Authors: Maggie Mitchell
Chloe
I drive to Omaha, leave my car in long-term parking, and book a flight to BC. I’m sick of driving, sick of watching the stupid fields go by. I’ll figure out later what to do with the car. A germ of a plan occurs to me: I could pay Jaden to pick it up and drive it out to LA. If I want a brother. Do I want a brother? I’m not sure, and in no mood to think more about it. At the airport I sit in a sports bar and drink wine and read magazines. On the plane I sleep. It feels like it’s been a while.
Lois
I’m pleased to find an old-fashioned diner within easy walking distance of my motel. I go there for an early dinner. (I plan to leave the evenings free for writing.) I order a grilled cheese sandwich with fries, though I haven’t had much of an appetite lately. Brad asked if I had lost weight and I denied it, but later I stepped on the scale and found that it was true. I didn’t have much to spare, to be honest; I never have. I suspect that if I were so inclined, I could live on pizza and macaroni and cheese, and I would still be a wisp of a person. I nibble a french fry, thinking maybe I should try to gain some weight, maybe even attempt to exercise regularly.
And then I catch myself, surprised that such mundane thoughts have overtaken me, momentarily driving aside the worries that have preoccupied me for—how long? Sean. Gary. My sequel. The movie. And Carly May, above all. Or Chloe. What if Chloe Savage is an utter stranger—someone I don’t know at all? What if she has eliminated every trace of the scrappily arrogant, willful, precocious Carly May? What if I am absolutely the last person in the world she wants to see?
No, I remind myself, my peace shattered. Chloe Savage requested this meeting. She chose to do the movie. She hasn’t forgotten, no matter how hard she has tried. She’s curious. I can feel it. That might not be
all
she is, but at least there is that. Which is a place to start.
Start what? What if she hates you?
My mind spits this possibility at me without warning.
What if she has always hated you?
Not true, I fire back. Way too simple.
But she could hate you for the book
. I know her better than that.
Hate: Hetaera, houghmagandy, halieutics. Hebetate. Hadeharia
(constant use of the word
hell;
who requires a word for this?).
Hyalopterous
.
I eat too slowly; my grilled cheese ungrills and reconstitutes itself as a solid slab. I push my plate away and dig in my handbag for my wallet. It’s too bright in here. That’s the worst thing about diners everywhere: they drench everything in a glaring light.
Back at the motel I sit at my little desk, open up my laptop, and tap it awake. The only source of light in the room is the computer; I keep the room dark enough that the window gives me a view of the parking lot rather than throwing my own reflection back at me. The last thing I need to see is my own pale, tired face, thinner than usual. On the screen is a list of files in the folder in which I keep the novel. The files include earlier versions of the beginning, a rough outline that stops well before the end, lists of ideas, characters, sections I cut but couldn’t bring myself to get rid of—and, of course, my working draft. Why my eyes stray to the right, past the file names to cryptic columns of information about KBs and dates last modified, I’m not sure. But what I notice suddenly, as the cursor hovers over the draft icon, is the time signature:
Date modified: 6/25/2012 2:50 PM
June 25 is … today? Yes. I haven’t been paying much attention, but that much I know. At 2:50 I was on the runway in Seattle, about to take off. My electronic devices were appropriately turned off and stowed.
And yet. My file was accessed—and not just accessed but modified—at precisely that moment.
My laptop never left my bag. My bag was under the seat in front of me.
Which means it was accessed remotely.
Now I remember the text message from Sean that hinted at a disturbing awareness of my activities. Now I remember that day I opened my draft and found that the font and the margins had been altered. I had blamed the changes on some sort of computer glitch. My Gmail calendar charts my itinerary. E-mail records correspondence with my agent. How much could Sean have seen? I know nothing about computer hacking. My vague notions of what is possible are informed by movies and TV shows in which bespectacled computer geeks can hack into anything they put their minds to, from the Pentagon to the secret ravings of would-be serial killers. Sean doesn’t strike me as that clever, but who’s to say? I have underestimated him before.
So let’s just say it’s possible. What does it
mean
?
I have no idea. I find myself strangely at a loss to speculate.
I change all my passwords, though I have no idea if that will make a difference. I disable the calendar function. I shut down my Facebook account for good measure, though I seldom use it.
I sit in the dark and think.
Chloe
I feel like hell by the time I land in Vancouver. Rinsing my face in the ladies’, I give myself a good hard look in the mirror. There are shadows under my eyes, which isn’t exactly shocking. There’s a fine line just above my left eyebrow and the faintest echo of another just above that. My left is the eyebrow I raise. I’m being punished with wrinkles for all the snotty, skeptical looks I’ve ever given anybody. I don’t think a casual observer would see the lines. The cameras are the first to notice when you start to fall apart.
I haven’t gone down the Botox road, but my time will come. I’ve already held out longer than most people I know. Sometimes I wonder what the hell I’m trying to prove. No one’s going to be impressed by my virtuous attachment to aging naturally. I’m not Helen fucking Mirren. Chloe Savage can’t afford much in the way of professional virtue. And no one would expect it of her.
I smear concealer on the shadows and scowl at myself in the mirror. Some people practice their prettiest looks in the mirror, and I won’t pretend I’m above that, but these days I prefer my grim face, my pissed-off face. Since no one else is in the bathroom I bare my teeth at myself, just for a second. As I turn away, I think I see a shadow of a dark wig in the mirror—stiff and cheap, not one of the many wigs I’ve stuck on my head as an actress, but the original wig, the abduction wig. I remember trying to charm myself in the ugly gas station restroom mirror, dark fake bangs cutting sharply across my forehead. Everything has changed since that day, every single fucking thing I can think of. One of my hands goes up to my head, and I almost expect to feel plasticky doll-hair. But it’s my own, soft and fine and needing a wash.
I’m a cop now, I remember. I scrape my hair back into a ponytail and replace the lipstick in my purse, unapplied. I stump through the airport toward baggage claim like someone who has a complicated relationship with her authority, her power, the gun in her holster. Well, no gun in the airport, obviously, but generally, in her everyday life. I look warily from side to side; I make my face half-cocky, and then I let it slide back to shrinking insecurity. I need to believe in this cop.
My designer luggage doesn’t help.
Who the hell would want to be a cop?
I could have had someone pick me up, but I rented a car instead. I want to be operating under my own steam here.
I also want a drink, cop or no cop.
* * *
The inn where most of the cast is staying is pretty far out of town. Deep in the woods, for obvious reasons. I start to panic when I first see it, but then I notice that it has a pub on the first floor. Smart innkeeper-in-the-middle-of-nowhere. I’m staying in a private guesthouse behind the main inn. It looks rustic from the outside, but it’s actually nicely appointed. I run a bath, stuff my clothes in drawers, scatter my possessions reassuringly around the room, turn on the TV for company.
I treat myself to a tiny bottle of whiskey from the minibar and slip into the tub. Lulled by the voice of a female news anchor in the background, I try to think of nothing. I have a feeling this will get harder and harder from here on out.
Beside the tub is a large window that looks out on the dark woods behind the inn. There’s a shade, but it isn’t drawn. Stupid place for a window. Not that there’s any reason for anyone to be back there, but it doesn’t look like there’s anything to stop them, either. I imagine a face appearing there—suddenly, out of the trees, peering in at my naked self in the bath. It’s a good setting for a horror movie. I yank the shade down. Then I take a swig of whiskey.
Don’t start getting jumpy,
I tell myself.
God knows you’re annoying enough already.
I dunk myself beneath the water so that for a minute I can’t see a damned thing and all I can hear is the rush of water drowning out my thoughts. Drowning out whatever makes me
me.
I wish to hell there were easier ways to do it.
Later I head over to the bar. I am half Chloe, half Mandy the cop; it’s a necessary compromise. Mandy has such god-awful taste (in clothes, hair, everything) that I can’t bring myself to risk meeting my fellow cast members (who aren’t even here yet, I’m hoping, but you never know) as a fashion-challenged small-town policewoman. That’s not a first impression you could recover from. Inside, though, I’m still playing Mandy, which is why I sit, not at the long, curving wooden bar, but at a small table in the corner of the low room, all dark wood and pale stone and exposed beams. From here I can see everyone, but it’s hard for them to see me. I’m here to watch, not to be watched; to see, not to be seen. What a weird feeling.
I drink wine, which is another compromise: I intend to limit my Canadian martini consumption but can’t fully embrace Mandy’s beer-swigging ways unless I want to spend half my life on the treadmill. (I assume there’s a treadmill here. I picture hiking through the actual woods, and my blood runs cold. My revulsion is so strong that it surprises me.)
I’m on my second glass of sauvignon blanc when I notice a man across the room situated, like me, in a corner, his back to me. He’s wearing jeans and a flannel shirt that has a distinctly designer look, and he’s in the process of growing out a really expensive haircut. He has set himself apart from the other patrons—cheery vacationers, mostly well-heeled Canadians who look as though golf and tennis courses are their native realm.
An actor. Suddenly I’m convinced, without even seeing his face, that I know who this is.
Turn around
, I tell him in my head. Not because I want him to see me, because for once I don’t. I want to get a look at him.
He doesn’t. He’s reading a newspaper. After a while—I am now on my third glass of wine and have scored a little bowl of bar snacks—he folds the paper, puts it neatly aside, and starts texting maniacally. He doesn’t turn. I swear to God: he never fucking turns. Something about his movements practically hypnotizes me: the way he sits, the way he lifts his hands to brush his hair back every now and then, the way he tilts a pint of beer to lips I can’t even see—it’s an impressive economy of movement, I think, analyzing him like an actor would (an actor who has drunk nearly a bottle of wine, granted). He’s only using the absolutely necessary muscles for each small action; his overall stillness isn’t disturbed. Finally he gets up, stuffs his phone in his pocket, leaves the paper behind, tosses money on the table, and walks out. He stands up with his back to me, turning ever so slightly sideways to give a polite wave in the direction of the bar, turns his back again, and strides out.
Still, I know what I know.
The man I’ve just seen is no other than Billy Pearson. He’s playing
him
. He is Zed.
Lois
I create a new file and title it
Ideas for Conclusion.
If Sean has indeed been hacking into my computer and spying on the developments of my sequel, I don’t think he will be able to resist that bait. I assume that he badly wants to know what happens to Gary: what course of action he chooses, and how it turns out. What he gets away with. If I have been using Sean as a template for Gary, has Sean been doing the reverse? It’s almost too appalling to contemplate.
What the document really contains is one cryptic sentence:
It’s over, Sean.
Surely what he’s done is illegal. It must be; it’s like trespassing, or home invasion. But what more can I do?
You have to call the police,
Brad told me after the night on the footbridge.
And tell them what, exactly? How much and starting when? No, thank you.
I imagine he would have the same advice now, but only I can make sure that this ends well. I’ve made my move; now I wait for his.
Hacker: Hyssop, hajib, hydrangea. Howadji
. I’ve forgotten how much I like
H
words.
Hapaxanthous, hygrophanous
.
Hwyl.
(Yes, really. It’s Welsh.)
Hymenopterous. Haecceity.
Haecceity?
I can see it clearly, but it’s just a collection of letters, with no sense attached. Zed wouldn’t approve. I type it into my computer, wondering whether such searches can be tracked. My computer is haunted: that’s what it feels like.
Haecceity
means
thisness, hereness
. Being present. Interesting. What reassures me is that I am here, and he is there. Whatever Sean wants from me, I am far enough away to be safe.
In the meantime, I have come a long way. I’m in this beige-and-brown motel room for a reason. From my window I see the outskirts of a tiny town—gas stations and fast food—and, in the distance, mountains. In the other direction, I know, lie the woods. And that’s where I’m headed. Into the woods, deep in the woods. Like a fairy tale. Or a horror movie. I’m here, and so is Chloe. I breathe. I sip my bitter, cooling coffee. I plan. I turn my phone off.
* * *
In town I buy a notebook—just a plain ruled spiral affair, with a black cover. This is where Gary’s final moves will have to play out. I feel an odd thrill at the prospect of composing longhand, as if it might allow me somehow to claim kinship with my long-dead eighteenth- and nineteenth-century novelists. It’s like going back in time and attending a masked ball.