Ms. Taken Identity (23 page)

“Marie, god, let me explain…”

There’s a pause. “Sorry, Mitch. It’s Katharine. Bad time?”

“Katharine, hi. No. I thought you were someone else, is all.”

“I can call back.”

“No, this is fine.” I rub the skin on my forehead. “What’s going on?”

What’s going on, she tells me, is that she’s finished the book and loves it, though a few issues need to be addressed, and
even though it’s short notice, and Thanksgiving weekend, maybe I can come up this weekend to discuss them. I’m sick and desperate
and unhinged, and I need to shut my mind off and stop replaying the afternoon with Marie, and it’s clear nothing is going
to happen tonight, or anytime soon, or ever, and if I stay here, I might just do something stupid, like pee all over myself,
or worse, so I tell her I have a better idea: I’ll catch a flight and head up there tonight. Which I do. And then I promptly
hop into her bed.

Here’s a bit of good news/bad news for all you ladies who’ve had boyfriends or husbands or otherwise significant others jump
right into bed with another woman after an argument. Bad news first: he jumped right into bed with another woman. No matter
how you look at it, that’s a bad thing, and to pretend otherwise is foolish and ultimately counterproductive. But here’s the
good news: he may have done it because he’s desperately in love with you.

When a man loves a woman (and yes, we all hear Percy Sledge crying out in that lovesick man-wail voice of his right now) and
he thinks it’s over, especially because he’s done something stupid, he’s liable to be off-kilter and unbalanced and do any
number of ill-advised or rash or destructive things. He might drink till he’s sick, or drive his car off a bridge, or slam
his fist into a wall. He will do these things because he’s down on himself. Because he thinks he’s an ass. Because he has
sunk to the bottom of a dark pit and there’s really no way out, and he needs to grasp onto something that will make him feel
better about himself. Sleeping with the first available woman is often just the thing.

I’m not saying it’s like this in all cases. Sometimes the guy really is just a prick, and he’s had this other woman on the
back burner all along, and your argument or breakup is just the excuse he needs to get to knocking the boots with her. But
I do know that there are guys who go out and screw random women because they can’t stand the thought that they’ve just gone
and ruined the best thing that’s ever happened to them, and they need to escape that feeling quick. That’s how it is for me.

Here’s what happens in Chicago. Katharine picks me up from the airport and we go straight to her place. We talk about the
novel and have drinks. We get comfortable on the sofa. I get buzzed. I tell her she looks great. She kisses me, I kiss back,
we get to touching and stripping and end up in her bed. I don’t want to say much about it—Katharine has been very good to
me and doesn’t need her preferences between the sheets broadcast to the general public—but I will tell you she does things
that a forty-two-year-old celebrity millionaire really doesn’t need to do to a twenty-eight-year-old nobody, but she seems
to enjoy herself, and my body, despite itself, seems to enjoy it too. Of course, I’m thoroughly disgusted with myself afterwards,
which thankfully I manage to hide from Katharine by pretending to be asleep, and it’s only later, after she’s asleep and I’ve
gotten up to pace, that I throw up.

In the morning there’s no repeat, or suggestion of a repeat, or kisses like we’re a couple. She doesn’t refer to it again,
other than to say she enjoyed the evening, and I smile, even though that vomit taste is working its way up my throat again,
which I swallow back. We go to breakfast, then she drives me to the airport because I want her to think I’m going home. But
I don’t. I get on the El and ride it around the city, then get off and wander around for most of the afternoon, and finally
wind up at the art museum, standing in front of Seurat’s
A Sunday on La Grande Jatte
, the painting from
Ferris Bueller’s Day Off
. I stare at it, like they did, and wish I could climb inside, because everyone in the painting looks so jolly and happy and
light in their parasols and top hats and sailboats, or maybe I could just be one of the dots of color, since that wouldn’t
be so bad, and I wouldn’t feel like shit, or anything at all.

Only when I’m back on the ground in St. Louis and in my apartment do I turn my cell phone on. It rings immediately. Bradley,
from Colorado.

“Finally. Where the fuck’ve you been?”

“Um, out. Doing stuff.”

He gives a short, mirthless laugh. “You got that fucking right.”

From the intensity and frequency of his f-bombs, I’m glad he’s in Denver and I’m in St. Louis. So are my nose and the other
breakable parts of my face.

“So you’re Jason,” he snorts. “This is fucking unbelievable.” I know what he’s doing: trying to piece it together, connect
the dots, string together conversations he’s had with Marie and me about boyfriends or girlfriends to make sense of it all.
Good luck with that. “Jesus, Mitch. Do you even want to try to explain why you’ve been posing as a goddamned pharmaceutical
rep and shtupping my sister behind my back?”

In truth, no. But since I wouldn’t put it past him to send a guy over with a tire iron to make sure I do—and, more importantly,
since we’re way past the point where he deserves to know—I tell him. I keep it short, sweet, an exercise in economy: I hate
dancing, Jason was an out, I got in over my head. Then I fell in love with Marie.

“Christ. I can’t even believe I know you.” He’s disgusted, of course, but I think the whole falling-in-love-with-your-sister
got him, because when he speaks again, I don’t feel his hands clamped around my throat anymore. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I don’t know. I wanted to. I should have. I didn’t.” Because I was a fucking chicken. “I’m sorry, Bradley.”

“Yeah, I’m sure you are. But save those apologies for Marie. You’re gonna need them.”

Neither one of us says anything for a good long time, mostly because, though Bradley and I have been through a lot together,
the one where I pose as a dance-loving man of medicine and, uh,
date
his sister behind his back is new to everyone. Finally, he speaks.

“Mitch, this is my last evening in Colorado with my fiancée’s family. I’m going to get back to enjoying that now. As for your
…
situation
, I wouldn’t mind seeing your ass twist in the wind for a while on this one. You deserve it. But my sister’s involved, so
I’m not going to do that. I’ve got a few ideas. But before I do anything, and I mean fucking anything, I need to know something,
and you better not give me any of that lying through your teeth Jason bullshit. You hear?”

“I hear.”

“What you said before about loving Marie: is that true?”

I couldn’t lie about that one even if my life depended on it. “Bradley, she’s the one.”

He lets it sink in for a minute. “Okay. Then what you need to do is just lay low for a while. She’s a mess right now, really
confused. Give her some time to calm down, sort this out, get a perspective on things. In the meantime, I’ll talk to her,
tell her I know you and you’re not some loony, just a part-time schmuck. Who knows: it just might find a way of working itself
out.”

After we hang up, I’m buoyed by the thought that maybe he’s right, maybe I just need to lay low for a while, give her time
to sift through this and realize how silly it all is, let her see that whatever I may’ve called myself—Jason or Mitch or Twinkle
Toes—it doesn’t matter, since I love her and she loves me, and that’s why this will all work out. Love Will Keep Us Together.
Love Is the Answer. All You Need Is Love. But somewhere between taking my Chicago clothes out to the Dumpster—I don’t need
to see that shirt or those jeans again—and taking a shower—I already took one this morning, but that was in Katharine’s shower,
with her soap, and I’m sure there’s still some trace of her on me somewhere—the bubble bursts and my umbrella of cheery pop-song
optimism snaps itself inside out (You Give Love a Bad Name; These Boots Are Made for Walking; Hit the Road, Jack), and a tidal
wave of clear-headed, sober-eyed, grizzle-toothed reality crashes down on top of me, and I realize that Bradley’s advice about
laying low, though well-intentioned, is, if you’ll pardon the French, shit.

I’ve misled her and tricked her and lied to her. I’ve fucking pretended to be someone else. I’ve let her call me by another
name—
during sex
. And symbolic gestures like trashing my guilt-stained clothes and scrubbing off a layer of skin and crossing my fingers and
wearing my lucky underwear and sitting around waiting for her to call and say she’s worked through her feelings and all is
forgiven—in other words, laying low—aren’t going to fix this. It’s not that easy. It shouldn’t be that easy.

So I call her. She doesn’t answer, which is no surprise, but I call again. She doesn’t answer again, and we’re back to yesterday,
me trying to reach her, her not wanting to be reached, and I suppose I could keep calling her, and each time she doesn’t want
to speak with me, I could fly to Chicago and sleep with Katharine, though this would ultimately get very expensive (unless
I just start living with her; but even though she gave every indication she enjoyed our rendezvous, she said nothing about
making the two of us a permanent arrangement). Or, I could grow a pair, act like a man—or even better, act like a human being—and
do what I should’ve done yesterday, at the mall, never mind who was watching and what they might say and how big of an ass
I would’ve made of myself, and how much dignity and self-respect and pride I would’ve left puddled on that glossy tile out
in front of Banana Republic: I could fight for the most important thing I’ve ever had in my life.

Dignity is overrated. I’m ready to go down swinging.

Sunday afternoon, I show up at the salon around one, but I don’t go in. I walk by a couple times, till I get Samantha’s attention.
When she sees me, she gets one of those deer-in-the-headlights looks, like she’s not sure what to do: tell Marie, call the
police, grab her Mace. But I just sort of smile and nod, then make sure she’s watching me as I go directly across the street
and into the coffee shop and take a window seat. Sure enough, Rosie comes to the salon window a few moments later, scissors
in hand, and scowls at me. Even through two panes of glass, across two lanes of traffic, it’s scary. And so it begins.

I’ve decided I’m not going to go barging into the salon like a madman, or follow her home, or show up at the studio, or pop
up in her shower, or do any other type of TMZ paparazzi stalking or shadowing or hounding. It’s not a good strategy, since
that would probably piss her off even more, give her a reason to fume and rage against me, even take legal action (restraining
order, anyone?). More importantly, she doesn’t deserve it. Instead, my plan is to show up every day in this coffee shop, sit
in this seat, let her know that I’m here and I’m thinking of her and I just want to talk. I’ll be like a tree that’s outside
her back window—patient, nonthreatening, ever present—and when she’s good and ready, she can come over and sit for a spell,
get relief from the glare of the sun. Or chop me down. I’ve also decided to send her something in the mail every day, to let
her know how sorry I am.

So I come back on Monday and Tuesday, same spot, drinking coffee, grading papers, passing time, watching commerce along the
street, signing myself up for the “Java Junkie” frequent drinkers program, knowing that in those two days Marie has received,
respectively, a bouquet of Mokara orchids—her favorites—and a Tiffany’s bracelet, and I, in return, have received the back
of her head a few times in the salon, since she’s on to me and apparently wants no part of being seen. On Wednesday, Coach
clutch day, Rosie makes a mid-afternoon run to the Thai place for carry-out, and on her way back she acknowledges me, which
I take as progress, even though it’s only with her middle finger. On Thursday, I know Sylvia’s Double Fudge Peanut Swirl Macadamia
Mud Pie should be arriving from the Magnolia Café in North Carolina, which Marie had told me was the best pie ever; but no
one calls to invite me over for a slice, not even to ask for extra napkins. On Friday Bradley and I talk—he still thinks laying
low would’ve been better, but gets why I’m doing what I’m doing—and he tells me, in fact, that he and Marie are getting together
later that evening for drinks. Back at the apartment, I’m a nervous wreck all night, sitting with my phone in hand, waiting
for word of a breakthrough, an accord, a truce, but no call comes, which means there’s nothing new to report, my status remains
unchanged, and I’m as fucked as I was last week.

I spend a miserable Saturday at the coffee shop, taking stock of everything. I’m nowhere closer to getting back with Marie
than I was a week ago—maybe farther—and, from a financial standpoint, bleeding myself red. Maybe I made a grave error, starting
too big with bracelets and handbags and overnight pies from another state, since, if I keep escalating the worth of what I
send, by the end of next week I may have to buy her a Vespa, or a small island. Maybe I should just show up here on Monday
with a Java the Hut apron, since I already know everyone who works here and comes in, and even though it wouldn’t be much
money—minimum wage, do you think?—at least I’d get my coffee free. And apparently I get lost in some calculations about hours
worked and gross versus net pay and what cut of the tip jar I’d get, because the next thing I know, the front door flies open
and Rosie storms in and marches over to my table.