The Girl She Used to Be (2 page)

I’m Sandra Clarke, by the way.

For now.

As Tuesday ends, I find my way to the Columbia Mall, located on Columbia Pike in Columbia, Maryland, a mere five minutes from
my home. Columbia is one of the earliest master-planned communities, developed by some guy named Rouse, intended to be the
suburban mecca that even Eisenhower himself could never have imagined. And of all the places I’ve been
relocated
to, this one breaks the scale of insipidity. It is a swirl of predictable shopping and cookie-cutter houses and architecturally
vapid office buildings and family restaurants that specialize in salad bars and baby back ribs.

I hate it here.

But this place, this mall, has one thing in it I love, a thing present in every mall in every Middleton and Middletown and
Middleburg and Centreville across this great land: a Hallmark store. At least once a week I visit this special place and slowly
walk the aisles, for it is here that I get to witness the true essence of family, of love:

The man who clumsily pokes through the cards for a half hour until he finds the one that will touch his wife’s heart, the
one he
knows
will lift her spirit because he
knows
her, the one that brings a sigh of relief.

The daughter who sifts through the cards until she finds the one for her mother that makes her suppress a giggle, because
mothers and daughters understand each other’s idiosyncrasies—and frailties—and can laugh at each other that way.

The adolescent boy who sneaks into the card store, after telling his father he’d be hanging at GameStop, in order to find
a card for his first girlfriend, because telling her how he feels is not only embarrassing, but elusive.

It is here I get to witness life, albeit the lives of others. I walk through the store and watch people select intimate items
for their lovers, their friends, their family, and for the briefest of moments I get to pretend I am there for someone special
too. I get to pretend that my parents are still alive and I am looking for the perfect anniversary card. I get to pretend
that my mother did not miscarry my little brother from immense stress but instead brought a beautiful boy into this world
who picked on me as a child but protected me as a teen, and I would search for an hour for the perfect card to explain my
love for him. I get to pretend that my best friend is getting over another breakup from a guy who didn’t deserve her in the
first place and—
bam
—here’s a card that brings it all to light.

This is my nameless family.

Tonight I stand close to a guy in his late thirties who looks like George Clooney—actually, like a regular guy who happens
to possess all of George Clooney’s flaws: exaggerated chin, droopy eyes, absent upper lip. But there is something about him,
something real. He is here for a distinct reason, and because of that he has been selected.

I follow George around the store, a few steps behind, watching him fumble through the racks. After reading what had to have
been a thirtieth card, he hangs his head and wipes the corner of his eye. I step a little closer. He muffles a whimper and
I slowly reach out and gently—with the lightest touch I can muster—brush his shoulder, and as my fingers connect with the
fabric of his coat, I inhale deeply.

He swallows and turns my way.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

He nods and looks back down, but something in my touch, or the interaction with another caring human, brings his tears to
a pour and he wipes vigorously, as though it is sand, not water, filling his eyes. I wait and finally he returns the card
to its holder, glances at me, and slowly lumbers from the store as he dries his eyes and nose with his sleeve.

I watch him leave, then find the card he just put back. It is a card asking for forgiveness, for one more chance.

I quickly reach into the back of the stack and grab the freshest card and rush to the front of the store and make a purchase—in
cash, as usual.

As I exit the shop, I find George sitting on a bench five stores away, staring blindly into a babyGap. I don’t bother to sit
down—because, really, there is no point in getting to know George for real—and I hand him the bag with the card inside.

“She’s waiting,” I say, “to give you another chance. She just wants you to ask.” I back up a few paces because I feel the
need to ask George to get a drink, where it may turn into three, upon which I will carelessly spill the many beans of my lives
and in the morning, with hangover in tow, the feds will have me on my way to another town, another job, another mall with
another Hallmark store.

“Don’t waste one more minute of your life,” I say as I move in reverse. Then I smile and add, “And don’t screw it up this
time.”

I drive home, through the suburban traffic that piles up on Columbia Pike with people who live in Baltimore but work in D.C.,
or the opposite. And today is Tuesday, which means it’s the night I pay bills, after which I grade the remaining pop quizzes,
the ones I always give on Tuesday, where there is at least one correct answer if you follow the path of logic. And I will
eat one-third of a pizza from Carmine’s, because it is Tuesday and they know to have it ready for me as they learned so many
months ago. And then I will shower and watch one hour of television and then I will repeat my name to myself over and over
until I lull myself to sleep. Because today is Tuesday.

I
’M GETTING THAT FEELING AGAIN—A SORT OF WANDERLUST fueled by the assumption that the grass has got to be greener somewhere.
Anywhere. I’ve seen a lot of grass, mind you, having moved with the frequency of an army brat and having acquired all of the
inevitable angst and rebellion. It is one thing to deal with the lousy decisions in your life and suffer from the relative
regret and misery, to play the hand you’ve been dealt; it is quite another to be dealt hand after hand, with some federal
employee leering over your shoulder, whispering, “
Fold
.”

Anyway, I’m getting that feeling again.

Randall Farquar, whose name I intentionally mispronounce toward the more phonetic, will not be happy when I call, but it’s
his job to talk to me, to protect me, to keep me safe and secure and toasty warm at night.

These are your tax dollars hard at work.

It is Farquar’s job to pick up my pieces, no matter how many or how small, and glue them back together into a slightly different
shape, feel, and sound. He takes what was once a Terry and converts her into a Shelly, carefully wipes clean the slates of
bills, addresses, employers, credit histories, licenses, even my Social Security number—everything that makes me
me
. Or at least the government’s version of me. For now I am whole.

I am complete.

I am a complete fabrication.

But it’s only a matter of time. I may be whole now, but I’ve been living off Columbia Pike in Columbia, Maryland, for eighteen
months and in some way I can imagine that little Farquar is waiting for his phone to ring, and he pinches his brow in anticipation,
wondering how much longer I can remain whole.

Well, get ready; in approximately seven hours, Sandra Clarke is going to shatter.

I have no children, yet I can tell you without fail that the best baby monitor on the market today (and the most popular)
is the Sony 27 Channel BabyCall Nursery Monitor, with The First Years Clear and Near 2.4 GHz Monitor a close second. I’ve
got most of them—Fisher-Price, Safety 1st, RC2—but the Sony model will blow your mind. The sound is crystal clear and it has
a range that is truly astounding.

Now, add to that piece of knowledge this: The two operating items in the baby-monitor system are the receiver—which the parent
usually carries around so that he or she can hear the baby—and the transmitter, which is usually positioned near the child’s
crib or bed. Both have on/off switches but—and I can say this with certainty—the parents usually leave the transmitter plugged
in and
on
.

I have lived in many different apartment buildings over the course of my adult life, and the first thing I do on the first
night of my stay in my new residence is set up those monitors (no transmitter needed) one by one and fiddle with the channel
combinations until the static disappears and the noise of a child begins. In a building with over twenty apartments, the odds
are that one of those apartments has a youngster who needs a monitor and has parents who carelessly leave the transmitter
on twenty-four hours a day.

While my neighbors are stealing connections to unsecured wireless networks, I’m stealing a family.

And here in Columbia, this is how I came to know little Jessica—a name I have always desired but WITSEC would never permit
me to use—and her wonderful yet predictable suburban upbringing. I would fall asleep at night to her deep, rhythmic breathing
and wake just before the sun to her gentle cooing. I weathered the long bout of pneumonia she had this past winter and called
in sick for two days to make sure she was okay. I would laugh as her father read her the same story every night—
Where, Oh Where, Is Kipper’s Bear?
—and how Jessica would giggle at the pop-ups and how her father would have to interrupt the story repeatedly to keep her from
pulling the pages apart. And I would cry as Jessica’s parents would whisper their loving approval of their daughter, their
creation, each night as they put her down.
Isn’t she beautiful? Isn’t she perfect? Look at our baby girl.

Jessica is the little sister I never had and the daughter I will never be able to have. They are a safe family, with a regular
schedule and regular jobs and regular stresses. They live and love and experience what many would find boring but remains
a dream to me. And of all the places I have lived, of all the families I have adopted, this one was the closest to home I
might have ever known, though I never caught a glimpse of them or found out what floor they lived on or whether they were
even in my building.

I will miss Jessica.

In my final hours in this place, I scan my apartment for anything I want to take with me. I won’t have much room, so it needs
to be small. I will be leaving with the clothes I’m wearing and not much more. I grab a garbage bag—because,
theoretically
, I’m in a hurry—and fill it with some undergarments, a robe, some personal hygiene items, a toothbrush. Everything that belongs
to me, or this version of me, must stay. I can take no books, no pictures, no identification.

Nothing.

I am about to start over. Again.

I have a few hundred dollars on me, but they’ll give me more—though not much more.

This is where I walk to the edge of the cliff, close my eyes, and take the dive. There is no turning back.

And all it takes is one simple lie.

I do not call the school and tell them I am not coming in—or
back
, for that matter.

I do not call my landlord and let him know he will have a new apartment for lease.

I
do
call the number that connects me—directly—to my federal contact.

“Farquar.”

“It’s Melody Grace McCartney,” I say.

He sighs and I can hear him rub his beard through the phone. “Why aren’t you using your proper name,
Sandra
?”

“They found me.” I yawn.

“
Who
, Sandra? What are you talking about?”

“
Who
,” I repeat, annoyed by his assumption that I’m making this up, as valid as that may be. “Is this a joke, Farquar? I answered
my phone a few minutes ago and what I got was some guy with a New York accent, repeating, ‘
Sing me a song, Melody
.’ ”

He sighs again, but doesn’t try to hide it this time. “I don’t suppose you got this on tape.”

“What? Of course not.”

A pause, a third sigh, then he puts me on hold. It is important to note he is
U.S. Marshal
Farquar and not
Agent
Farquar. All of the dealings with Witness Protection are indeed struck out of negotiations with the U.S. Department of Justice,
which sort of lends one to think that the FBI will be taking care of you down the road. But, in fact, it’s a different branch
of the Department of Justice that handles WITSEC: the United States Marshals Service.

Justice
,
Integrity
,
Service
, or so the motto goes.

He comes back on, laughing, and hits me with “At least they didn’t send you a dead fish. Because that really sends a message—”

“Listen, are you suggesting I should sit in my apartment and wait for something to happen? Would that make you feel better?
That way you can repeat the excellent line of service you provided for my parents twenty years ago.”

Guilt has managed to shut him down year after year and I had no reason to assume this time would be any different.

“Just sit tight,” he mumbles. “Are you safe?”

“How should I know,” I say, feigning a little anger.

“Well, you are now.”

And with that, a squad car with three federal marshals pulls up to the front of my building. The marshals race up the steps,
snatch me from my apartment, and whisk me into their noble chariot. These are my knights in shining armor.