The Girl with the Wrong Name

by Barnabas Miller

  I giggle. “Yaaaaay,” I sing.

  “Yaaaaay,” she sings along. “Oh, shoot, shhhhhh. We have to stay real quiet, Thee. We can’t let Mommy and Daddy hear us. We’re on a super-special secret agent mission today that they can’t know about, remember?”

  “Right,” I whisper. “Super-secret mission.”

  “Okay, let’s check the frame.” She moves farther back, revealing herself head to toe. I can practically hear the glissando of harp strings as she floats into the wide shot, holding the bottom of her strapless white wedding dress like she’s preparing to curtsy.

  She looks like Audrey Hepburn in the Givenchy dress from Sabrina.

  She checks herself in the TV monitor and twirls. “What do you think?”

  “Pretty,” I swoon.

  “Why, thank you. Okay, let’s button you up. He’s going to be here any minute. We have to be at the Harbor Café by eleven forty-f—”

  “I know,” I sigh. “Eleven forty-five. You’ve said it, like, a ga­jillion times.”

  “Well, I don’t like to be late. And someone very important is meeting us there.” She jumps back into extreme close-up and buttons up the rest of my peacoat. “It’s not too hot, is it? Because you cannot take off this coat no matter what. You understand that, right?”

  “Yeah, I’m okay,” I say.

  “Ugh, I am so sorry to make you do this, Thee, but you know Andy is super-duper camera shy. I can live with that any other day, but if he thinks I’m not going to record this day for our children and grandchildren to see . . .” She slips into a nasal cartoon voice. “Then he don’t know me very well, do he?”

  “Hee, hee,” I giggle. “Bugs Bunny.”

  “I love that you’re five and you get my references. Okay, so you remember the plan, right? We go out on our super-secret mission, and then we come right back here and hide the cassette in the Magic Story Box.”

  “Duh.”

  “Okay, smarty-pants. Just making sure.”

  There’s a gentle tapping off camera, and Cyra has a quick panic moment ducking out of frame. I think she’s unplugging the TV monitor. Theo-Cam swivels to the window that faces the alley, and there, standing atop a metal ladder in all his golden glory, is Andy. He’s wearing a tuxedo, carrying a big, overstuffed backpack on his shoulder. He waves at Cyra with his devastating smile. She does a little happy dance as she runs to the window and lifts it up high for her Romeo to enter.

  “Oh, man.” He grins, taking in his bride-to-be. “When you change into something fancy, you really change into something fancy.”

  “Andy Reese’s!” I squeal with excitement, a toddler with a massive crush.

  “Well, hey, Snuggle Bear!” he says. He climbs in through the window, revealing the black Chuck Taylors that match his tux. He drops his overstuffed bag on the floor, reaches into his pocket, and hands me a Reese’s peanut butter cup.

  “What do you say?” Cyra prompts me.

  “Thank you, Andy Reese’s,” I dutifully respond.

  “Well, you know I’ve always got the hookup for my Snuggle Bear,” he says.

  “What’s in the bag?” Cyra asks.

  “You’re just going to have to wait to find out,” he says with a grin.

  “Is that a Speed Stick in the pocket?” she teases. “Are you that nervous?”

  “Come here,” he says. He wraps his arms around her, and they melt into a passionate kiss.

  “Ew,” my little voice mutters.

  But the kiss goes on and on as they begin to twirl across the room. Twirling and twirling until smack, Andy’s back slams into the window that faces the street, leaving a long crack right down the center.

  “Oh, shit, shit, shit,” Cyra gasps. “Shhhhhhh.” She presses her finger to her lips as they both stare at the crack. And then they fall into silent laughter.

  “Oh, man,” Andy whispers. “We got to get out of here.”

  “Let’s go, let’s go.” She grabs hold of my hand.

  “Wait,” Andy says, freezing in place. He keeps the smile tacked on his face, but it grows faint.

  “What?” Cyra asks.

  Andy turns his back to me, the camera. “She’s coming?” he murmurs.

  “Andy, this is my wedding day,” Cyra says. “I only get one, and my sister is going to be there.”

  “But what about, you know . . . the after-plan?”

  “Don’t worry, I have that all figured out,” she says. “We’ll make it work.”

  Andy lets out a long sigh.

  “Or we could just call the whole thing off,” Cyra says. “We could just plan another—”

  He shuts her up with a kiss. “Okay, come here, Snuggle Bear,” he says, holding out his hand to me. “We’re going to have to get you down this ladder. What do you say you and Andy Reese’s go strutting down Burger Street?”

  I hear myself break into massive fits of laughter behind the camera. “Burger Street!”

  “She never gets tired of that one,” he marvels.

  “Wait, I almost forgot.” Cyra grabs a small brown paper bag from the desk and hands it to Andy.

  “What’s in here?” he asks with a sly grin.

  “It’s not for you.” She giggles.

  “Damn,” he sighs, disappointed, stuffing it into the front pocket of his backpack. He reaches for me again and the “Theo-Cam” becomes a shaky blur.

  Max, Lou, and I watch as Andy lifts me safely down the ladder, walks me down the alley, lifts me over the iron gate, and hails us a cab.Then an endless static shot of the inside of a taxi. My eyes stay riveted on the screen, but some instinctive, almost autonomous part of my brain begins to control the playback buttons, making decisions about what needs to be seen.

  fast-forward . . .

  Theo-Cam sits at the marble table closest to the door of the Harbor Café. The camera looks out the window, across the front lawn, all the way to the tall ivy gates of Battery Gardens. The river and Lady Liberty melt into an ethereal blue-green blur in the background.

  Andy and Cyra sit together on the right side of the frame, feeding each other pastries, handing me a chocolate croissant that rises in and out of the shot as I eat.

  Cyra looks out the window and gazes up at the Battery Gardens balcony, sighing as she watches a couple (two black and white dots on the screen) pose for photos.

  “Someday,” she says, “when our parents get over all their issues and realize we weren’t too young, we’re going to renew our vows in a humongous wedding at Battery Gardens.” She turns back to Andy. “Promise me?”

  “Promise,” he says. He looks down and checks his watch. “Oh, man, come on now,” he complains. “It’s eleven forty-two. The Justice is meeting us at noon. She’s got to be here by eleven forty-five.”

  “There she is!” Cyra bellows, delighted. “My maid of honor!” She pops up from her seat and flies out the door to greet a young and vibrant Emma Renaux on the front lawn.

  Emma rushes to meet Cyra, a white purse strapped to her shoulder and a big bouquet of daisies wrapped in white deli paper. They embrace on the lawn.

  “Okay, Snuggle Bear,” Andy says, rising from his seat. “It’s time to tie the knot.”

  Theo-Cam rises as Andy hoists on his backpack and walks out into the wind to give Emma a hug. The hug lasts too long—Emma won’t let go at first, but as Theo-Cam runs at her, she finally releases Andy and greets me.

  “Well, don’t you look as snug as a bug in that adorable coat,” she says.

  “Thanks,” I reply.

  “Come on,” Andy says, pushing the girls along. “The Justice is meeting us in front of K.O.P. at noon. Let’s move.”

  We travel the short walk to Parker Street and approach the immaculate, brand-new façade of Keeping Our Promise. Bright, gleaming letters are set against the bright white stone wall.

  T
he Justice of the Peace waits at the top of the front stoop—short, bald, and pleasant. Andy and Cyra thank him for meeting them.

  “And this is your witness?” he asks, turning to Emma.

  “This is our witness,” Andy says.

  A witness. Emma was the one and only witness to their wedding, with the exception of five-year-old me. That’s what I’d been trying to tell myself when Andy (I) was falling apart in the crushing pressure of Room Nine. Emma was a witness.

  She was there. Emma was there on their secret wedding day. Why didn’t she tell me that in the hospital?

  fast-forward . . .

  They move in fast-motion. Andy unlocks K.O.P.’s front door and heads into the lobby with the Justice of the Peace. But Emma waits out on the stoop, and her face momentarily fills the frame.

  The look on Emma’s face . . .

  It’s the first time the camera has gotten close enough to really see it. The weighty sadness behind that pasted-on smile. The tiny creases of mourning in her furrowed brow. And something else. An ugly tension in the corners of her eyes and mouth. Visible veins in her neck. It’s not just sadness, and it’s not just jealousy.

  It’s anger.

  It may be masked behind that Southern belle smile, but it’s as plain as day for anyone bothering to look.

  Emma rips the white deli paper from the flowers with too much force. She hands Cyra the bouquet but keeps three daisies for herself. She begins to tear off the petals, one by one, with taut fingers. It looks like a violent game of “He Love Me, He Loves Me Not.” She finishes shredding them and takes a deep breath. Then she turns to me and marches toward the camera. She leans in too close to the lens and drizzles the loose petals like ashes into a tiny pile in my outstretched hand.

  Of course. I’m the flower girl.

  Cyra takes my free hand and guides me through the front door of K.O.P. “Go on,” she says from behind the camera. “Just like we practiced.”

  Emma’s and my voices begin to sing in unison.

  “Dum, dum, da-dum . . . dum, dum, da-dum . . .” An a capella “Wedding March.”

  I become a slow dolly shot through the freshly painted white lobby of K.O.P. I move in gradually on Andy and the Justice of the Peace. My left hand holds the shredded white petals in front of the camera as my right hand takes them in pinches and sprinkles them across the floor, creating a sad excuse for an aisle.

  Theo-Cam reaches Andy and then pivots back around to Cyra and Emma, who are walking up slowly from behind, arm in arm.

  Emma is still trying to sing “The Wedding March,” but the closer she gets to the camera, the more her voice begins to quaver, and the lower her head begins to droop. Tears begin to roll down her cheeks as they grow more and more flushed, the veins more visible in her neck. And then she abruptly stops singing.

  She stares, stone-faced, at Cyra, her gaze drifting down to the string of pearls on her neck. I’ve seen that gaze before. I saw it through Emma’s gauzy veil the day I ruined her wedding.

  “What’s wrong?” Cyra asks.

  Emma doesn’t answer.

  “Em, what’s wrong?” Cyra repeats.

  “Sorry, nothing!” Emma says, recovering her fake smile. She hands Cyra over to Andy, robotically, but hovers too close to them. She can’t take her eyes off the pearls wrapped around my sister’s slim neck.

  The Justice begins the ceremony. “Dearly beloved . . .” He recites the usual script right up until “the ring, please.” And then dead silence again.

  “Em,” Andy murmurs. “Em,” he repeats. “The ring.”

  I can see it in her eyes: Emma has left her body. Her hands take over, reaching for Cyra’s neck, latching onto the pearls.

  Cyra jerks her head back. “Em, what are you doing?”

  “I’m sorry,” Emma says. “I just can’t . . .” She rotates the pearls ten degrees on Cyra’s neck so that the largest one hangs dead center down her chest again. “I’m sorry, I just had to do that.”

  “It’s okay,” Cyra assures her. “Um, the ring?”

  “Right,” Emma says. She lowers her head, reaches into her white purse, and presents my dream ring to Andy. Little diamond daisy petals glowing around a gold center. Cyra and Andy both smile with relief, and the Justice returns to the script.

  “Do you, Lester Andrew Wyatt . . . ?”

  “I do,” Andy says, sliding the ring on Cyra’s finger.

  “And do you, Cyrano Sylvia Lane . . . ?”

  “I do,” she says.

  “Then by the power vested in me by the State of New York, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride.”

  They share a passionate kiss. But without any violins, or a crowd to applaud, the only sound left in the lobby is the sound of Emma’s crying. She steps forward and reaches around both of their shoulders. “That was beautiful,” she weeps. “I am so happy for you both.”

  They thank her and share a long three-way embrace. Cyra’s hand reaches toward the camera and pulls me into the hug.

  Then Emma turns around and begins a painfully slow walk back to the front door, shrinking smaller and smaller into the background.

  “Emma,” my squeaky voice calls out. “Emma, where are you going?”

  But Cyra crouches down to me and whispers, “Leave her be. Just leave her be for now.”

  “Okay,” I say as the door slowly swings shut.

  Now I know why Emma was so racked with guilt. I know why she feared revenge from Cyra’s ghost. She hadn’t just married Cyra’s boyfriend. She had married her husband. Did anyone but Emma and Andy know that?

  fast-forward . . .

  I watch in fast motion as Andy and Cyra shake the Justice’s hand and say their goodbyes. Andy picks up his backpack and then me, and we travel into the halls of K.O.P., passing all the untouched dorms, until we reach the common room with the TV, where he sets me down. The TV flips on, and SpongeBob races around the screen at high speed until Cyra crouches into frame, holding Andy’s backpack.

  Cyra unzips the front pocket of Andy’s backpack and opens the brown paper bag she handed him earlier. She pulls out four items, placing each one on the floor in front of Theo-Cam: a sandwich in a plastic baggie, two Tropicana juice boxes, and an apple.

  “Okay, Thee.” She smiles. “Andy and I are going to take a little bit of grown-up time to celebrate, just the two of us, and you can watch all the SpongeBob you want. We won’t be far away—just down that hallway, so you won’t be alone. And we won’t be too, too long, so just hang tight here for a while, and then we’ll come grab you, and we’ll head back home. Okay?”

  This time, I hesitate. “Okay,” my tiny voice replies.

  “Not too, too long, I promise,” Cyra says.

  “Mm-kay,” I mumble reluctantly.

  “Hey, Snuggle Bear,” Andy says, dropping into frame next to Cyra. “I think something’s missing from that lunch.” He reaches into his tuxedo pocket and pulls out three Reese’s peanut butter cups, placing them on the floor next to the apple. “Beats an apple any day, am I right?”

  Pause. “Yeah,” I mumble.

  “And what do you say?” Cyra prompts with uncharacteristic condescension.

  “Thank you,” I say flatly.

  “Thank you, who . . . ?” Andy squawks with playful indignation.

  “Thank you, Andy Reese’s.”

  “You are welcome!” he says. “Oh, man,” he marvels, looking at me. “Look at that face. Pure as the driven snow.”

  “What is it?” Lou asks. “What’s wrong?”

  I back my chair away from the console. “No,” I say, shaking my head. “No, I don’t need to see this.”

  “Why not?”

  My body is all sweat and chills. “Because I know what happens.”

  I can feel her slipping away from me. Yesterday, she didn’t exist, and
now she’s the most vibrant, living thing I’ve ever seen, and somewhere in the next hour of this tape, she’s going to disappear again. A birth and a life and a death all in a hundred and twenty minutes. No, I don’t need to see this. I don’t need to lose her twice.

  I suddenly hate everything about video recording. I despise it with all my heart, because you could lose someone over and over and over. Now all I want is to forget her again. I want to un-know everything I know and un-see everything I’ve seen. I want to make my mind a blank slate—just cross her out and start from scratch. Just like my mother had done.

  But then, what is the point? Why have I put myself through all this? And that is exactly what I’ve done. I have put myself through all of this. Because I need to know. There is something I’ve been desperately trying to tell myself and I need to know what it is. I need to know what really happened—not just bits and pieces, but everything. Because I’m not my mother. I don’t want to live my life playing make-believe.

  SpongeBob dances across the TV screen as Theo-Cam sits perfectly still.

  fast-forward . . .

  SpongeBob at four-times-speed. Commercials, SpongeBob, commercials, SpongeBob. Then the camera suddenly tilts over, and my tiny hand reaches out of frame. It returns with the remote control and flips off the TV.

  A sound echoes from somewhere down the hall. My sister is giggling.

  The camera rises from the floor and begins to move down the hallway, past Room Seven, Room Eight, and then it stops. The plexiglass window is too high to see through, but there’s light flickering through the glass, and I can hear her voice.

  “I can’t believe you did this,” Cyra coos. “This is so beautiful. You didn’t have to do this. I already know it will be worth the wait. You’re worth the wait, Andy.”

  Faint, almost inaudible sounds. Kissing.

  My tiny hand rises up and inches the door open the slightest crack. (Five years old and already too curious. Already needing to know the whole story.) It’s only a crack in the door, but it’s enough. Andy’s overstuffed backpack is on the floor, empty of all its contents now. There’s a fireplace lighter and two rows of white tea candles flickering all around the bed. A bed layered with blankets and colored chenille throws.