The Girl with the Wrong Name (9 page)

Helena’s eyes darken. “Yeah, like that,” she mumbles, “but we don’t really like that word. It’s more like a hostel. But just for girls.”

My complete lack of tact has done it yet again. I’ve managed to offend someone at a party I’ve crashed in, what, ten minutes? I gulp down what’s left of the champagne. My mind races with this bizarre new information. Emma and her fiancé run a young women’s shelter in Lower Manhattan. On Parker Street. Which is not far from the hotel or Battery Gardens. Not far from the Harbor Café, either.

“It’s K.O.P.’s anniversary,” Helena adds. “So Ms. Renaux planned the wedding, like, around the big anniversary so they could celebrate them together. You know what I’m saying?”

The girls are all squinting at me now, clearly wondering why the hell I don’t know any of this.

“Oh, yeah, cool.”

“Yeah, cool.” Her voice is flat. “I’m saying they invited some of us to the wedding as, like, ‘ambassadors,’ so their friends and family could meet us and see how good we’re doing—you know, thanks to K.O.P. That’s why I thought maybe you were the sixth girl, because nobody’s met her yet.”

I’m still nodding and smiling, but I feel squirmy and disoriented. On the other hand, at least now I understand Helena’s outfit—all their outfits. Hints of previously inked skin peek out from beneath their ill-fitting collars and sleeves. There are seven empty piercings along Helena’s right ear, a pin-sized hole where her nose stud should be. They’ve all been “scrubbed” and de-pierced—made over with dull, conservative frocks to showcase the transformative powers of K.O.P.

K.O.P. Making the world a better place, one dowdy floral dress at a time.

I try to picture Sarah in one of those dresses. Could she be one of these girls? Could she be staying at this K.O.P. shelter? Is she the “sixth ambassador”? Is she somewhere at this party wearing a dress even uglier than mine?

First, she’s not blonde; now, she’s not rich.

Is that even possible? I know I told Andy she might not be rich, but I never really believed it. Now I think of the insane suggestion I made that rainy night—that Sarah tried to pass off that Brooklyn townhouse as her own. Could I have possibly gotten that whole thing right? I feel a steady throbbing in my temples, synced with my heartbeat.

Three glasses of champagne, you idiot.

The pewter clock over the oyster bar tells me I have thirteen more minutes before Andy initiates Operation
Rescue
.

Helena’s voice drifts toward me. “Are you okay?”

“I need people to stop asking me that,” I mutter.

“Maybe you should sit down,” she says. “Do you want some water or something?”

Helena guides me to the couch, pulling the champagne glass from my hand. One of her friends runs to one of the bartenders and returns with a glass of water, which I pound down in three grateful glugs.

Then I suck in a deep breath. Three letters fall from my mouth as I exhale. “K.O.P.”

“Say again?” Helena says.

“K.O.P.,” I repeat. “What does K.O.P. stand for?”

“Oh. Keeping Our Promise. That’s the full name. Mr. Wyatt says it’s about the ‘unspoken promise’ we all make to help the poor and the needy, but all the girls know what it really means.” Helena rolls her eyes. “You know, the promise every girl makes to keep herself p—”

“Ms. Renaux at two o’clock,” her friend whispers.

Everything about Helena’s demeanor changes in an instant. Her posture straightens, her smile doubles in size, and her voice doubles in volume, bubbling with fake joy.

“Oh my
God
, I could go on about Ms. Renaux and Mr. Wyatt for
ever
,” she gushes. “They are, like, the kindest, most amazing people I’ve ever met. I can’t even believe they invited us to
every
thing—this awesome bar and the rehearsal dinner. It’s like a dream.”

Emma Renaux draws near. No longer a two-inch photo in the paper, but a living, breathing human being, moving slowly in my direction. The closer she gets, the woozier I feel. Sweat forms on my eyelids, stinging my left eye. Thank God the cam can pick up what I’m losing.

“And Mr. Wyatt, he is just the
best,
” Helena goes on. “It’s, like, totally true what everyone says about him. He really is an honest-to-God
hero,
you know?”

“Oh, that’s the
truth
,” her friend agrees far too loudly.

The conversation is clearly for Emma’s benefit, but she doesn’t seem to hear it. She’s not looking at us. She’s not exactly looking at anything. She’s smiling, but it’s the emptiest smile I’ve ever seen. It’s like a mask that only covers the bottom half of her face. The top half—the eyes—are telling the real story. Whatever that story is, it doesn’t jibe with the festive mood here. Even with my cloudy eye, I can see it. I wonder if anyone else can see it, because it doesn’t seem they can. Nobody looks concerned or worried for her. Nobody’s asking her what’s wrong. Why am I the only one who sees it?

“Oh, shoot,” Helena says, standing up and smoothing out her dress. “I forgot my soda at the bar. I’ll be back in a few.”

I know she’s lying to make a quick exit, but that’s fine. She floats out of frame, and my tunnel vision narrows to just one person. Emma. Her sad green eyes and slender shape are all I see now. Everything else is a blur. My bleary eyes follow her across the room—pink minidress hugging her tiny, twenty-five-inch waist; her blonde bob expertly cut with thousand-dollar highlights that shine like gold, even in the dim light. How could anyone that rich and skinny look so forlorn at her own bridesmaids’ party?

I realize I’m not just following her with my eyes. I’ve begun to tail her. I’m up and walking past the velvet couches, not ten feet behind her as she weaves her way through friends and family toward the glass doors at the end of the bar, where the vast New York skyline glows. The outdoor terrace is empty. Too windy for girls with salon hair. The hotel hasn’t even bothered to turn on the terrace lights.

But that’s exactly what she wants. She wants to be alone.

Emma walks the length
of the terrace, hair battered by the wind, peering back through the windows to be sure no one is watching her. I wait until she’s on the far end before I step outside to join her. The wind is so deafening, there’s no way she can hear me approach even with my clunky shoes crunching on the gravel.

Once she’s sure she is safely hidden, she digs into her Fendi clutch and pulls out a cigarette, waging an epic battle with the wind to get it lit with a cheap Bic lighter. I know next to nothing about Emma Renaux, but I’m surprised that she smokes. Judging from the way she keeps looking over her shoulder, I’m guessing her friends and family would be surprised, too.

Finally the cigarette catches, glowing orange. She takes a long drag and exhales, waving the smoke away from her face. I don’t know why, but I take the sudden stillness in the air as my cue to speak.

“Excuse me, where’s Sarah?” I ask her. “She’s supposed to be here, right?”

Emma gasps and drops her cigarette. She turns and her eyes lock with mine. In that instant, she whirls away, fixing her gaze on the white gravel beneath our feet. She hugs herself tightly, clutching her taut shoulders, and begins to shiver. I think I’ve somehow terrified her. Is she that nervous about getting caught with a smoke? I can only see a sliver of her face. I take a few steps closer and realize she’s whispering something.

A prayer. She is whispering “Our Father.”

Over and over.

“. . . Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil . . .”

What did I do? How could I have frightened her this badly? I take another step, but her desperate voice stops me cold.

“Don’t come any closer,” she says, edging toward the railing, her back still turned to me. Her voice is quavering and weak. “Please. I know why you’re here.”

I want her to see me smile; I make my voice as light and apologetic as I can. “No, I don’t think—”

“You don’t have to say anything. Please don’t say anything.”

“No, I’m not—I’m just here for Andy. I’m just looking for—”

“Oh, God,
please
stay away from Andy,” she begs. “This isn’t his fault. He’s a good man. He’s only ever tried to do good. Please don’t p
unish him now. I’ll fix it, I swear.”

When she says his name, I feel something rise inside me, scorching the back of my throat. “What’s not his fault? What did Andy do?”

“Nothing.” She’s on the verge of tears. “Andy’s a saint. He still loves you more than anything in this world. Please. Please don’t come back here again.” She finally turns to me, her face streaked with tears. “Please, Sarah. Let me make it right. I’ll make it right.”

She bolts past me, slipping through the door at the other end of the terrace. I follow her with my eyes, watching her stumble recklessly through the crowd until I see my own reflection in the glass.

I can’t move. I can’t find any oxygen to breathe. I can’t hear anything. I’m stranded in deep space. The white gravel has become the surface of the moon. I’m weightless, suffocating, in a vacuum. I’ll expand like a grotesque balloon and rip apart at the seams if I don’t find some air.

Racing back downstairs registers only in snapshots: knocking Helena aside as I run back through the bar, stumbling through the golden elevator doors, smacking the
lobby
button, pulling off my shoes to find what was left of my balance. Running barefoot across Battery Place, dodging fast-moving cars with their horns blaring, until I’m back in the bushes near Wagner Park, where I find Andy nervously waiting for me on our bench.

When he sees me, his eyes go wide. “Jesus, what the hell happened?” He jumps up and reaches for me, but I back away. I know I owe him explanations and descriptions, but I can’t. I can’t say anything except, “Take me home.”

“Theo, what’s going on?” he demands. The less I say, the more frightened he looks. “Did you find her? Was Sarah up there or not?”

I don’t even know how to answer. I see his lips forming question after question, but there is only one immediate need powerful enough to cut through the haze.

“Just take me home, Andy. Please take me home.”

Is the camera still
running? It must be, because I never pressed
stop
. I didn’t even check the screen once during the cab ride. I couldn’t break free from my catatonic state, other than to give the cab driver my address and pay him whatever was in my wallet. Andy was right behind me, matching me step for step as I climbed the back stairwell to my apartment. He kept trying to make me talk in the cab, but I couldn’t or didn’t hear him. Now, as I lock my bedroom door, praying my mother hasn’t heard us, he tries again.

“Theo, please,
”
he whispers. “Please tell me what happened up there. You are scaring the shit out of me.”

The dizziness is ten times worse after the bumpy cab ride. I drop my purse and shoes on the floor and take a few aimless steps around my room, still trying to find my center, still trying to get the world to stand the fuck
still
for just one second. I step to my bed, but sway back toward the couch. I step to the closet, but sway sideways toward my bathroom. Andy steps in front of me, blocking my route to the toilet.

“Theo, stop, just
stop.
You have to talk to me. You have to tell me what happened up there. Did you find Sarah or not?”

“What are you not telling me?”
I whisper.

“Hallelujah,
she finally speaks!” He smiles, and I feel my stomach rise.

“Don’t. Don’t try to charm me. She called me
Sarah
. Emma called me Sarah. Why would she call me that?”

“Wait, Emma Renaux? She talked to you?”

“She
knows
you. She knows who you are.” I’m slurring the words.

“Theo, what are you saying? Are you drunk?”

“She begged me to leave you alone. Or no, not me,
Sarah—
she begged Sarah to leave you alone.”

“To leave
me
alone?” Veins bulge in his forehead; he’s stressed or lying or both. “I don’t know what you’re saying. I’ve never met that Renaux lady in my life. I told you, I just saw her hugging Sarah goodbye that day.”

“Andy, we have all these things in common. Don’t you realize that?”

“Who does?”

“Me and
Sarah.
” I press on my chest to try and slow my heart.

“Okay
,
we just need to breathe here,” he says. “We need to sober you up and calm you down. We need coffee—”

“We both love the Harbor Café,” I say. “We both love to sit and watch the newlyweds at Battery Gardens. We both love daisies, for God’s sake. Who loves daisies anymore?”

“Theo, please.”

“We both have dark hair and Cupid’s-bow lips. You said so yourself. Why are all your memories of her so fuzzy? It was just a few days ago.”

“They’re not fuzz—”

“If you love her so much, then why can’t you remember her? You couldn’t remember which subway, you couldn’t remember where she lived. You could barely remember the color of her eyes. Do you actually remember her or
not
?” Lava scrapes the back of my throat, and I begin to choke. “Shit, move,” I croak. “Get out of the way.”

“No, I am not moving until you talk to—”

“No, I’m going to be sick. I’m going to be—”

But it happens. I can’t stop it. I would have done anything on earth to prevent the moment, but I can’t. It flows over my tongue and spills from my mouth, an acrid pink champagne waterfall. Every heave is like fire. I feel the retching at the base of my stomach as the hot pink mess douses us both, soaking the front of his white Oxford shirt and the front of my black dress from top to bottom.

And then it’s over.

I’m not sure how
long I stand there shivering, mortified—frozen in place like a child who’s just had an accident in front of her kindergarten class. I wait for Andy’s face to turn hard and cruel like Douchey Tim in the Magic Garden men’s room. I wait for him to bark at me with disgust.