Tess
It’s a Wednesday when I meet John Michael Anderson. He doesn’t use his first name in person, and both of his book covers list him as J. Michael Anderson. The extra initial may be pretension, but he’s earned a few pretensions. His debut was the sort of book that’s nearly impossible to follow. It’s rare to have more than one such book in you. I think he knows that; the critics certainly pointed it out often enough the past few years.
He's older than I remember him being.
Reid would be too. I think it before I can stop myself. Even after six years, I still think about Reid. What he liked. What he wanted. Where I still fail. He made me who I am. Even without the scars, I can still see the proof of it. There's a kind of thinness that comes from soul-deep hunger, a kind of lost look, a kind of desperation. Sometimes I still see it when I stare into a mirror. Six years, almost a thousand miles, and more than thirty hours of tattoos, and I still see the woman Reid made.
I hate her. I hate the parts of me that still sound like his Tess.
But that’s who Michael wants, too. I know why he's in my city. I know what he's seeking here. The oh-so-successful author wants a story, and Tess? The me that used to be? The survivor? She’s a hell of a story.
There was a time I’d have done just about anything to have him look at me with interest. I did him back then, although I doubt Michael remembers me. I was just another fan on the road, and I didn’t have the maze of ink on my skin that I do now. I hadn’t started to find myself or draw the map.
These days, the edge of a tattoo somewhere can be seen no matter what I wear, but when I took a tumble with Michael, I was unmarked aside from my scars. I’ve been adding tattoos since I moved to New Orleans, alternating between two different shops in the Marigny depending on my mood. When I have the cash and the stability to sit still, I write my history, etching it in my skin when I remember the forgotten bits and pieces of my past that might one day make me whole.
Someday, I’ll either run out of skin or of memories. Either way, I’ll be whole then.
Today, I’m at Mardi Gras Memories, the absurd little shop where I’ve been working.
Michael walks in like it’s casual. “Tess, right?”
I ignore him. I’m not going to make this easy for either of us. There are moments in life when we know we are at the edge of a mistake. J. Michael Anderson is a celebrity. Celebrities draw attention. Attention is bad.
“You are Tess, aren’t you?” He’s wearing the same thing I’ve seen in plenty of photos, the same thing he once stripped off in front of me: jeans, faded enough to look like they’re older than they truly are, a casual shirt, dark leather shoes.
“I hated your last book.”
He stills at that, laughs awkwardly. “You’ve read my books?”
I debate kindness. I remember the peace I found in his touch when I needed it. Kindness won’t make him leave though, and I need him to leave.
Michael steps closer to me. “Tess . . . You are Tess, aren’t you? I thought you were. They said—”
“Obviously,” I cut him off before he can lie. I try to be truthful when I can, even when it’s ugly, even when it hurts.
“I am Tess.” I clench my hand against the urge to scrape my nails across my palm. I want to stay in the now without tricks or pills. Truth helps. I meet his eyes and repeat, “I am Tess.”
I am not Tessie. I am no longer the woman who did bad things I can’t always remember. I am not the same person as the one who made those choices. Now, I tell the truth, as much truth as I can. It doesn’t undo the past, but it helps me be in the present.
“I thought so.” Michael smiles. His attention is all the more focused now that I’ve confirmed what he already knew.
“Are you buying something or leaving?” I keep my tone meaner than I feel, but talking to him, seeing him, everything about this is a bad idea.
Michael opens his mouth, but instead of speaking, he closes it again and picks up a few strands of beads. In February, they’re tossed from floats or strung out like decorations. When they hang like tinsel in the trees or balconies or are passed out like rarities from floats, they seem valuable. They glimmer in street lights and headlights. Here, on the counter, they’re worthless. Sometimes people are like that, too.
I ring up the beads.
“You know, I saw you in Jackson Square,” he half-lies.
“Mmmm.”
He keeps going: “I asked one of the fortune tellers down there, and she said you worked here.”
"I do." Talking is hard. I often feel like there are things I ought to say or not say. The rules confuse me—worse when I know that there are lies in the words.
Michael hands me a credit card. It seems odd to charge such a small amount, or really, any amount. I am strictly cash and carry whenever possible. Credit cards leave a trail, and I don’t want to be found.
Ever.
Michael looks at me expectantly, and I realize that he didn’t think he’d have to have to work so hard for my attention.
“What do you want?”
He glances to the side, not meeting my gaze. It’s an obvious tell. “I’ve only been here a couple weeks, and I could use an insider’s perspective.”
“Really?”
“I want to learn about the city.” He offers me a full-out charming smile, as if I’m stupid.
He could find plenty of tours. The Crescent City is a tour mecca. Guides share accurate (or not) tales on everything from voodoo and prostitution to murder and plantations. The tour guides are so numerous that they must adhere to a minimum distance law to keep from interfering with other folks’ tours—and thus their livelihood.
I shrug. “I can recommend some people.”
“What I really want is the insider view.”
“I’m not a native or insider.”
He gives me puppy dog eyes. “Come to dinner, at least.”
"No."
"Coffee?"
This is a mistake. I want it not to be, but I can’t pretend I don’t realize that I’m on the precipice of a disaster. People do that. They say they don’t know how they ended up in the depths of self-destruction. That’s a lie. We make a thousand small choices that lead to our demise.
“A drink then?”
"It's a bad idea," I tell us both.
I know better. Really, I do. Breaking rules is why I'm here in New Orleans. It's why the pretty things died. It's why I still look into shadows.
Michael's not the sort of person who goes about unnoticed. Neither am I if the right people see me. I know I look different these days, but under all the changes, I suspect I still look like who I am. Someone could recognize me. I've seen my picture on television. I'm a missing woman. Everything I've done, every choice I've made for years, it's all been about being safe. Safe means hidden.
Reid can't kill me if he can't find me.
And despite all of the reasons not to, I nod. Maybe I just want to be found, for it to be over.
Michael talks. Making plans. I know I reply, but I can’t be sure what I say.
Maybe it’s not self-destruction. Maybe I’m lonely for someone who knows me. Michael met me when I was Tessie, and he still fucked me. That means I wasn’t all bad, right?