The Girl She Used to Be (15 page)

J
ONATHAN PULLS UP IN FRONT OF THE CAFé, TOP DOWN, AND parallel-parks in one move, which is less about luck and more about having
lived in the city his entire life; there are no parking lots, no lines. He looks around a little, pulls a sweater over his
head, and runs his hands through his hair a few times.

I am waiting for him by the door.

Though certainly fueled by exhaustion and hunger, I can feel myself switching over, a conversion from allowing the good guys
to do the work to the bad guys; I feel like I’m surrendering everything I’ve been brought up to understand as moral and right,
giving the darkness a try to see if it can carry the weight more mightily. And at the same time, the lightness evanesces,
passes me on like a baton, yanks from me my crutches.

Have you ever noticed that the end has a more distinctive feel than the beginning?

He walks in, sees me, and smiles, and I immediately start shaking. My legs go limp and just before I am about to crash, he
catches me and holds me—not wrestles me back to my feet, but holds me, like a rag doll—and I tremble in his arms for many
minutes. And though I can feel the eyes of all the patrons boring into me, he just hugs me tightly and whispers in my ear,
“It’s okay. It’s okay. I’ve got you.” The last time someone held me this unconditionally was when I was eight and two boys
bullied me on the playground, scaring me to the point that I’d wet my pants, and when my mother came to pick me up she held
me and let me cry and didn’t care about how my wet clothes were seeping onto her slacks or my relentless tears or the layers
of mud the boys had put in my hair and down my shirt. And today I’m being held by this strong man and he doesn’t care that
I’m filthy and not smelling like anything that implies femininity or how I am broken in ways he could never comprehend. He
just tightens his arms around me and whispers over and over, “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

Indeed, he does.

What he doesn’t know is that I don’t have a penny on me, I have been living on a liquid diet for the past day, and I have
not showered or washed my hair or changed my clothes in what seems like a week. I was at the end of the proverbial rope and
had he not been there to catch me, I might’ve fallen into the abyss forever.

When I’m back on my feet, Jonathan steadies me and helps me walk out of the café. The temperature in the café and the temperature
outside are identical, but the smell of the fresh air is wonderful, an arid and floral blend like nothing familiar to my senses.
I take back everything I said about West Virginia.

He helps me into the car and I fall back against the seat and the leather wraps around me like the arms of an old friend.
He gets in too, then reaches into the backseat and pulls out a bag.

“For you,” he says.

I glance at him and pass him an emaciated smile. “You’re always bearing gifts.”

“Well, I had time to kill in Baltimore. Picked this up for you at the college bookstore at Johns Hopkins.”

I open the bag to find a brand new copy of Barton Zwiebach’s
A First Course in String Theory
.

“Not as useful as a sweater, I suppose,” he says, then looks down.

I get a little misty. “Are you kidding? It’s perfect.” I reach over and give him a hug and he puts his arm around my back
and pulls me in. When he lets go, I ask, “You pick this out on your own?”

“Get real. I would’ve thought string theory had something to do with the clothing industry. I called the assistant dean of
the School of Math and asked what the next logical class would be after Differential Equations. Then he reeled off a list
of titles that made my head spin. The only one I could remember was String Theory. The lady at the bookstore said this was
the best for self-learning.”

I shake my head in amazement. “I can’t believe you called the dean to research this—and that you remembered that I was ready
to move beyond differential equations. That’s so…
romantic
.”

Context is everything.

The sky fills with clouds as we chat. We both glance up and watch them move at the same time.

“Where’s that useless fed of yours?” he asks.

“A few miles back.”

“He managed to lose you twice in two days. That’s gotta be a career killer.”

I walk my fingers around the edge of my text and smile. I catch a glimpse of Jonathan and he’s watching me—noticing me—and
I can tell he’s taking it all in, making mental notes, experiencing.

“You know,” I say, “your dad called you Little Johnny.”

He sighs and rolls his eyes. “What bugs me is there’s no Big John. It’s not like my dad’s name is John or there is some bulky
uncle in my family who goes by John.”

“So, you’re little because you’re the youngest?”

“No, I’m little because I’m the
smallest
.”

“What? You’ve got to be five-eleven and three-quarters.”

He narrows his eyes at me. “Six feet, thank you. And a solid two-ten. Anything small about that?”

I don’t answer; I’m imagining a family of Bovaro men towering over me in my final moments. To think Jonathan would be the
smallest guy in a room full of Italian muscle is disturbing at best.

He starts the car, and as we pull onto the road droplets of rain begin to fall on the windshield and Jonathan raises the top
while we’re in motion. He navigates the town like he’s driven through it every day of his life, and just as I settle into
my seat, we’re on I-68 and the sun is fading in the mirrors. He rolls up the windows and the tint of the glass keeps enough
light out that I become drowsy.

I turn and stare at him for the longest time.

Jonathan clears his throat and asks, “Do you want me to take you anywhere?”

I breathe him in, unbuckle my seat belt, and slowly lay my head in his lap and say, “Yes, take me anywhere.”

He gently takes his right hand from the steering wheel and places it on my shoulder, and I can feel it shake a little before
it comes to rest. I put my hand on his knee and slowly curl it underneath until the tips of my fingers are between his thigh
and the seat.

Sometimes there is something sexual about surrender, but not this time. Besides, it’s hard to imagine sex could ever bring
this kind of euphoria.

I wake to Jonathan speaking softly, and though the car is still in motion, there is no light. Not even on the dashboard.

“What’d you expect?” he says. “You think they’d keep her there forever?”

I try not to stir; I can tell I’m going to be in pain when I move from this twisted position. Right now I feel fine, so I
decide to stay silent as long as possible and let the kinks out slowly.

He continues, “Yeah, well, good luck. She’s probably in North Dakota.”

I’m so comfortable and drowsy that I could probably stay this way forever. But Jonathan’s side of this conversation—of which
I am likely the topic—is bringing a rush of alertness.

He whispers his final statement, “I’ll let you know what I find out.” Then he quietly closes his cell.

I decide to let my wakefulness be known.

“Jonathan?”

He jumps and his leg slams my head against the bottom of the steering wheel and suddenly the car is swerving from side to
side.

I suppose the kinks were inevitable. I quickly sit up.

Jonathan gets us back in our lane and steadies the car. “Geez—you scared me to death.”

“Sorry,” I say as I rub the back of my neck with one hand and my forehead with the other. “Why are the dashboard lights out?”

“I thought you’d sleep better. Well, that and I didn’t want any passing trucks or cops to get the wrong impression.”

“How long was I asleep?”

He turns up the lights on the dashboard. “About three hours.”

“We must be getting close to Philadelphia.”

“Baltimore, actually.”

I rub my eyes and think. “Wouldn’t it have been faster to take the Pennsylvania Turnpike?”

“We’re avoiding Philly. For the moment.”

I stop rubbing and try to focus. “What’s in Philadelphia?”

“Some bad people—bad people who received incorrect information.” He says this with a strained, wry smile.

I lick my lips and swallow hard. “
You
gave them the incorrect information?”

He nods, inhales awkwardly, and adds, “And there are some bad people in D.C. as well, so we need to snake ourselves between
the two. And who knows where the marshals and FBI are at this point. They’re a completely separate issue.”

It seems Jonathan might have found this task tougher than he first imagined, that keeping me away from both the feds and his
family simultaneously is proving to be an undertaking too arduous for one man.

It all sinks in rather quickly. At first, having approximate locations of the hit men brings on a wave of anxiety, a sensation
bordering on vertigo. But the more I ponder the situation, the more I realize I’m actually on the proactive side of things
for once. Most of the time, the marshals are just moving me around, waiting to see if anyone is coming after me; it always
felt like I was barricading myself in a foxhole, waiting for opposing soldiers to find me before figuring out the next move.
It’s nice finally to be the one with a plan.

I try to watch Jonathan without him noticing. He focuses on the road, almost cataleptic, driving. Devising. When he finally
sees me, he smiles, and it is casual and calm, as if nothing is wrong and everything is on schedule. He subsequently calms
me as well.

He reaches behind my seat. “Thirsty?”

I adjust my seat a little and Jonathan hands me an Orangina. I shake it a few times but do not open it. “Who’s Carla?”

“Who?”

“Your dad thought I might be Carla.”

“Carla is my personal trainer.”

Rough life.

“Sounded like it might be more than that.” I twist the top and take a drink, as though the drink and the comment are equally
casual.

“She’d like it to be more, I guess.” He turns to me and says firmly, “But it’s not.”

“Why? What’s wrong with Carla? I’m sure she’s buff.”

He looks at me and smiles. “She is, but… she wants to be with me for the wrong reasons—because of my family’s influence
and money. It’s like being a rock star, sort of.” He turns back to the road. “With a greater certainty of being murdered or
doing time in prison.”

I stare at the road and we’re passing by the white lines with steady speed. “At least you
have
some form of certainty. You have an identity, a family, a before and after, a lineage and history.”

He takes a deep breath like he’s going to offer up some great insight, but he merely holds it for a few seconds, then lets
the air come out in a rush.

“What?” I ask.

He hesitates again but finally drives it home. “You are beautiful, Melody, in more ways than one—but you would be even prettier
if you’d stop feeling sorry for yourself.”

I bite my cheek and turn in my seat to face him. “Come again?”

“Seriously, do you think you and I are so different?”

I consider his theorem but it’s not working for me. “Yeah… I think we’re totally different.”

“Really? Well, let me tell you how we’re alike.” He scratches his cheek a few times, looks like a stereotypical mobster. “How
often do you think I’m watched by the cops or the feds? If I get a citation for jaywalking, they’ll be on me in a heartbeat,
trying to get me to flip on someone in my family. I can’t go anywhere without being noticed—and I’m a pretty stand-up guy
by comparison. But regardless of how straight I am, I will never be rid of the Bovaro tag. I am anything but free. I will
always be viewed as a criminal or as a criminal-in-training or, at a minimum, I’ll always be viewed as someone with information
on other criminals.”

“Do you? Have information on other criminals?”

He looks at me and shrugs a little. “Of course. I mean, did you know the details of what your dad did for a living?”

Two police cars go flying by in the fast lane, lights and sirens blazing. Jonathan doesn’t flinch. I watch until they are
out of view.

“I see your point, but… we’re still very different. I mean, you can be yourself. You can do whatever you want with your
life. Nothing is keeping you suppressed, forcing you out of the realm of possibility.”

He laughs and smirks at the same time, like I’d just told him a dirty limerick. “Wha—are you joking?”

I squint. “I don’t think so.”

“You think I can be a United States Congressman?”

“Okay, well, I—”

“How about a world-class surgeon? Would you want your prostate removed by the son of Anthony Bovaro?”

Despite his family’s predisposed knowledge of internal organs, I answer, “No. But, you know, I don’t have a prost—”

“That’s not my point, Melody. What about being an FBI agent. Think I have a shot at getting into the academy?”

“I, uh—”

“Or a stockbroker? Would you put your financial investments in the hands of a Bovaro?”

“Well—”

“How about a disc jockey? Musician? Professor? I can’t even be a Little League coach.”

I let him finish; we stare at each other—at least, as long as we can before he needs to return his attention to the road.

“Maybe we are alike,” I say. I turn and look out the window and mumble to myself, “Maybe that’s why I feel I have this connection
with you.” As soon as I finish the sentence, I realize I said it too loudly. It wasn’t meant for him to hear.

Jonathan smiles and takes my hand. He touches it with the same level of affection as a pat on the shoulder. His hand is warm,
and it envelops mine completely. I place my other hand on top to keep him from pulling his back. We both stare straight ahead
and swallow.

“But you
could
be a musician,” I offer. “Isn’t the Mafia involved in payola and all that? I mean, I saw
The Godfather
.”

He shakes his head in amazement, as though I’d just guessed his favorite color. “You’ll love this: When I was growing up,
my brother, Peter, thought he was Jon Bon Jovi—minus ninety percent of the style and all of the talent—which led him to start
a band called Shiver. My family pressured some execs at Columbia into releasing an EP of four songs titled
Piloerection
.” He turns my way. “Sold four hundred twelve copies.” Then back to the road. “Peter still has four hundred and eight of them
in a storage locker.”