The Girl She Used to Be

by David Cristofano

  Then I walked up to him, grabbed his chest in an effort to twist his nipple, but it turns out those things are actually pretty hard to find. I poked him a couple times instead.

  “I am real,” I said. “My name is Melody, as in Melody Grace McCartney, you jerk.”

  I grabbed my purse and bolted for the door and just as I was about to slam it behind me I heard Nameless Guy say, “Oh, man. …You were the little girl from the Bovaro murder trial.”

  I froze. Even in my alcoholic haze I knew what I’d done.

  Nameless Guy fumbled around for a minute, then came lunging at the door with a disposable camera. “Can I take one picture, please? Just for me, to show the guys at work?”

  I ran from Nameless Guy’s apartment—and, in fact, ran for two days straight, flanked by two federal marshals and a pile of paperwork and promises for a better life. And within a month of my drunken flirtation, Farmington, New Mexico, became my new home.

  But I am here now, looking at how my body is fading in the now steamy mirror in my crappy motel room in Cape Charles, Virginia, wanting so desperately to be loved and touched, to find that man to take my hands, draw me to him, close his eyes, press his lips to mine, and lose himself—and pull me with him—in that sensual oblivion. I want to be unconditionally loved for who I am and to feel him find his way inside me because I am open to him, and I want to feel us push and pull and push and pull and get lost in each other in a way that, through all of my twenty-six years of living, I have yet to experience.

  So, yes, I want to be loved for who I am.

  And I wonder if I will ever know who I am—or what it means just to be myself.

  And I wonder if I can ever surrender myself when I am not sure who I am surrendering.

  I take a long shower, not because I need the time or enjoy the sensation, but because the droplets are coming down in decreasing speed, like whatever is causing the clog in the showerhead is the water itself. I dry myself and play with my hair and all I smell is chlorine and minerals. I have no perfume, no scented soaps, no body lotion—nothing to reaffirm my femininity except the Mitchum invisible stick I tossed into my garbage bag.

  Try as I might to look like a woman, the best I can manufacture is a middle-schooler. My fingernails and toenails are chipped of their polish and a third of my fingernails are broken. My hair is short and spiky no matter what I do to it, and there is no conditioner in my government-issue bag of goodies. No eyeliner, no mascara, no blush. Why didn’t I pack these items that are so crucial to the existence of a woman? Because when you are on the run—for real—you would not make time to pack them, or much else, for that matter; anything beyond clothing might seem suspect to the Marshals Service.

  So I look like a boy. Again.

  I slip on a fresh pair of jeans—one of the few items I did bring with me (the only pair that has fit me this well in the last five years)—and a tight blue cotton T-shirt that is more functional than suggestive.

  I walk out of the bathroom and Sean is missing. A slight tingling runs through me at the thought that Jonathan forced his way into my room and was caught off guard at the presence of the marshal—a notion that in retrospect seems unlikely—and that he dragged Sean’s bloody, limp body to the Chesapeake.

  So I am not surprised when I find Jonathan next to the side of the bed, out of view of the bathroom.

  He covers his eyes and asks, “Are you decent?”

  I move over to the bed and stick my hands in the pockets of my jeans, annoyed by the constant switching of men in my room. “You’re very polite for a captor, you know that?”

  He peeks out of the corner of his eye. “We have to leave now.”

  Nervous perspiration begins to pool on my body; I’m miffed since I just showered. “Today is the last day of the rest of my life.”

  He sighs and steps closer to me. “I promised I wouldn’t hurt you, didn’t I?”

  “Yes, but you’re a liar. I’ve known you for just a few minutes and you’ve already lied to me.”

  “What did I lie about?”

  “You told me Sean makes forty thousand a year. He makes fifty-three.”

  He frowns and reaches for his cigarettes. “Perhaps you missed my point, Melody. You feel any safer with him knowing he makes an extra thirteen K a year?”

  Fair enough.

  He lights one up and adds, “Pay a guy a half mil a year and you’ll get real protection.”

  “Is that what you guys charge for protection?”

  “Bite me.”

  “The President of the United States is guarded by guys that make the same amount as Sean, you know.”

  “The President is guarded by ten guys that make what your deputy makes. So we’re right back at a half mil.” He glances at me. “I find it entertaining that you call your little clam-digging friend Sean, instead of marshalordeputy.”

  “We have a… sort of… connection.”

  He laughs and tries to muffle his voice, as though Sean might be around the corner. “Yeah, well, expect to get disconnected very soon.”

  I roll my eyes. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on? And where is Sean?”

  “Sean is… delayed. He’s having a bit of, um, tummy trouble.”

  I inhale a lungful of side-stream smoke. It feels good, actually. “Is that some inane metaphor for having sliced his stomach to pieces?”

  He slouches in my direction, like he’s disappointed in me. “Now, does that seem like my style?”

  “What do I know? It was definitely your dad’s style.”

  He quickly looks away. “Yeah, well, that’s sort of why I’m here.”

  “Your daddy send you on an errand?”

  He stares at his cigarette and extinguishes it instead of taking another drag. Eventually, he looks up at me and his eyes sag and it seems I’ve genuinely hurt his feelings. I’m guessing poor Jonathan might have some issues with his father. I can only imagine.

  He stops looking me in the eye.

  “Meet me out front in five minutes,” he says, staring at the floor, his voice weakened. “And be alone.” He heads for the door.

  “Wait! Should I bring my stuff?”

  Jonathan scoffs. “What stuff?”

  He grabs the door and pulls it behind him and though I expect a slam, he closes it so gently that I never hear the click of the latch.

  If you ever find yourself getting ready to go on the run—or in WITSEC, even—the best advice I can give you is to go to the bathroom first. Between nerves and unplanned fluid consumption, you’ll wish you had taken the requisite thirty seconds to do your business.

  This leaves me four and a half minutes.

  I have nothing to take. Again. No photos or memorabilia. No clothes, except the pee-stained and sweat-soaked clothes from yesterday, which will not be making the journey. So this is everything about who I am: a T-shirt, a pair of jeans, a bra, a pair of panties, and a pair of abused sandals.

  Nothing but the Clothes on My Back: A Memoir.

  I have three minutes and for some reason I’m playing with my hair—and not from nervousness; who knows why, but I’m trying to make it look good.

  I am officially losing my mind.

  I have two minutes and out of some real fear and last-second panic, I bolt from my room and start banging on Sean’s door. I get no answer but I can hear him coughing and retching somewhere deeper inside.

  I have thirty seconds left and Sean, apparently, will not be saving the day. And here’s the kicker: I don’t try any harder to give him the opportunity. I know that behind this motel door resides the same answer, the same solution, the same level of commitment and concern for my welfare that I’ve been using as a feckless crutch for almost my entire life.

  I stop knocking.

  I loosen my fist and drop my hand to my side and lumber up to the front of the motel, where I find Jonathan sitting in the driver’s seat of a cherry red, late-model Audi S4 convertible. With the top down.

  I slow my pace.

 
He smiles, and though he’s wearing sunglasses, I’m pretty sure he just winked at me.

  I stare at him and say, “Why not just paint a target on the back?”

  He waves me over to the car. “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning I cannot think of a more conspicuous way for you to get me out of here.”

  “What do I care? I’ve committed no crime, at least none that would concern the pukemeister back there. And besides, I’m not holding a gun to your head or a knife to your throat. You’re coming willingly.”

  “Wh—are you kidding? The gun or knife is implied, Jonathan.”

  “I specifically told you I would not hurt you.”

  “And I specifically told you I perceive you to be a liar.” I take a few steps closer and touch the car. It is hot from the sun and the smell of the warm leather keeps me still. “Besides you did have a knife to my throat not too long ago, remember?”

  He laughs. “You mean this?” He reaches in his jacket and pulls out a Montblanc pen. “Hop in.”

  I bite my lip and gaze over my shoulder, back toward the motel, looking for a sign from Sean, for a reason to stay, for any notion that this time, this relocation, this persona, will be different.

  I get nothing more than a cool, salty breeze.

  I gulp as I open the car door and slowly ease my way down on the seat. It fits like a glove.

  “I’m not really dressed for riding with the top down,” I say. “I mean, you’ve got a jacket and sweater on and I—”

  “Wait.” He reaches behind his seat and grabs a mangled shopping bag and hands it to me. “I crossed over that monstrous bridge-tunnel thing last night and picked up some clothes for you. I figured you weren’t going to have much.” He turns away and swallows. “I hope these are your style. I was guessing you were about a six?”

  I almost correct him. “You… bought me clothes?”

  “Yeah, Norfolk’s not even an hour from here. I did a little power-shopping last night.”

  I reach into the bag and remove a dark green cotton sweater; the texture and quality are something I have never been able to afford or enjoy while working low-income jobs. The color is something I would not have picked for myself, but suddenly it is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.

  Jonathan watches me bring the sweater to my face and rub the cotton against my cheek and breathe in the smell of the fabric. I can feel him staring.

  “It matches your eyes,” he says.

  I do not return his gaze, but slowly pull my face from the cloth. “You’ve seen me for just a few minutes of my life and you know my dress size and the color of my eyes?”

  Never in all my relocations had a marshal ever taken such notice. And the best I can do with Sean is get some cheap hair color, a travel-sized bottle of shampoo, and a bar of Lever 2000.

  He clears his throat and looks at his watch. “I got you a bunch more stuff in the trunk, but we need to get going.”

  The sun shines hard and the black leather is holding the heat. I sink down a little and drape the sweater over my chest, like a blanket. Part of me wants to turn around and see if Sean is behind us—mostly to make sure we’re out of reach—but I just close my eyes and Jonathan accelerates and my body presses against the back of the seat and gravel flies from under all four wheels and the air rushes all around us, harder and harder, and as we blend with the traffic I feel oddly whole.

  For the first time in twenty years I am not running. Because I am captured.

  I have never felt freer than I do right now.

  The wind whips over my face and for a moment my hair feels long and beautiful and I imagine it is flowing behind me like a silk scarf.

  Jonathan weaves in and out of the cars well above the speed limit, showing absolutely no concern for police attention. His strange confidence warms me.

  He keeps one hand on the wheel and one on the stick and it seems both are in constant motion. For whatever reason, I cannot take my eyes off of him.

  He catches me and smiles, then reaches under his seat and pulls out a small case full of CDs and hands it to me. “Pick anything you can listen to at top volume.”

  I smile and begin to unzip the pouch. “What do we have here? Bach? Mozart?”

  “Sinatra. Bennett.”

  I laugh, but believe him. He lied to me again. I flip through the collection and am once more surprised—and confused. Beth Orton, Coldplay, Aimee Mann, Guster, Frou Frou, Keane, Finn Brothers, Glen Phillips, Jack Johnson.

  “You’re a pretty mellow guy,” I say.

  He shrugs a little. “I have my moments.”

  I turn to the last slot in the case and remove Hot Fuss by the Killers and wave it in front of him.

  “Funny,” he says, snatching it from my hands and pushing it in the player.

  And for the next hour the car is screaming up the conifer-lined highway and so is the music and the wind is tugging my hair and the sun is making me melt and Jonathan keeps steering and shifting and passing and zipping side to side and all I know is that we are driving north and I have no idea where we are heading but I hope and pray this road will never end.

  • • •

  I stir from a deep sleep at the same time a sign that reads BALTIMORE 14 comes into focus; I’ve been asleep for hours. I rub my eyes and clear my throat. The music is gone.

  I yell above the din of the wheels, “Are you taking me back to Columbia?” It seems like something that should have come up by now.

  Jonathan merely shakes his head. “We’re going home—to my home.”

  I sit up a little. I’m not sure I understood what he just told me. “What do you mean?”

  He looks at me, then back to the road. “Home. My home.”

  I’m dumbfounded. “Please tell me you live in Pennsylvania.”

  He smiles, then laughs, then takes his hands from the steering wheel and waves them in the air. “New York City, baby. The Big Apple!”

  My life flashes before my eyes.

  My lives flash before my eyes.

  I yank up on the parking brake and grab the steering wheel and suddenly we’re slipping and spiraling about the highway and as the car comes to a stop on the shoulder, still on all four wheels, it occurs to me that the Germans produce some fine engineers.

  Cars skid around us and the inevitable sounds of screeching tires and car horns reach our ears.

  Jonathan catches his breath, then screams, “Are you out of your mind?”

  I turn off the car and pull the key from the ignition. “Why are you taking me to New York?” Jonathan stares at me like there’s something he needs to say but is not quite ready. “What’s the matter, can’t handle the wet work yourself? Need a big brother or an uncle to do the—” I inhale sharply and narrow my eyes at him. “That is it, isn’t it?” I laugh to myself. “Oh, you were so clever with your ‘I’m not going to hurt you. I promise I won’t hurt you.’ ”

  He looks down, still breathing heavily. “You’ve got me all wrong, Melody.”

  The Bovaros have destroyed my life, killed my parents, sucked every ounce of hope out of me. I want to hate Jonathan—I want to destroy him—but I can’t. Despite the fact that he’s some vague threat to my life, he’s also the only person who has any authentic interest in me, in who I am.

  And he calls me Melody; hearing my birth name acts like a tenderizer.

  People slowly drive by and stare.

  Jonathan lowers himself in the driver’s seat, still panting, and it seems he has never been this close to death before, which I find odd. He slowly raises a hand and says, “Hear me out, okay?”

  I glare at him a few seconds longer, to sort of make a point, then I look away and pull the sweater to my face again. It is the first gift I have received in ten years. I decide to cut him a little slack.

  “I’m listening.”

  He wipes his face free of perspiration and says, “You want to grab a bite? Let’s get a table and talk.” Some guy blows his horn and gives us the finger. “There’s a great resta
urant not too far from here.”

  “You know this area?”

  “It’s a great place to bury people, well distanced from New York. The dirt is loose and moist, so it’s easy to dig.”

  He doesn’t laugh.

  “My nerves are shot… but I guess I should try to eat something.”

  He puts out his hand and I reluctantly hand him the keys. He grabs the keys and my hand at the same time. “You’re safe with me, Melody. Okay? As long as I am with you, you are safe.”

  I nod a little and stare at the road ahead. “This great restaurant have any wine? I need something to help me relax.”

  He starts the car and pulls onto the highway. “A restaurant can’t be considered great if it does not have wine.”

  There was a part of me that was hoping Jonathan would blow my mind once again and take me to a Thai restaurant, but for the first time in the brief period of our acquaintance, he was true to the cliché.

  We’re sitting in an Italian restaurant somewhere deep inside the city of Baltimore but not in the neighborhood referred to as Little Italy. The background music is a boring mélange of crooners. And though the place is a messy hole-in-the-wall, there is something that makes it feel like we’ve been welcomed into the home of a large family.

  We are the first customers for lunch.

  After being seated in a far corner of the restaurant, significantly distanced from the kitchen, the waiter offers us menus, but Jonathan pushes them to the side. “Allow me to order for you, Melody.”

  I make a face.

  “I don’t mean to offend,” he adds, “but I believe I know what you’d like.”

  I turn to the waiter and say, “We’ve been dating now for about two hours.” I cross my fingers. “We’re tight!”

  Jonathan apparently takes this as a green light. “She will have the rabbit, very rare, in red wine. Three orders again, honey?”

  I roll my eyes.

  He starts over. “Okay, she will have…” He stares at me until I stare back, then he puts his elbows on the table and leans in my direction. “She will have the carpaccio of beef with watercress and garlic aioli and eggplant croquettes and I will have the veal chops with lemon sage sauce and the risotto with arugula and goat’s cheese.”