by A. K. Smith
As I bend down to pick the papers up, I know my fake suicide will break him. It’ll torture him. He will wonder why he didn’t see the signs. He’ll stay up night after night, trying to put the pieces together, trying to find the ones he didn’t have for the Sunday puzzle. It will drive him crazy wondering what he missed. I know this because it would destroy and devastate me if he was not the Jack that I thought he was. If he ever went off the deep end and tried to take his life, I would question everything.
Maybe someday in the future I could contact him, let him know I was still alive, apologize for what I put him through. As quickly as that precious dream enters my mind, I throw it over the cliff of Never Going to Happen. From everything I’ve researched, the number one reason people who fake their death get caught is because they try to keep in touch with one person from their previous life. Jack would be my one person. I can’t. Sunday Foster must be dead, gone forever. Letting go of Jack and his incredible family is the ultimate price I have to pay. It’s my punishment for what I let happen.
Jack hands me the last of the fallen papers. “Well, my mom and dad just gave me $300 for painting the shed, so I’m paying. Consider it a spring fling present. Now you can’t say no. Sunday, are you listening? Are you in?” His eyes wide, he gave me that extra special cute puppy look. “I miss you already, and you’re standing right here.”
His eyes always get me. The eyes are the windows to our souls; and his overflowing with goodness, love, and happiness. Everything I always wanted. Calm Jack: never reactive, never in a hurry. Knowing we have little time left together—I decide my pseudocide will occur one week after the school trip. This will require every free minute I have. No shortcuts, no digital footprints, every last detail has to be in place for the plan to work. But we can have this one last memory. One last time together. One final goodbye.
I miss him already too. “Count me in. I can never say no to you.”
“Oh, really? Hmm. That gives me ideas…” Jack’s beautiful face beams as he whispers, “I love you, Sunday Foster.”
Three words. Three words I so desperately want to hear, and at the same time I want to ignore. I want to say, Take it back.
Jack told me he loved me last year. I never said the three words back instead I started using three words: “miss you already.” I can’t say the words back. I just can’t. When I was younger, I used to tell my mom I loved her and she would ignore me. One day I said it as nice as anyone could say those three words. She grabbed my arm, lifted me out of the kitchen chair and pushed me in THE DARK. When I asked, sobbing, “Why, Mommy? Why? What did I do?”
“Stop saying you love me; you don’t even know what that word means,” she screamed.
I never say it. Not to SHE, HE, Jack or anyone else in my life.
Everything is moving so fast. I need to find a solution to my identity issue. Yesterday.
I slam my locker, kiss Jack, avoid his eyes and turn. “I’ll call you later. I need to run. Miss you already.”
The Hard Liquor Boys are at it again. Amir and Eric stand in the middle of the pack at the back of the school parking lot. Bunnies being circled by coyotes. From a distance, it doesn’t look threatening, but I can’t hear what they are saying. Eric stares at the ground and Amir continues to push his glasses up his nose, slippery in oil and sweat. It can’t be good.
Amir hands his iPhone to the biggest bully of them all, the leader of the Hard Liquor Boys, Cody. My fist clenches. During the day, in the hallways, girls swoon over Cody hoping for a second of direct eye contact as he swaggers down the hall. But the current cruelty on his face makes him appear monstrous. The low-toned laughter from the group sounds dangerous. Cody, now in mime persona, acts like he is going to drop the phone and then catches it, casually throwing it back and forth from one hand to another. Great, now he is taking photos of the two of them, their shoes, their crotch and then he puts the phone right up on Amir’s face.
I can’t watch this, but I can’t walk away. As I get close, I hear the shouts.
“Pose for the picture, Towelhead. Terrorists!” one of the boys shouts.
“ISIS called, and they want you to go back to your own country. America doesn’t want you,” another voice yells.
My gut clenches, compassion lighting a match to my pity, mixed with a rising anger at the stupidity of the chosen words. Amir was born in America, and his father was in the military, and fought for our country, assholes.
They cower close together. Amir, in his pants that are way too short, towers over Eric. If he would only stand up tall, he would probably be taller than Cody.
Cody vehemently throws the phone on the ground. A sickening loud crack, is followed by flinty sounding laughter from the other boys. Amir bends down to pick up the phone and Cody plucks his glasses off his face. The glasses are now the new sports equipment to toss back and forth. Cody grabs Eric’s glasses next, and I know what is coming. Both pair of glasses are going to be shattered just like the phone.
That cracking sound and the smell of sweat created by cruelty infuses me. Bullies, just like my father. Where did this depraved sickness come from? Could you be born cruel? I hope to God my child will not be like this.
I storm across the ground, my tangled long blonde hair picking that moment to fall loose from the top of my head. My hand doesn’t even shake as I hold my phone up and started to record a video.
“Hey! Cody Maxwell! Want to say hi to the camera?”
He glances in my direction and back to Eric.
“Seriously, dude, what are you doing right now? I’m filming you. Do you want this video to be all over the entire internet?”
His face twists in a snarl, barely acknowledging me. For a millisecond, he resembles a rabid dog. But it’s okay, I’m used to rabid dog faces. This one will show up great on video.
“All it takes is for me to push this little button right here, and believe me, it will go viral. In fact, it’s already uploading to the Cloud. And you know what the best news is, Cody Maxwell, besides being famous for a second by breaking someone’s iPhone and glasses? Perpetuity. Have you heard that word before? It means, the video will be there for the rest of your life. Cody Maxwell, the Bully. Good luck getting into college, a good job… I mean, every company wants to hire a bully, right?”
He sneers at me, and for a minute I think he is going to lunge at me, grab my phone, and smash it on the ground, but one of the smarter Hard Liquor Boys grabs him.
“Oh look, I sent it to my email, just in case you want to smash my phone.” I hold it out.
Cody gives me the once-over, starting with my scuffed-up leather boots, to my fringed jean skirt, all the way up to my face. No direct eye contact, only mild curiosity, as if I were a wild animal at the zoo.
“Pay him a hundred dollars for the glass screen you just broke, and give their glasses back, and I will delete it.” I try to make him meet my eyes, thinking that if I could make contact, I could reach him.
I hear a noise behind me. A small crowd is rushing over to check out the commotion. Spectators with phones in the air: a cavalry of hope.
His eyes flick over my shoulder. “I don’t have a hundred bucks.”
Cody needed a nudge to find a solution.
“Well, borrow it from your buddies, or I post it. Now.”
I’m crying again. I’m blaming it on the pregnancy and hormones. What did I ever do to deserve this? My fingers are digging in the dirt of my special place, I’m transfixed watching the tiny little waterfall trickle, the water running away over the smooth round pebbles, to a new destination. Running water never stays in one place. I want to run somewhere new. My fingernails are full of brown dirt. I don’t care.
The snap of a branch alerts me. Amir is behind me.
After the incident at school, I knew he would seek me out. But I’m not ready for company.
I’m blaming it on the changing hormones. My face is wet as I wipe my chin with the back of my dirty hand.
“Thanks, Sunday.” He bre
aks his ten-foot personal space barrier and touches my shoulder and I jump. I didn’t realize he was so close.
Maybe he’s wants to talk about the incident at school, but as terrible as that was, it isn’t my most pressing issue.
“I hate them.” A stone hits the bank and plops into the running water.
I don’t even have to ask who ‘them” is.
“I would have lost it if I had to deal with one more inquisition from my father about why I need a new pair of glasses.” He pauses. “Eric is thankful, too, even though he will never tell you. He hates them more than I do. Hates them.” He picks up another larger rock and pitches it in the water. “This is not supposed to be happening in our senior year. This is not how it’s supposed to be.”
I don’t turn around. I use the back of my hand to wipe my face one more time. I’m sure I have dirt streaks. Amir is definitely right. We sit in silence for about five minutes.
“Sunday, maybe I can help you.” I hear him swallow. “I know something is wrong.”
His words make the lump in my throat grow ten times bigger. Why is it when someone tries to be nice to me at my lowest point, it turns me into a basket case? I use every shred of control inside me to hold back more tears.
“Sunday, I owe you one. What can I do to help you?”
I swallow my sadness, sniffle, and breathe in. Just breathe. Facing the creek, I wonder if I could trust Amir. I mean really trust him. I vowed not to trust anyone again, but what other options do I really have? Help. I need help. Amir is a genius with technology. Brilliant at computers.
“Can you make a fake I.D.?”
“What, to use in a bar?”
“No, to use for the rest of my life. I want to change my identity and start all over fresh and new, but I need a real identity. Can you do it?” The words flew out without a struggle. This is a moment I will regret or rejoice over.
Chapter 9
Ghosting, Cemeteries, and West Virginia
Amir is a savior. A surprising rescuer.
Tapping his hand on the steering wheel, I notice how different he is.
I laugh. He stops tapping.
It’s funny how much time we have spent together. I know I’m breaking one of the rules of faking your own death by confiding in someone, but I don’t see another way out. Amir knows many things about HE and SHE, and in the last six years, he has never told anyone.
After I told him my whole plan on pseudocide, he promised, swearing on his life he would keep the secret. I need help, and Amir is here.
Jack thinks I’m working. Another lie. He has no idea, how much time I’m spending with Amir. The last few days, we have spent more time together in public in mere days than we have for six years.
I trust Amir, but I don’t want to tell him about the pregnancy. I can’t imagine even saying those words out loud. I love Jack, but I can’t tell him either.
Now, here we are, on a road trip, to find a cemetery in West Virginia.
“It’s called ghosting,” Amir says, interrupting my thoughts. “You need to find a baby girl who died and assume her identity. Most states keep poor records of births and deaths, and definitely not in the same office. It has been an unorganized tracking system for a long time. It’s the government. They are not quite up to speed on technology. West Virginia is the worst.”
“That sounds awful, looking for a baby that died.”
Amir rolls his eyes. I think about the baby inside me, now almost a month old. I let my focus go back to the country road.
“So, you’re looking for a baby girl who died at least sixteen years ago. Sixteen years ago, maybe seventeen. Birth and death records are not all digital, even today only a few states have digital records in full automation. In the future, ghosting will become much more problematic. A couple of years from now it will be harder to do this, maybe even impossible. And, it’s much more difficult for adults who have to explain wages and taxes, but most sixteen-year-olds most likely never had a job. And, technology can help us as well as we can create social media accounts to start a digital footprint for your new identity. You’ll create more digital shadows than the real baby.”
I like his quirky confidence and his new authoritative vocal inflection.
“Wow, Amir, thanks for all your research. I think West Virginia is a good choice, since it’s slower to go digital.” Someone discovering my fake identity would be like looking for a grain of rice in the sand: you might find it, but only if they knew there was a reason to look for it.
Purple and yellow flowers dot the empty two-lane road with thick green leafy trees, as we circle the narrow curves that banish any chance of a cell signal.
A cemetery scavenger hunt.
Up ahead, we are rewarded with an old brick church, its sidewalks cracked and the welcome sign missing the letter W. Sprawling out behind the peeling wood building we find our prize: dozens and dozens of tombstones.
“Let’s stop and check this one out.” I have a feeling.
As we trample through another grass field with rows of graves, I am amazed at the number of little tombstones. Sad. Time and weather have not been kind to the slabs of marble. One large cluster of stones are turning brown, underneath the dirty, hard-to-read names the dates have one thing in common—the year of death, 1918.
“All these are from 1918, there must be a hundred of them.” I am wiping off the year 1918.
“Spanish flu, also known as of 1918 Flu Pandemic. It was the world’s most severe pandemic. Historians estimate about 500 million people or one third of the world became infected. Hundreds of thousands of people died in the United States.”
“That’s terrible. I never even heard about that. I hope it never happens again.” I can’t even imagine a pandemic. I guess things could be worse.
“Oh, don’t get your hopes up, it probably will happen again, and be even worse this time around.”
“Look at this one.” I stop, Amir almost runs into my back.
“This is the right one.” I kneel down beside a little slab of beautiful marble; a pretty angel is engraved on the front.
“You will always be with us, we love you, Angel. Mom and Dad.” My new identity once had a loving family. I immediately like it. “Hannah Williams is the angel’s name, and she would only be one year older than me, almost ready to turn eighteen.”
“Yeah, that’s good, eighteen is a good age to start your new life. Hannah is a common name and, Williams is a perfect common surname. She’ll do.”
Surname. I laugh.
But I’m no longer laughing at Amir. When we return, brilliant techie Amir creates a replica of a West Virginia driver’s license so accurate a policeman would be hard pressed to identify it as a fake.
Now, one last step, one last lie to Jack about working on a special project at the courthouse. I called my boss and quit weeks ago which really sucks, since I needed the money, but I can’t face Tyler, can’t even bear to look at him, and work is a great cover as I finalize my new life.
One more road trip to the office of Vital Records in Charleston.
This time, Amir plays music in his father’s car and sings the words.
“Pull over here,” I say, as I point to the worn country gas station sign. GAS, BAIT, FIREWOOD in large black letters. Amir pulls in front of the gas tank, and I jump out to use the restroom.
The smell inside almost makes me gag. Afraid to sit on the dirty toilet, I begin my transformation after laying out a row of paper towels on the counter. When I’m done, my brown curly wig, and brown eyes almost dark chocolate color, greet me from the smudged bathroom mirror. When I put the final touches on the elaborate make-up, a stranger smiles back at me.
I walk into the convenience store, and stand behind Amir, picking up a bag of potato chips. In a southern twang, I ask in a slow voice, “Excuse me, do you know how far away I am from Charleston, West Virginia?”
Amir in a slow turn, gives me a once over. For a second, I see a strange look pass over his face, and then he gives me
a simple nod. He doesn’t play along or answer my question, just takes his soda to the counter and pays.
In less than five miles, Amir turns into the parking lot. I pull down a baseball hat, with the words, ‘Slay it’ embroidered on it. As I wait my turn and shuffle up to the counter, my hands shake. I clench them together, certain at any moment, I will be arrested. I slowly hand the large woman behind the counter my fake driver’s license. Knowing I’m wearing my messy wig under a baseball hat and brown contacts in my eyes, I look guilty.
“Hi, I need a copy of my original birth certificate. We moved and my parents have no idea where it’s at.” This is a moment of truth. My voice sounds odd in my head, almost like an echo.
The woman glances at my driver’s license for all of two seconds, and takes my completed form from my sweaty hands.
“Twelve dollars,” she says, I flip through my wallet and I try to ignore the tremble in my hand, as I pass her a twenty.
Easy and uncomplicated.
Fifteen minutes.
In fifteen minutes, I am the recipient of an official stamped birth certificate. My new me.
Amir researched both of Hannah’s parents’ names from the maker of the tombstone. Tom and Jan Williams. Amir went online and applied for my Social Security card. We had it sent to a P.O. box we’d rented in Baltimore using the West Virginia license.
Simply amazing how easy it is to become someone else. I’m holding it in my hand: my new Social Security card for Hannah Williams.
Upon arrival in California—that’s where I’m going—I’ll establish an address, take Hannah’s birth certificate and Social Security card to the DMV, pass the driver’s test as Hannah Williams, and boom—I’m legal in the system. Amir takes lots of pictures of me with my new brown wig and brown contact lenses. He creates Hannah Williams social media accounts, with a few random facts about Hannah, and arbitrary photos of friends he stole from some Orange County, California site. He even makes a timeline using some random photos of a younger fake Hannah and uses a cute photo of a puppy as my profile picture.
