Pretending to Be Erica (2 page)

I have Sal on my side.

Nearly a month ago, “Erica” found out her parents weren’t her real ones. She found out she was kidnapped. Erica might be wounded, a little soft, but she’s not a doormat. She’s frustrated and angry—every police officer and reporter who visited the house has accused her of being fake in the last month. She’s had it up to her pretty brown eyes with being accused.

“You’re not the first to doubt me.” I glower. “And you won’t be the last.”

She laughs, a hyena chuckle. “Like I haven’t heard that before.”

The heavy thunk of the door as she leaves punches a hole in my chest. It’s my first day of school, and I’ve already got someone on my scent. Fantastic. But she’s only human.

Me, I’ve been in training all my life.

That girl’s intimidating presence was probably enough to break the previous “Ericas.” I’m different. Sal chose me from the foster system because I looked like her. He raised me to be her; he knew one day I could become her, fall into her easily, like a hand slipping into a glove.

Erica was part of me before I even knew her name.

I make my way to the cafeteria and choose a sandwich from the hot bar. I hand my lunch card to the student operating the register. The buttons look worn, old. The register is on its last legs. The student taps the Open button, and the tray pans out and pulls a memory from me.

At five years old, Violet is the perfect distraction.

The smell of gasoline clogs her nose. Cigarette smoke makes her eyes water. Neon beer brands in the window blind her. She waddles up to the counter and musters the fattest tears she can, which, in a strange gas station store with scary people staring at her, is easy to do. The cashier looks around, hoping someone will claim the wailer, but no one does. He doubles around the counter and asks questions—parents, in the bathroom? In the freezer aisle? They look together; her crying gets louder. The cashier tells the girl to wait behind the counter with him until her parents arrive. Ten minutes. Fifteen. A half hour passes before a man comes tearing in, gray hair askew. He’s tall and well built, aging just past his prime.

“Has anyone seen my daughter? My daughter, blonde, brown eyes. Oh God, please, someone has to have seen her!”

The cashier walks around the counter and comforts the man, calms him. The girl isn’t running out to meet him, so something must be wrong. He wants to make sure the man really is her father.

The cashier’s back is turned. Violet is just barely tall enough to reach the Open button of the ancient register, but short enough that the security camera does not see her. Sal’s frantic yells cover the faint
ding
of the opening register. Little fingers dance over the grooves of plastic—tens, twenties. She grabs as many as she can and stuffs them down her overalls, easing the tray closed.

She shouts, “Daddy!” and runs around the counter, braids waving. The reunion is acted, faked each time they drift apart and come together again, a job well done, a meal of something other than fast food and a soft motel bed, well earned. But Sal’s smile is proud, and Violet’s smile is happy because he’s proud, because someone, anyone, is proud of her.

Today’s the first day in a month I’ve been out of the house.

House
isn’t the right word for it. Mrs. Silverman’s place is more of a chateau. Not quite a mansion, but close. The yard is three acres of prime Vegas real estate in a gated community. White stone balconies and stained-glass windows contrast like rainbows on snow. The groundskeeper dawdles among barely budding flower bushes. The landscaping is overwrought, too lush and unnatural compared to the surrounding dry desert.

Mrs. Silverman let her grip loosen for me to attend school. I almost dread getting back in the car when she pulls up to the curb in her silver BMW, but I quash the feeling and try to look happy. Her hair is blonde, cut in a perfect bob. Her dark blue suit makes her pale skin and bright red lips glow. Her nose is thin, her cheekbones high. I look like her now. Too much like her. The smile on her face as she gets out of the car is too huge too be real. Too warm.

She sweeps over and draws me into her chest. The reporters along the fence are pushing toward us, but the police officers stationed there do their best to hold them back.

Put on a good show, Violet. Lose yourself in this woman’s sorrow, her dark relief that’s so easy to fall into—to imitate. Become a current in the river that is her life, and the sea that has been her suffering. The emotions radiate off her in waves as her tiny sobs echo in my hair.

“I’m sorry, sweetie. I’m sorry. I missed you. It’s just school, but I missed you so much—”

“It’s okay.” I sniff, my own tears starting to spill over. She smells like roses and expensive lotion. The brute force of her sadness,
happiness
, makes acting easy. The trick to faking anything is to believe it’s real. No doubts. Just faith. The bright February sunlight spills over us, onto my face and her face, onto our entwined bodies as she cries into my hair and I do the same. I am a mirror.

In this moment I am Erica Silverman.

Erica’s house doesn’t
look
like a prison.

The flight of grand oak stairs shines. Paintings line the walls. High ceilings flood with sun and crystal reflections of chandeliers—dancing rainbows on a dead girl’s domain. The furniture is expensive, the floors hardwood. Everything screams affluence. This is the kind of place Sal and I would rip off. Theft of a huge house is easy when they’re in the dining room having dinner, doors wide open. Dress in a service jumpsuit and nod and smile as you walk in, and very few people think twice about what you’re doing. Sal liked to go as a plumber; I liked the pink polo shirt of a maid service. Expensive perfume, electronics. Sometimes jewelry if you were really lucky.

But today, I’m a different girl. One who doesn’t know how to pick almost every industrial lock on the market. One who can’t accurately discern a personality just from the clothes someone wears. I throw my backpack on my bed and look around Erica’s room. My room. Dolls line the shelves, glass eyes reflecting my new face. They’ve been waiting thirteen years for Erica to come back and play with them. They know. Every curled strand of fake hair and plait of silk mocks me; they know I’m not her. Unlike Mrs. Silverman, dolls don’t get desperate. They don’t let it blind them to the truth. The vanity is lined with nail polish and pony stickers from another time. A crayon masterpiece portraying a stick figure family is taped to the mirror.

Mrs. Silverman’s been possessive.

In my heart I know it’s vital to the success of the con. She looked at me when I stepped out of the car and her knees gave way. Collapsed. Started crying. I inched over to her and picked her up, and she hugged me and didn’t let go for a full hour. Hands like claws into my back. She felt it—felt me. It couldn’t have just been my new face—while it was eerily similar to the composite the police drew up of seventeen-year-old Erica, moms can always tell. There was something else. Desperation, maybe. Two Ericas were fakes; her hopes lifted and smashed and repaired, only to be smashed again. Mr. Silverman retreated into a shell of madness. She lost her daughter
and
her husband.

Desperation.

I am convincing. The face, the DNA. The DNA cinched it. They didn’t let me see her until it was confirmed. Erica was four when she was kidnapped—old enough to be loved, but young enough that time is my ally. Time distorts the little flaws Sal worked so hard to hide, erase, and pay off. Mrs. Silverman lets time and emotion distort her hopes; she sees me as the real thing. Her heart tells her I’m real.

She canceled all her appointments, charity balls, and dinner appearances, and spent a month with me in the house. Nail painting. Talking. Mostly talking and making food, like sustenance would fill the gaping maw of lost time. She asked about every year, every birthday and Christmas. I wove a story for her, a story that had her crying and me crying. A story that’d been carefully crafted by Sal and me, rehearsed in the months before I came here. I know every detail, every supposed bike accident and pet, as if it was my own life.

If the cameras caught my performance in that month, I would’ve earned an Oscar. At least two. Simple acting didn’t cut it. I revived Erica from the grave, pulled her soul from air. I channeled her, invited her spirit to live through me. Violet was suppressed so deeply, I started to worry I’d lost her, but being at school today brought her out. Slipping from the shadow of Mrs. Silverman’s grief brought her to light a little. Just a little. I can’t show Violet too much.

A knock at my door.

“Come in.”

Mrs. Silverman walks in wearing a hesitant smile. “How are you doing?”

I shrug. “School was tiring.”

“Were they nice to you?”

“I don’t know.” I finger the childish pink bedspread. “They stared. I felt like they were accusing me. Doubting me.”

She winces and sits on the bed beside me, squeezing my hand.

“You have to understand: there were other Ericas. They’re just confused, is all.”

“Like I am,” I murmur.

She squeezes again. “What are you confused about?”

“I don’t know!” I stand. Anger. Confusion and anger. “How could they do that? How could they take me, not tell me for thirteen years?
Thirteen years!
I loved them. I trusted them—”

“Them.” Mrs. Silverman bites her lip, eyebrows knit. She knows I mean my kidnapper parents. “I don’t have any answers for you, Erica. They were just bad people—”

“They weren’t!” A shout. She flinches. “They weren’t bad people. They were my parents. And every time I look at you, every time I see those reporters, or see them on TV, I—” I choke. “I want to hurt something. I want to hurt something until someone gives me a reason.”

“Erica—”

“A reason!” I kick the door.

“Erica, please.” She sweeps over and holds me. “Breathe. Deep breaths, like we practiced.”

“The reporters treat it like it’s entertainment,” I say with a hiccup. “It’s my life!
My life!
”

“I know, I know,” she chants, holding me closer. “I was hoping they’d die down. I’m sorry. They’re getting worse because we haven’t made an official statement yet.”

“Can we just make one and get it over with?” I wipe my eyes.

“Is that something you really want to do?” Mrs. Silverman’s gaze crinkles with worry. “You might not be up for it.”

“I’m up for it,” I insist. “I’m tired of this. I just want to go back.”

Mrs. Silverman twitches, a jump in her shoulders. I went too far, too fast.

“Not back to my old parents!” I scrabble. “I mean, go back to the way things were. Quiet. Peaceful.”

She relaxes but still looks on the verge of breaking. “It’s going to take time.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

She smiles and traces my shoulder. The touch is feather light, laced with a hesitance I can’t place. Disbelief that I’m here. Gratitude. The intensity of the emotions in her every look and touch hasn’t diminished at all from the first day I got here. Thirteen years of love is pouring out of her every day, and I soak it up. I’d never been hugged so fiercely, with so much burning protectiveness. Her hug lasts years—thin arms quivering, as if she thinks the moment she lets go, I’ll vanish into smoke and broken lies.

Sal was my mother and father wrapped into one. He’s hugged me once or twice. More when I was younger. I had foster home mothers before Sal adopted me, but I don’t remember any of them.

Mrs. Silverman is my first
real
mother. But I haven’t called her “Mom.” Not yet. If the real Erica were in my shoes, she’d be hesitant to call Mrs. Silverman Mom—at least for the first month or so. But that month’s running dry. I’ve played the mentality of a kidnapped girl straight and true, and now it’s time for the next step.

“I’ll see what I can do.” She finally lets go and makes her way to the door. “A few daytime shows want to interview us. One visit will silence them all, hopefully. In the meantime come downstairs. Marie made croissants.”

“Okay.” I inhale hugely. “Deep breaths.”

“That’s right.” She breathes with me, smiling now. “Deep breaths. We
will
get through this. Together.”

The hall echoes with her footsteps. When I come down, she’s not in the kitchen. Marie, Mrs. Silverman’s hired help, flits around the marble countertops. She asks questions without looking at me.

“How was class?”

“Boring.” I settle on a barstool.

Her laugh is the sort people make to tactfully cover something up. She’d heard my fit. She’s older than Mrs. Silverman by at least twenty years; her weathered skin tells the story of a long journey through hardship. Other than the occasional fast-food deliveryman, Marie was the only one allowed in on our month of recuperation.

Marie hands me a croissant, still warm. “Did you go to high school when you were with your other parents?”

“I was homeschooled. I guess they didn’t want anyone to find out I wasn’t their kid. They’d have to give birth certificates and stuff. Things they didn’t have.”

“Did you ever—” Marie cuts off. “Never mind. It is not my place to ask.”

“Did I ever suspect them of not being my real parents?” She’s easy to read. “No. I didn’t look anything like either of them. I thought that was weird, but they said I looked like some aunt I never met. They didn’t have any newborn pictures of me when I asked for them. Small things like that. Things that didn’t make much sense until now.”

Marie’s tactfully quiet. I clench my fists on the countertop.

“I’m never going to forgive them.”

“Neither would I,” she agrees, and slices through a tomato with renewed vigor.

“Are you ready to go, Erica?” Mrs. Silverman’s voice comes from the hall. “The hospital closes soon.”

“Yeah, coming.” I wolf the croissant down, shake off the anger. “Thanks, Marie. You’re a really good cook.”

Mrs. Silverman hesitates in the doorway. Her eyes glaze as she stares into the distance. Reporters gather at the front gate, the security and wrought-iron fence holding them back. I grab her hand, reassure her.

“Together.” I nod.

“Together.” She smiles, glaze lifting and leaving a clear sapphire blue.

Erica’s kidnapping broke Mr. Silverman like a toy soldier.

I put myself in his shoes; she was his angel. She was the reason he worked so hard, hurried home after dusk, and bought so many dolls. She was the reason his steps were light and his mind worked like it did—quickly and cleanly. When she was gone—when she’d been
taken
—his razor-sharp intelligence turned on him, the way a shark attacks its prey, shredding his sanity. And then he was gone, too. Only his body remained, macerated by hopelessness. Mrs. Silverman put him in Whiteriver Rehabilitation Center, where he’s been for four years now. We’ve visited him every Wednesday of the last month. He hasn’t spoken a single word to me or Mrs. Silverman. It’s like he doesn’t even know who we are, or that he’s still in the world of the living. All he wants to do is play checkers. He’s held together by the shallow will to keep moving forward as a Darwinian life form. Breathe, blink, breathe, sigh. He’s here, but not really here. This linoleum table in the visitor lobby is where his body is, and only his body.

“Dad.” I lower my voice. “It’s me.”

He’s balding. He was once a very handsome man, but age and emotional storms weathered him thin and malnourished-looking. Stubble tints his face a sickly gray. Dark eyes dull with a milk of apathy. He glances up, looks me over, and looks down at the checkers again. Moves a black piece. I capture it with a red piece of my own.

Mrs. Silverman watches us from afar, wrapped in a vintage fox-fur coat as she taps on a vending machine for a coffee. She looks out of place, nervous. She wants to see Mr. Silverman frown, grin,
something
. Anything. I’m supposed to be the charm that brings him back. Even I can tell he’s too far gone. The nurse pity-smiled when I said he’d remember me. Anything he says is inadmissible. The police will never believe a man who’s been in a crazy house for years. Maybe I can give him some comfort. Some truth. If he says something about me, no one will believe him.

I lean across the table and put my hand over his, my whisper low.

“Your daughter wasn’t in pain long, Mr. Silverman.”

Gerald used a knife to cut her wrists. Clinical, quick, silent. She died of blood loss, probably just felt herself getting colder and sleepier. The violation happened long after she was dead. Her soul wasn’t around to feel it.

A nurse passes, dropping a cup of water and pills for Mr. Silverman.

“Just to help keep him level,” she assures me. Mr. Silverman downs the pills mechanically, a reflex. His eyes rivet to the checkers game. It’s the only thing he seems to care about. I envy him. This game of strategy is so much simpler than the one I’m in the midst of—the one I’m living. The one in which I’m the star piece. Everything rests with me.

For once, it would nice to be a pawn instead of a queen.

Mr. Silverman smiles sweetly and moves a checker to my king line. Eyes surrounded by fine lines look up at me, his voice singsongs.

“I win.”

“Did he say anything?” Mrs. Silverman presses. I shake my head and dredge a nice lie from my mental bank.