The Girl She Used to Be (6 page)

And sure enough, we make our way to the motel with the paper-thin walls and the old radiators. The managers know we are coming
and, like always, they are not happy. We walk around the side of the motel and it seems the only thing going for this place
is its location right on the bay, with a hundred yards of grainy beach that points toward the bridge spans and the Chesapeake.

The other marshal hands Sean the car keys and gets in the passenger side of another Explorer with a marshal who was waiting
for us at the motel. Sean and I watch the vehicle speed away. We are now alone.

As we head toward our rooms, Sean scopes the place, looking around every corner, behind every tree, up every stairwell.

I cannot take my eyes off the water and the stream of cars flowing over the bay, all with a destination, with intent. I’m
equally jealous and depressed.

It is mid-May and it seems summer has arrived early in this part of Virginia. A breeze pushes us along to our rooms and it’s
warmer and more inviting than anyone who works at this dump.

“Listen,” Sean says, “are you curious about your last name at all?”

I laugh at him. “Government issue. What is it?”

“Howard.”

“Geez, Michelle Howard. You threw me an extra syllable. How lavish.”

We reach the door and he hands me my garbage-bag-suitcase, then gives me an additional plastic bag. “You’ll need this, too.”

“Let me guess. Scissors and hair dye.”

“And some other things, but the scissors and dye are the items you’ll need to use tonight.”

I reach in the bag and pull out the box that has L’Oréal on the label. “Creamy Caramel?”

“It’ll match your eyes.”

“Probably not better than my natural color.”

“Which is what?”

I play with the doorknob to my room. “When I was six, it was sort of blond. It’s been dyed ever since. Based on the other
hair on my body, I’m guessing it’s still blond. Or gray.”

He reaches for his doorknob too. “Well, no matter what, I’m sure it will be stunning.”

“And stiff.”

He smiles and suddenly Matthew McConaughey returns. “I’ll be right over here. You need anything, just tap on the door or poke
a hole through the wall or something.”

I walk up quickly, stand on my toes, and kiss his cheek. “Thank you, Deputy Marshal Sean Douglas.”

He blushes and loses his smile. “Sleep well, M. You’re safe with me.”

I
INDEED FEEL QUITE SAFE WITH SEAN NEXT DOOR. HIS MERE SIZE—and commitment to acting as a valid protector—are enough to warm
the cockles. I drop my head to my pillow and feel a rush of warmth that suggests slumber is a moment away. Even with being
in a strange town and a strange bed and my hair now short and stinking of chemicals, I feel safe. Very safe.

But now that there’s a knife pressed against my neck? Not so much.

This is the moment I have imagined a hundred times over, the nightmare that has caused me to wet my bed regularly since I
was six years old. And the fact that I have lost control of my bladder once again is a reminder that this is not a joke. This
is not an exercise.

This is not a dream sequence.

I reach for my neck as anyone in my situation would and suppress my scream just as I’ve practiced for when this day might
come. I cry under my breath, “
Ow
.”

The response I get is odd and unexpected: “Oh, sorry.”

The assailant weakens his grip and I touch my neck and feel no blood.

He leans over the bed and whispers in my ear, “I’m gonna let you go.
Do not scream
, do you understand?”

I nod, fast, repeatedly grabbing my neckline in an attempt to find that crimson wetness.

He slowly releases me and steps back. He stays there for an uncomfortably long time and it runs through my mind that this
guy may have rape on his mind instead of murder—and, if so, will not be happy when he realizes who’s staked out in the next
room.

I gingerly slide out of bed and we stand a few feet apart, the only sound a few droplets of bodily fluid running off the edge
of my pajama bottoms onto the cold tile floor. Panic subsides. A little.

We are both waiting for something.

“Um,” I whisper, “now what?”

I can tell he’s trying to look around the room. “Is there a light anywhere?”

I squint, even though it’s dark. “A light?”

“Hold on,” he says, then fishes through his jacket—very loud leather—and pulls out a tiny flashlight, turns it on, and starts
whipping a minuscule beam of light around my scummy motel room. He finds the switch and turns on the lamp.

I stand still—frozen—as he slowly walks in my direction.

“You know who I am?” he asks, no longer whispering. His voice is rich and deep and soulful, and it reminds me of a young Morgan
Freeman or a forgotten Baldwin brother. Or a smoker. He steps a little closer and his youth—still older than me, though—becomes
immediately apparent. I am hoping his age equates to inexperience.

Then he says, “I’m John Bovaro.”

And with those words, I start to shake. My chin wrinkles, my face loses its blood, the room spins. And I am pathetic; the
best I can do in my quivering posture is half whisper my guardian’s name.

“
Sean
…
Sean!
”

John smirks and casually points to the bed for me to sit, as though nothing physical—sexual or violent—is on his mind. “If
Sean is that clown in the next room, he won’t be here too soon. Have a seat.”

I gasp and bring my hands to my chest. “
You killed him?
” My knees buckle. No matter how many times you imagine nearing death, you simply cannot prepare.

He laughs and reaches in his pocket for what I imagine is the knife he had to my neck or a loaded gun, but he pulls out a
pack of cigarettes, puts one to his mouth, and lights it. “Killed him? No, he’s out on the beach, walking the shoreline.”
He takes a long drag, then turns his head to avoid exhaling in my direction. “He’s got his dress pants rolled up like he’s
going digging for clams. I gotta tell you, that guy’s a useless fu—” He glances at me. “Fellow.”

I feel like I’m going to fall to the ground and I quickly take him up on his offer to sit on the bed.

He puts the cigarette to his lips and the end glows red. I can actually hear the paper and tobacco burn. “You know what that
guy makes a year? About forty thousand. Seriously, what kind of protection is forty thousand gonna get you?”

After a few seconds of sitting, I notice how cold and wet my clothes are, and it appears that all of the nightmares I had
as a child were simply dress rehearsals for this final moment.

I garner the strength to look at him but I cannot speak, nor can I stop shaking.

He takes a double drag and holds it and extinguishes the butt on the floor. “I like your hair this way.” He exhales from the
side of his mouth and a cloud fills the corner of the room.

I look beyond him, at the mirror, and it seems the caramel isn’t looking too creamy at the moment. I look like a boy.

He stares at me, as if it’s my turn to say something.

All I can offer is the predictable canned line from a million lousy movies: “
What do you want from me?
”

He throws his hands up. “Geez, I don’t know. Fifty bucks?” He reaches back into his jacket for his cigarettes and holds them
out to me. “How rude of me. Cigarette?”

I swallow. My nervousness fades enough for me to say, “My parents always told me cigarettes would kill me.”

He laughs. “The death I can handle. It’s the bad breath and yellow teeth I find troublesome.”

“Why not try the nicotine gum?” I’m stalling, hoping Sean will hear this conversation and burst through my door—though now
I, too, am starting to think he’s useless. And should I survive, Sean will receive a long diatribe about what it means to
be someone’s protector.

“Yeah, I’ve considered Nicorette, but you can’t intimidate someone by snuffing out a chewed piece of gum on his forearm.”
He chuckles.

This guy is way too cavalier, almost goofy. I rub my eyes and analyze him on the off chance that I may need to remember him
for a lineup or a sketch artist. The stupid ones always talk too much.

So I start recording data: deep, raspy voice; wild, green bloodshot eyes; olive skin—as expected; thick black hair—this time
Mediterranean instead of Irish—in a short progressive cut; medium nose—no hook; clean-shaven—no,
fresh
-shaven; strong chin; wry smile; full red lips. It hits me that, if you take away the deadly weapon, he’s kind of attractive.
But here’s the odd part, the piece that doesn’t match the name Bovaro: black, small-rimmed glasses.

He leans against the dresser before I have a chance to gauge his height but I’m thinking maybe six feet tall, and bulky on
top but average from the buckle down. This is the best I can do.

I look away. “John Bovaro,” I say, loud enough that if Sean has returned to his room he could hear me. I get not so much as
a stir out of the marshal’s room. I’m getting pissed off at everybody. “But let me guess, I should call you Johnny?
Or is it Little John?”

He adjusts his glasses and says, “Actually, if you really want to know, I prefer Jonathan.”

I cannot suppress a giggle. “You’ve
got
to be kidding.”

“I shi—er, kid—you not.”

He smiles but it annoys me; with the hair and the glasses and the
Jonathan
, I feel like I’m being threatened by an investment banker.

He scratches his cheek and thinks. Then he reaches over to the chair next to the window and tosses me my robe. “Here. Why
don’t you slip into something dry.” I pause before taking it. “I’m sorry if I scared you.”

I stand, put the robe on, turn my back to him and take off my panties and pajama bottoms, close the robe, and pull it tight
enough to cut off my circulation.

As I spin back around and sit on the bed, he says, “Can I ask a question?”

“You
may
ask a question.”

“I’m gonna cut you a break on the attitude because you’re a teacher—
sort of
.” He sighs. “How did you know I was on to you back in Maryland?”

I lick my lips and shake my head. “I had no idea who you were until two minutes ago.”

He looks down, concerned. “You mean, someone else from my family threatened you?”

“No.”

“Then why are you being relocated?”

I hesitate, but I really don’t care anymore. “I… decided I was bored and needed a change.”

He smiles brightly. “You mean… you made up a threat to get the government to relocate you and get you a new identity.”

I think and nod. “Yeah, pretty much.”

“Because you were bored.”

I smile a little. “Yeah.”

“Stickin’ it to the man!” He throws his hand up for a high-five. I slap it, mostly because I have no idea what’s going on
here. “You’re all right, girl.…You’re all right.”

I cross my legs and wiggle my foot a little. “You’re not going to kill me, are you.”

“
Please
,” he says. “If I’d come here to kill you, you’d be fighting rigor mortis and I’d be halfway back to Brooklyn. That fed they
got protecting you—what, was he gonna step in and save the day?” He reaches in his pocket and pulls out his Marlboros, stares
at them, then puts them back.

“Sean’s a good guy,” I say, like I’m defending my spouse.

Jonathan looks at me, stern, like he might have changed his mind about slitting my throat. He takes a few steps toward me.
“Do you feel safe right now?”

I can’t look at him, so I bite my tongue and stare at the floor as I slowly shake my head. “No.”

All of a sudden, he flips his wrist over and checks his watch. “Well, I’m afraid we’re out of time.”

I frown. “Meaning what?”

“Just get a good night’s rest. I’ll be back for you tomorrow. I just wanted to let you know I was here—and that you’ll be
leaving with me.” He walks to the window, peeks outside, and reaches for the doorknob.

“Wait! What do you mean?”

“What confused you, Melody?”

Hearing my birth name from someone other than a deputy marshal throws me off. He is a real human being in the real world who
actually knows who I am, the first person in twenty years to discern the genuine and uninvented me, a superhero recognized
without her mask; I feel a subtle pull inside, the rise of a new and inconvenient emotion. “Where, uh… where are we going?”

“A road trip.” He turns and faces me. “Melody, listen—I promise I am not going to hurt you. But you have to come with me.
And we have to move very quickly.”

I’m totally muddled, and instead of asking what his intentions are, I say, “What about Sean? What will I tell him?”

“Nothing. Just have breakfast with him and tell him everything is okay.”

“But he’ll find out about you. He’s—”

Jonathan sighs, then waves me over. “Come here.” He pushes up one blade of the blinds and points to the water. “Are you telling
me that guy is gonna be your hero?”

I stare out the window and watch as Sean sits in the sand, picks up a handful of shells, and gently tosses them into the water.