The women give us the looks I am used to, the sideways glance from the corner of their eyes that means they know who I am. I pretend not to notice, but in my head I count how many of them look at me first, how many at Marie. Every glance lands reassuringly on my skin, adding to my solidity, reaffirming my presence on the mountain, in the world. I am here, I tell myself. I am really here. Gradually I let myself relax. As the slope gets steeper, the crowd thins until it is just Marie and me, walking in silence. I sift through my brain for something useful to say. I remember what Max said, that I should get her talking about her lifestyle brand, her writing, her family. Let her do the work for me.

  “Well, you
’re right about inflammation,” I say. “This stuff really helps.”

  I take a sip of my drink, a big one, the gritty liquid sour on my tongue, and try very hard not to gag.

  “Since when do you care about stuff like that?” Marie asks.

  She is walking fast. Even with all the exercise I’ve been doing, I struggle to match her pace. I am unaccustomed to traversing any distance longer than the width of my room, and it tells, my toned body burning in new places, the air of the outside world strange in my lungs. I laugh a breathless little laugh.

  “Since I turned thirty, I guess!” I say. “It had to happen sooner or later. And Max has got me hooked on these turmeric root shakes. He reads your blog, too. That’s where he got the recipe. Honestly I’ve never felt better!”

  Marie finally slows down so her pace matches mine. She looks at me sideways. “Wait,” she says. “You’re still in contact with Max?”

  Even more air goes out of my lungs, a gasp I disguise as inhalation. I am glad now that I’m out of breath. It gives me a second to think about what to say, and I fall back just a step, trying to ignore the quick rush of panic that has grabbed me by the throat. What does Marie know about Max that I do not? What does Rosanna know? I want to ask her questions, to pump her for information, but no, I can’t—Rosanna already knows how she feels about Max. She wouldn’t have to go to Marie for confirmation, especially if she’s changed her mind in the intervening year. Another woman passes us on her way up, walking two enormous Huskies on matching braided-leather leashes. Their hair is glossy from high protein diets and expensive shampoo, their teeth glinting in the clean light. I feel her look at me, the way her gaze lingers. Is she recognizing me on her own, or has Max asked her to keep an eye on me? We, he says sometimes, talking about the project. How many of us are there? There is no safety even here, with a woman who is supposed to be my best friend. Maybe I can trust her. Maybe I can’t. But there is no guarantee that whatever I tell her will stay between us. What happened between Rosanna and Max is something I will have to discover on my own.

  “Yes,” I say finally, careful. “Of course I still talk to Max. He works for me, after all. And we’re very close. Why wouldn’t we be?”

  This seems safe, vague enough that I could be asking Marie for her own interpretation rather than getting her to recall my own words.

  “Well, the last time we talked…,” says Marie, “actually, more than once, you said that you thought his interest in you was a little…well, more than professional. Creepy.”

  She must see the look of panic that flashes across my face too quickly to control, so she interrupts herself. “But hey, now we know you weren’t in a super stable place back then, right? Maybe you changed your mind?”

  “Yeah.” I wait a second to see if anything lights up in recognition. Am I speaking a truth Rosanna understands? But there is nothing. “I guess I did,” I finally say.

  It’s hard to push the words out. I am no longer pretending. I really can’t breathe. Marie stops beside me and puts her hand on my back, her face coated thick with a concern that looks genuine, but honestly who knows? I have lost my ability to distinguish between real emotion and pretend, the felt and the faked.

  “You okay?” she asks.

  “I’m fine,” I say. “Just got a little dizzy. It’s been a while since I’ve been outside, you know? At the wellness center…”

  I let my voice trail off, look into the distance, feeling around inside me for that pulse of reality that lets me know that I’m on the right track, close to doing the right thing. But there is nothing. No sign of life inside. I let the real confusion and fright inside of me rise to the surface, let my eyes glaze over and go blurry.

  “Hey,” says Marie, “hey, it’s fine. I get it. Whatever. You’re allowed to change your mind.”

  “I mean, you’re not wrong,” I say. “That is something I…I said that. About Max. That is something I said. I guess he just annoyed me sometimes. He was always underfoot, you know? I really depend on him, though. Not all change is good. Max helps me. For all his flaws, he has always been helpful. So I decided to keep him. There were other changes that were more pressing.”

  “I see,” Marie says finally. “Well, I’m glad to hear you’re making changes.”

  “I am,” I say. “I have been. I don’t like to talk about it much, but if it weren’t for Max, I wouldn’t be here with you. He has always taken care of me. I pushed him away, yes, but he always came back. Max is the one person I can count on. For all his flaws.”

  Marie nods, her lips tight.

  “Not that I can’t count on you,” I say. “I meant employees, you know that.”

  “Just drop it,” she says. “It’s fine. I’m sorry I asked. It’s really none of my business, right? I mean, there’s a reason you haven’t seen me for so long.”

  “It’s not just you,” I say. “I haven’t seen anyone.”

  “Except for Max,” she says, “the alleged creep.”

  “Yeah, but that’s different. He works for me.”

  “And I’m your oldest friend.”

  “Of course you are,” I say. “I’m sorry. I just needed to be alone for a while. I don’t know what else to say.”

  We have climbed higher now, the city spread out beige vague at our feet. I catch up to Marie. Some part of the old competitiveness must remain, because she smiles a little, seeing me sweat. I feel a quick little pulse of annoyance. Is that all this is? The same old pointless competition, repeated forever, on a horrible infinite loop? It’s too dangerous to keep talking like this. I try to figure out what comes next.

  “So the website’s doing well, I take it?” I ask. “You always make the best things. I still have a little bit of that rose-hip-infused honey you gave me for Christmas a few years ago. The kitchen’s under construction right now, so I’m living vicariously through your food photos!”

  This is a lie we have come up with to keep Marie from inviting herself over to Rosanna’s house. Marie can be a nuisance, Max says, always dropping by when she’s not wanted. Rosanna doesn’t want to see her now. It would be too painful, Max says. But creepy, I think. Maybe I should say something that will make Marie want to stop by the house. Maybe Rosanna really does need her more than I do. There must be some way we can explain our situation in language Marie will be able to understand.

  “Well, you have that whole empty building down the hill,” she says. “That’s what, eight kitchens to eat honey in? Besides, do you really want to talk about my blog right now? Is that really the most pressing issue on your mind?”

  “Yeah,” I say, “you know what, I do want to talk about it. The normal stuff. The boring stuff. Real life, gossip, whatever. I missed you so much while I was away. I’m so sick of spending all this time in my head. I’m sick of talking about myself. Sometimes it feels like that’s all I do, just talk and talk about all my dumb problems. I want to hear about you. So tell me, how’s life? How are you? How’s all the everyday stuff that bores you to tears?”

  Marie looks at me for a long moment. And then suddenly, incredibly, she laughs. “You really are reforming,” she says. “If you want to know, I’ll tell you. But you have to at least pretend you’re interested.”

  “I will,” I say. “I am. Believe me, your domestic situation is fascinating to me. Preschool dramas. Bloody noses. Whatever, I want to hear about it all.”

  “Well, Edward is fine,” she says. “They’re all fine. To be honest, I don’t want to talk about him or the children. It’s all anyone asks you about when you’re married. It’s like you’re not even a person anymore. It’s exhausting.”

  “I know what you mean,” I say. “I haven’t felt like a person in months now. Years. Never, maybe. The more I think about it, the more I realize I’ve never been a person in my life.”

  Marie laughs. “Well, you’re not a person, are you? You’re…”—
and she puts on an exaggeratedly dramatic voice to say this part—“the famous Rosanna Feld.”

  I look at her. Really look. At her hair, her hands, the perfect line of her profile against the sky—all the little fragments that make up this woman, my friend. I like this Marie much more than I do the version of her that exists on the tapes. Maybe I’m better than the Rosanna on the tapes, too. A feeling stirs to life inside of me. A real feeling. Mine. I picture us, Marie and me, alone on the couch, our bodies mirrors. We might not be so perfect out here, but I like her. I like us together. Friends.

  We pause at the top of the hill and look out over the city. Wrapped up in our conversation, I haven’t noticed how high we’ve climbed. My new body is stronger than I realized. I am stronger than I realized.

  “Look,” says Marie, “it’s terrible. The smog is so thick you can’t see the islands.”

  She points out past the ends of the boulevards, toward a blurrier part of the shining sea, buckling the horizon with reflected light.

  “I wish we didn’t have to live in this horrible place. I hate it, I really do. Remember when we said we’d leave?”

  “Well,” I say, “you live in Ojai now, right? At least part-time. So we’re halfway there!”

  She laughs. I was nervous that she might not laugh, but she laughs, she likes it, and I am grateful to her. I let my face relax into a mask of agreeable attentiveness, an expression I have practiced night after night in the mirror and now settle into without thinking, my face draping soft over the familiar framework of the expression. I feel myself begin to drift out of the tight space of my borrowed body, out over the blank expanse of the city, limitless. I breathe in the dusty air, the clear, clean light. It is all so easy. I look back at my body, at Marie and me standing so close to the edge of the cliff. We look perfect. Just like the real thing.

  “But you haven’t seen my house in Ojai,” says Marie.