Ms. Taken Identity (22 page)

I’d planned to tell her everything in a couple weeks, before Christmas, but it has to come sooner. This weekend, even. Just
let me get through Thanksgiving, then I’ll do it, before I wind up sleeping with the fish. Or worse.

Katharine calls on Monday. She’s in Chicago to spend the week with her family, but she’s gotten the manuscript and cleared
all non–Thanksgiving related tasks from her schedule to read it.

“Is it good?” she asks point-blank.

“Um, Bradley seems pleased.”

“Ah, ever the diplomat. But what about you, Mitch? Do you like it?”

“Honestly? Yeah, I do.”

“Good. Because I trust your judgment.”

She tells me she can’t wait to read it and will call the moment she’s finished.

So… she trusts my judgment. Would you think any less of me if I told you I like that?

Marie and I make an evening of it Wednesday. We don’t want to do the traditional Thanksgiving foods, since we’ll be getting
our fill tomorrow, and Marie doesn’t want to cook, so we pick up Chinese and a movie. It’s her choice:
Pride and Prejudice
, the one with Keira Knightley. I know there was a big stink when the U.S. version was released, since they actually dared
to let Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth share a kiss at the end and that’s not in the book, and I’m prepared to be sufficiently outraged
by the blasphemy, but it turns out to be a decently clever scene that I don’t think Austen herself would’ve minded. The only
awkward moment of the evening occurs when Marie calls Bradley to wish him well on his trip to Colorado with Skyler. I leave
the room, since the thought of her talking to him while she’s looking at me, or mentioning my name—Jason—makes me a little
sick.

Thanksgiving Day goes off without a hitch. I stop in at my dad’s around one, just to say hi and meet a few of Leah’s relatives,
then I get over to my mom’s around three. It’s a small group, just Scott, Melinda, Kyle, and my mom and grandmother. I toss
the football in the yard with Kyle and Scott, then we settle in for the feast and tell Mom how great everything is, then we
all collapse on the sofa and into various chairs and say we could sleep for a week and we’ll probably never eat again. At
one point, I steal away and make a call to Marie. I feel like a kid doing something illicit, speaking in hushed tones in the
basement, but the queasy churning in my stomach, I realize, has less to do with the fact that my family might be upstairs
listening in than knowing what I’m about to do this weekend. Namely, introduce Marie to a guy named Mitch.

I
’ve never been much of a day after Thanksgiving shopper. Day before Christmas, sure. But Marie doesn’t have to work and she
wants to head out. Mind you, this isn’t getting up at four am to head to K-Mart for eight-dollar microwaves and Tickle Me
Elmo dolls; this is bundling up and walking around and soaking up the holiday music and decorations.

I get over to her place around eight for bagels and coffee, and the morning gets off to a rocky start. I spill an entire cup
of coffee, which I’ve never done in my life, and it misses my crotch by millimeters. A scalding hot cup, straight from the
pot. I’m embarrassed of course, even though she says it’s no big deal since it’s only the kitchen floor and an old mug, but
what bothers me most is knowing why it happened: nerves, the jitters, unease over my impeding confession. I sop up the mess—on
my knees, appropriately, since I’m singing hallelujahs to my guardian angel for sparing me an agonizing stint in bed, in the
fetal position, with an ice pack between my legs—and then we’re off.

Marie selects a mall even farther out west than her apartment, one I’m not familiar with, so it’ll be a bit of an adventure
for me. The usual suspects are there—White House/Black Market and Abercrombie and bebe—but there are stores I’ve never seen
before—Hollister Co., J. Jill, Torrid. Everything is done up right, all twinkly and bright and Christmasy, and the kids are
visiting Santa and getting their pictures taken. We buy a few gifts for our families, and I see a sweater I want to get her
at Ann Taylor, so I make her stand at the Starbucks kiosk while I double back and get it, and we have a great lunch at the
Cheesecake Factory, and I’m filled with such a sense of felicity and well-being and joie de vivre that I’m certain this is
another outing to add to our montage, and will, like most of the others, end with us in bed. And that’s what I’m thinking
just after noon, as we stroll hand in hand past the scarf-wearing mannequin at Banana Republic, Dean Martin crooning “Baby,
It’s Cold Outside,” when I see someone I know coming straight toward me, saying my name, smiling, and there’s no way to avoid
her, unless I want to knock Marie down and sprint the other way, but even that wouldn’t help, because Marie has already figured
out that the woman’s talking to me. And far
far
too late, somewhere deep in the back of my mind, I realize my guardian angel had nothing to do with getting me out of the
way of scalding coffee this morning; he’s the one who knocked it over in the first place, aiming it straight for my crotch,
so that I’d spend the day in bed instead of being here.

“Mitch. Hey, Mitch!”

It’s Hannah.

She stops right in front of us and gives me a hug and says she can’t believe it’s me, this far out west, and at a mall, and
she’s so happy to see me. I manage to mumble something.

“Oh, and this is my friend Alex,” she says, presenting the guy with her. “Alex, this is Mitch, an old friend.”

I shake Alex’s hand. Alex has a firm grip. My grip isn’t firm. I turn to Marie, who isn’t blinking. “Marie, Hannah. Hannah,
Marie.”

“Nice to meet you,” Hannah says. Marie just swallows.

“So how’ve you been?” Hannah asks me.

“Fine. Great.”

“Any word on the book?”

“Um, no, no word, nothing. Just a rejection.”

“Oh, sorry to hear that. But I assume you’re still teaching.”

“Teaching. Ha. That’s funny. Yep.”

She turns to Alex. “Mitch teaches at the university.” Alex looks impressed. I’m not sure what Marie looks like, since I don’t
look her way.

“So… the two of you just out shopping?” Hannah says, moving things forward, beginning a new line of questions.

“We are. In fact, we’re on a bit of a tight schedule.” I scrounge up a smile for Alex and pat Hannah on the arm. “Great to
see you both, but we’ve got to run.”

I sidestep both of them and the throng of shoppers, and pull Marie by the arm like a child over to the bench, where we plop.

“Marie, listen—”

“No. Don’t talk. Don’t say anything. Just give me a minute.” So I do. I give her a minute, but a minute turns into five, and
still she’s still trying to breathe, or form words, or blink. Finally…

“Why’d she call you ‘Mitch’?”

“Because that’s my name.”

“Your name isn’t Jason?”

“No.”

“You’re not Jason Gallagher?”

“No. I’m Mitch Samuel.”

“And you’re not a pharmaceutical rep.”

“No. I’m a PhD candidate. And I teach and I write.”

What she’s trying to do, I assume, is process this, make sense of it, understand why I’d use a phony name and occupation,
create a whole different person and life. Then she gasps. “Jesus, you’re
married
.”

“No, no, no. God no. Nothing like that. I’m as single as they come.” This relieves her momentarily, and gives me a little
momentum, which I decide to run with. “Though there
is
something else you should probably know. Actually, it’s sort of funny.” I manage a nervous stab of laughter, in case it’s
catching. It’s not. “I know your brother pretty well. In fact, we share an apartment. In fact, even better… I’m the best
man at his wedding.”

I’ve never slapped a woman in the face before (no great accomplishment). This is what it must look like.

“Oh my god oh my god oh my god. You’re
Bradley’s
Mitch.”

It’s clear I’ve miscalculated my momentum, since it’s obvious she wasn’t ready to hear that the guy she’s been dancing with
and sleeping with and saying “I love you” to was actually her brother’s best friend. It’ll be hard to get a word in edgewise,
as appalled as she looks.

“I need to get out of here,” she says, scrambling up from the bench.

“Marie, hold on. Let me explain—” I grab for the arm of her sweater and get it, but she spins around and pulls with such force
and anger that I’m shocked into letting go, which sends her stumbling over her own feet and onto her backside, in a painful-looking
spill. We’re both stunned.

I get off the bench to help her, but she scoots the other way, kicking out at me. “Don’t touch me,” she screams, getting to
her feet. “Don’t you dare touch me!”

I hold my hands up to show her, and all the gawkers, that, indeed, I have no intention of touching her or coming any closer.
She’s free to do exactly as she pleases. Which, for her, means pushing her way through the crowd till I have no idea where
she’s gone.

I retreat to my spot on the bench, alone, since none of the other shoppers seems interested in joining me. This did not go
as planned. In fact, the only way it could’ve gone any worse is if we’d had an earthquake, or we’d struck an iceberg and the
entire mall began to sink. But I try to look on the bright side: Hannah was genuinely glad to see me. Which means bygones
are bygones. Marie must’ve seen that too, that Hannah was not freaked out by the sight of Mitch, but actually excited and
happy by the sight of Mitch. This has to be to my advantage. Plus, Marie ran off without any of her packages. Or her coat.
And I drove. She has to come back.

So what’ll happen, I decide, is that she’ll take a stroll—probably down to the Macy’s end of the mall—cool off, realize this
is all a silly and ironic misunderstanding, and come back. She won’t be happy, and she’ll have a ton of questions, and there
may be some accusations and finger-pointing, but at least I’ll have the opportunity to explain. So I wait. For fifteen minutes.
Twenty. Thirty. At forty-five I get off the bench and limber up: just because we had a spat, I don’t need to be doubled up
with back spasms for the rest of the weekend. At fifty I try her cell phone, but she doesn’t answer. At an hour I reach this
conclusion: she’s not coming back.

I gather up all the packages and make my way out to my car, which I have trouble finding, since, if you want to know the truth,
I’m a little rattled and can’t remember exactly where I parked. But I need my mind to work. What’s logical here? What’s logical
is that she found another way home. So I drive to her apartment. But her car is gone, which means she got home, figured I’d
come looking for her, and split. That’s disturbing. And now I have a sharp pang of regret that I didn’t sit her down when
I had the chance and
make
her listen to me, because now that she’s had a chance to go off and brood and let monstrous thoughts whisper in her ear and
tell her all sorts of horrible things, who knows what she’s thinking? I need to find her, quick.

I call the salon first, but I’m careful to disguise my voice, use a British accent, pretend to be a customer, in case she’s
already warned them she doesn’t want calls from me. But Samantha tells me, pleasantly, that Marie isn’t working today. I call
the studio. Adonis’s voice is on the recorder saying the studio is closed for the day, but will be open for regular hours
tomorrow. I don’t know her parents’ number, but I do know her father’s name—Barnaby, a tough one to forget—so I dial information
and get it. They put me through, and again I use the British accent and pretend to be someone from the salon, asking for Marie.
I speak to a woman, her mom I suppose (fitting that the first time I speak to her, I’m pretending to be someone else), but
she’s not there. I’ve struck out. That’s when the panic sets in.

Where else could she be? Anywhere, of course. It’s a fucking city. But maybe I don’t have to comb the entire city. Maybe my
accent was too obvious, or she said she didn’t want calls from
anyone
, Mitch
or
British guys, and she’s actually at one of the places I already tried. So I go to the salon, but Rosie is there and smiling
and teasing me about the state of my hair, which is shit right now, and no way could she be so glib about this if her best
friend were hiding out in the back. Then I look up her parents’ address and drive by the house, but there’s no Volkswagen
in the street or the driveway or in the garage, which is open. I even go by the studio, because maybe she just wants to sit
in the lot; but the lot is empty. Gone without a trace. So I call Bradley, an option I’d forgotten about entirely, but his
phone is turned off, which isn’t surprising since he’s in Colorado and probably out skiing or hiking with Skyler. At least
Marie hasn’t gotten to him either. Unless she has, and she’s told him everything, and he
also
doesn’t want to be reached by me.
Jesus
.

I drive around and look for silver VW Bugs and see a couple and tail them, get right up on their bumpers, till I can pull
up alongside, but none is hers, so I go back to her apartment and the salon and the studio and her parents’ house, and I sit
in front of each one of them, all the while trying to stifle the sickening thought that she’s doing all this—not answering
her phone, not trying to get in touch with me, disappearing into thin air—because she has no interest in talking to me or
hearing my side of the story, that she thinks I’m a jerk and a creep, and she never wants to see me or hear from me again.
What part of “It’s over” don’t I understand?

My apartment is dark and freezing when I get back, but I don’t turn on any lights, don’t flip on the heat, don’t even close
the front door. I sit on the sofa. After a while my teeth begin to chatter, and I’m shaking, and I haven’t peed for hours,
and my bladder is about to explode, but I’m pretty sure this is the best I’ll feel all evening. How can the planet continue
to spin in moments like this? How can there be traffic outside, and planes, and how can the people in the unit above me just
be going about their business, watching TV, like nothing’s wrong? Then my cell phone rings and I nearly jump from the sofa.
I stab my hand into my pocket and snatch it out.