Becoming Sarah

chapter SIX


Back at the apartment, I flipped through Sarah’s organizer. Here was a hair appointment, there a visit from her cleaning service. I found a slip of paper with several doctor’s names on it, headed “Referrals”. Psychiatrists? Maybe she’d been looking for a new one.

On her calendar, Sarah had noted several birthdays in dark blue ink, her cursive a near-indecipherable scrawl. That reminded me; I would have to learn to sign her name. I pulled a sheet of stationary from a drawer and practiced the signature on the back of her Visa card.

I was absorbed in the task when Sarah’s intercom chimed. My first instinct was to hunker down and ignore it, but I forced myself to answer.

“Sarah? It’s Nick. I’m downstairs.”

Nick. Nick. I couldn’t place the name. The voice, though, was familiar. Ah, the apology on the answering machine. Sarah’s boyfriend. I buzzed him in, then ran to the bathroom to run my fingers through my hair.

Her fingers. Her hair.

A moment later he knocked at the door. I laid a hand on my chest to still my heart, took a deep breath, and let him in.

There he stood, the guy from the bedside photos, and even better looking in person. Tanned, square-jawed, confident, he belonged in an Abercrombie & Fitch catalog. He looked like my childhood Ken doll, but sexier and with real -- not molded plastic -- hair. I tried to squelch my impending swoon.

“Hey, babe. You look good.” From behind his back, he produced flowers – gold and red orchids in a spray of greens, extravagant and lovely. “For you.”

“Thanks.” I took them and stood dumbly, not sure what to do next.

“Sarah, Sarah.” He wrapped an arm around my waist and pulled me close. “Tell me you’ve forgiven me.”

“I—I’ve forgiven you.”

He frowned and let me go. “Okay, you got me. What’s the game?”

I shook my head. “No game.”

“Right. That’s it, we’re okay, just like that? I don’t have to beg, plead, or bow down before you?” He threw back his head and laughed. “Oh, sweetheart, this is what I love about you! Never predictable, even for a moment.” He swept the flowers out of my hands again. “Here, I’ll put these in water.”

He moved around the kitchen like he knew it well, and I suppose he did. He left the flowers in their vase on the counter and swooped down on me; I felt like a mouse in the shadow of a hawk, unable to catch my breath.

He kissed me long and deep. I let him. This was a world away from Ricky’s hateful mouth. This was all exquisite feeling, sparks igniting, kindling a kind of hunger I’d never felt before. It was with a kind of triumph that I thought, so this is what it’s all about.

Yes, I slept with him.

It wasn’t something I thought about. It just happened. It was unlike me, the old Jamie, who analyzed things half to death, but I didn’t care. The truth is, it felt good.

Of course I thought Nick would know it wasn’t Sarah, and of course he didn’t. Like me, he was caught up in the moment. Or maybe it was that my body knew what to do even if I didn’t. I thought I’d be embarrassed to be naked, but I wasn’t. This wasn’t even me. Besides, for all I knew Nick and Sarah had done this a million times.

Afterwards, as we lay together on the bed, I curled up to him like a kitten to its mother. I nestled my chin into the curve of his neck. I felt like singing, like crying. I wished he’d tell me he loved me.

Nick glanced down at me and chuckled. “Who are you,” he said, “and what have you done with my Sarah?”

I stiffened, sure he’d guessed, and then relaxed when I realized he was joking. “Why, do I seem different?”

“It’s just that you’ve sheathed your claws, tiger lady.” He took my hand and played lazily with my fingers. “You’re softer today. I like it.”

“Mmm. Softer how?” I wanted to hear more compliments, more sweet words. But he rolled out of bed and pulled on his clothes.

“You’re going?” I couldn’t keep the plaintive note from my voice.

“Have to.” He buttoned his shirt.

“When—when will I see you again?”

“Don’t start,” he said, with an edge of irritation. “When I can get away. I’ll call you later.” He bent and dropped a dry kiss on my mouth. “Don’t get up. I’ll let myself out.”

I tried not to let myself think about Nick as I booted up Sarah’s laptop later that afternoon. I’d spent the past hour obsessing, fantasizing, replaying our encounter over and over. This must be love, this dizzy feeling.

More than anything I wanted to call up Maria and tell her. Better yet, I wanted to sleep over at her house and whisper secrets until just before the sun came up. How many times had we talked about what it would be like, losing our virginity? We’d pored over articles in Cosmo together, laughing uproariously, and tried to imagine what sex would feel like. What if our bodies made funny sounds, or if things didn’t fit where they were supposed to? How, exactly, did you know if you were any good at it? Maria had always had more experience than I did. She was the one with the older brother who explained about blowjobs and safe sex. She’d French kissed three guys, and let one feel her up. She’d hooked up with a guy at a party who asked her to put her hand in his pants. Now I was the experienced one, the one with the giggly confession to make, and I was all alone.

I went online and found the San Francisco Chronicle’s web site, where I did a search for my name. Two articles popped up. The first, on page one of the local section, was dated the previous day: Honor Student Found Dead. A headline I’d seen dozens of times before, but this time it was about me. I skimmed the article. Body discovered in alley, apparently strangled, police are investigating, blah blah blah. The reporter had mispelled my mother’s name, but otherwise the details were right. “Such a bright girl,” said Mr. Akiyama, my ninth grade math teacher. “What a terrible shame.” A quote from Isabel Leigh, a popular classmate who’d barely spoken to me before: “I can’t believe it. I just can’t believe it. I’ve been crying all day long.” Thanks, Isabel. What that girl wouldn’t do to get her name in the paper.

According to the last paragraph, the funeral was scheduled for Saturday – tomorrow morning – at St. Michael’s. Though the room was warm, I shivered. So I would have a chance to attend my own funeral. How many people could say that?

I clicked on the second article, dated today, and gasped aloud. Library Employee Questioned in Murder Case. “Police say 27-year-old Otto Prelinger was the last person to see Lumley alive.” At least, according to the story, they hadn’t actually arrested him yet. I’d watched enough crime shows to figure that he’d be okay once the DNA evidence came back and proved it wasn’t him. Still, it hurt to think about what Otto and his family must be going through right now.

I scrawled down the name of the detective quoted in the article, logged off the Internet, and rushed into the bedroom to change my clothes. God, poor Otto. He’d done me a favor, and look where it’d gotten him.

I had to do something to help.