Identity Thief Read online

  “I—”

  “Don’t even start with me. Don’t even try.” She sat down on the one chair and took out a Butterfinger candy bar from her purse. “No, you can’t have any,” she said, reading my thoughts. “You have to eat all this fucked up shit like farina for the next month. Serves you right. But I wouldn’t give you some anyway. I don’t give candy to two-bit criminals.”

  I realized I’d turned a corner in my life because instead of feeling nothing but guilty for having been caught, I was equally curious to know how much she knew. “What do you mean, Mom?”

  “That ‘Who, me?’ look didn’t work when you were five years old, and it doesn’t work now. What made you think you could steal someone’s identity? And the asshole who used to own my own home? How stupid are you?”

  I was relieved that at least she didn’t know about Biff. “Did you—?”

  “Of course I didn’t tell the cops.” She angrily munched on her chocolate. “Oh, great. You think your own mother is a snitch. Even when you were teething like there was no tomorrow, I let you suck the milk from my tits. And look at the thanks I get. Am I a canary? Do I flap my yellow wings and sing away the day to the cops?”

  Despite how rotten I felt, I was salivating for a bite of candy bar. “But how did you figure all this out?”

  She finished the last bite and tossed the crumbled wrapper in the wastebasket. “With something called a brain, though I realize you were born without one. I knew you went to see that shyster lawyer. When you didn’t come home by evening, I called her. She said you went to the bank. The TV was going bananas over this big local bank robbery, so I figured it was just your lousy luck to be there. At first I thought you were stupid enough to rob the damn place. But I figured I should find out what was what before asking the cops anything. I looked up the last web pages you went to on your computer. Yep, that’s right. You, the great computer whiz, didn’t delete the wookie-cookies or whatever the hell they call them. Dr. Jesse Falcon! Are you nuts? They told me you were here. Anyway, I called the nephew of this nice lady who’s my neighbor. He works for the crummy town newspaper, and he told me that Dr. Jesse Fuckhead Falcon was shot in the bank robbery. One of those bank robbers was turning you into Swiss cheese when the cops broke in and shot him right through his dumbfuck head. That’s what saved you. A teller ID’d you as the Good Doctor. When you’re out of this dumpy hospital, you should light a candle in a house of worship and thank the good Lord God.”

  “Where’s Scotty?”

  “With me, you idiot. What did you think, that I sold him to pirates? My neighbor is watching him now. A nice, law-abiding old bag like his grandma. I don’t want him seeing you this way. I don’t know if he should see you ever again. But his mother is such a fuck, I suppose you’re the lesser of two evils.” She took out a nail clipper from her purse. “Hold out your hands.”

  I obeyed, as she clipped my fingernails. “You should always maintain a clean appearance. Surely I raised you to know that much.”

  “What should I do, Mom?”

  “Get the hell out of town, dummy,” she replied, cutting my nails neatly to the quick. “Let’s see if it blows over. I’ll keep Scotty for now. We’ll tell him Daddy’s busy. It’s not like Betsy McBitch is dying to take care of him. We’ll tell the lawyer lady that you’re setting up a job someplace. I threw your laptop in the trash—in a plastic bag full of Porky’s stinking hamster shit and piss litter. If the cops come around, I’ll pretend to be some senile old lady. I already complained to the post office about not getting my mail, just in case.”

  “Uh, what about, you know . . . money?”

  “I paid the lawyer her retainer and then some. Why couldn’t you take money from me in the first place? I’m your mother, damn it. What made you think you could get away with anything? Criminals are smart.”

  I looked at my freshly clipped nails. “I’m smart. You always said so.”

  “I didn’t say it so you’d become a crook. I thought you’d be a doctor. Someone who’d take care of his poor, weak mother in her old age. Someone I could’ve been proud of.”

  “Apparently I have a strong spleen. Isn’t that something to be proud of?” I noticed my morphine drip was running low. I buzzed for the nurse, who quickly filled it back up.

  “Are you feeling any better, Dr. Falcon?” asked the nurse.

  “He’s a dear,” Mom answered on my behalf, smiling pleasantly.

  “I’ve never understood your sense of humor,” Mom complained, after the nurse left. “Now, Don Knotts, he was funny. Anyway, I have enough money to take care of Scotty. And I’ll give you five G’s to settle yourself in and find a J-O-B. Then that’s it. I’m not cashing in another annuity to keep your stupid, penny-ante criminal ass out of the slammer.”

  “I have to get my stuff.”

  “Like hell you do. I moved your car to a scrap heap. You’ll never see it again and hopefully, neither will the cops. If anything comes addressed to Jesse Falcon, I’ll burn it. I already burned your clothes and suitcase, except for one change of clothes, which I left with the nurses. And don’t do anything stupid like calling me on your cell phone. One time, your louse of a grandfather—” She stopped herself from continuing.

  “What about Granddad?” I sat up in bed, anxious to hear more.

  “None of your damn business. Your grandfather is in heaven, where good people go.”

  “I love you, Mom.”

  She grunted dismissively. “Yeah, right. Tell it to a pile of dog shit. Tell it to your prison cellmate when he wants to make you his sweet little mama’s boy.”

  The week went by in a haze of morphine drips, nurses male and female who reminded me of flight attendants, and snooty doctors male and female who confused me with other patients.

  Technically, I couldn’t get discharged without someone to pick me up, but since I supposedly was a doctor myself, the hospital finally relented and said I could go home in a cab. The problem was that I had no home. A nurse helped me get dressed, since I was still in a lot of pain. The same nurse was about to call me a cab.

  “Jesse!” a melodious voice called out. I turned, and saw . . .

  who was it? Oh God, yes. It was that pretty girl at the bank robbery. I recognized her beautiful long hair. A sight for sore eyes, as the old saying goes. Only what the hell was she doing here? I had a passing thought that my mother somehow arranged it to make fun of me later.

  “Jesse, thank God you’re alive.” The girl kissed my cheek. “Is it okay if I give you a hug?”

  “Uh, sure.” She hugged me warmly but with an awareness of my injuries. “Nurse, I heard you calling a cab. Please cancel it. I’ll drive Dr. Falcon home.”

  When the nurse left, I opened my mouth to ask about a million questions, but the girl beat me to it. “No, of course I don’t know you know you. And yet, the way we looked at each other during the robbery. I can’t explain it—the life and death of it all. It was so . . . so everything all at once. When you got shot . . . I don’t even have the words for it. I went to the police and found out your name and that my prayers had been answered. You were still alive. I can’t explain it without sounding like some lunatic, but I had to see you. And I knew I would.”

  Out of everything I’d been through, was something positive occurring? Maybe life was a trade-off. Something bad happened—or in my case about a million bad things happened—but then along came something good. Or at least something that seemed good, which was more than could be said for Betsy and Biff. I figured I had nothing to lose. Even if I never saw her again, I’d get a free ride from the hospital. Of course, she thought I was Jesse Falcon, and I had no idea how to handle that. But one thing at a time. For now it was simply a free ride home. Or so I told myself.

  “By the way, what’s your name?”

  We both laughed. I didn’t know if we were embarrassed or something else.

  “Sequoia,” she said.

  “And does Sequoia have a last name?”

  “Falcon, of cour
se.” She laughed again. “Just kidding. I’m Sequoia Vargas.”

  Sportingly, she held out her hand for me to shake. I properly shook it.

  “So, Jesse, where is home?”

  Good question. Now all I needed to do was invent an answer. “I was house hunting when—you know.”

  “But where were you staying?”

  “With . . . uh, my mother.” Talk about a mood breaker.

  But Sequoia just smiled; she had a beautiful smile. “Am I right in guessing that Mom is not Miss Congeniality?”

  I rolled up my shirtsleeves; it was warm in the hospital, but Mom left me a long-sleeve shirt. “Let’s just say getting better is going to be a challenge living with my mother.”

  “Don’t you at least need to get your clothes? Your car?” She felt my forehead to make sure I didn’t have a fever.

  “No wheels at the moment. And as for my clothes, my mom destroyed them. That’s one of the reasons I went to the bank. We had a fight about . . . I guess you might as well know.” I sat down on the hard, lumpy hospital bed, gesturing for her to sit next to me. I clasped her hand and mustered up the most sincere expression I could. “Sequoia, I have a seven-year-old son, Frankie”—I didn’t want to give her any name that could lead to my real identity—“And I’m separated from my wife. I really am. Do you believe me?”

  “I probably shouldn’t. But yes, I believe you, Jesse.”

  I turned away, as if in private sorrow. “My mother thinks my soon-to-be ex-wife should have custody of my child. I want custody myself. My wife is . . . I guess I have to say it. She’s a heroin addict.”

  “Oh my God.” Sequoia squeezed my hand in sympathy.

  “I’ve told this to my mother a million times, but she doesn’t believe me. My wife has her wrapped around her little finger. My mother’s very, very traditional. She believes that children belong with their mother, period.”

  “I think that’s very unfair. A child belongs with the best parent.” She tenderly rubbed my chest. “By the way, what kind of doctor are you, Jesse? If it’s okay to ask.”

  “That’s perfectly all right. I only recently finished my PhD in psychology. I’ve been job searching. In fact, I missed three interviews because of everything that happened.”

  Pain pills did little to keep me from getting physically aroused. And for some reason, all the lies I was telling were making me harder and harder. Then, out of nowhere, we fell into a kiss, with that dizzy feeling that makes it seem there is no other choice. It was easily the best kiss I’d ever had. I felt weak and strong at the same time as we made out on the hospital bed. It seemed that my ride home came with a bonus prize.

  Sequoia sat up on the bed, combing her hair out of her face with her fingers. “I have a plan,” she whispered. “You come home with me. No strings, no expectations. We get you a suit or two for a job. If we end up hating each other’s guts, you can look for a new place at the end of the month. Hopefully, you’ll have a job by then.”

  Catching my breath, I feigned deep consideration. “Okay, Sequoia. Sure.” I don’t know what I would’ve done had she not made this offer, but I tried to make it seem like I was weighing a dozen different options.

  “Oh, Jesse, I don’t even have the words. To say I feel wonderfully happy sounds corny, and yet . . . ” She put her head to my heart as I stroked her long hair.

  Sequoia didn’t deserve to be hurt, and I thought about telling her the truth right then and there. Only what if she was some undercover cop? Or at least went to the cops after hearing what I did? After all, Sequoia did seem so very, very nice. Like she’d never even had a sip of wine. Like it never occurred to her that people didn’t always tell the truth. All my life I’d let my inner good guy rule, and now that I finally met a nice girl, my inner bad guy was in charge. I guess that’s why some people are called losers.

  Sequoia drove like she was taking a driving test. No speeding past amber warning lights for her. At stop signs, she came to a full stop, looking both ways even at four-way stops. The radio very softly played harmless, light pop rock. Still, the ride was an opportunity for her to supposedly learn more about me—where I supposedly did my graduate work, supposedly how I got married—and also for me to find out more about her.

  “I was an orphan,” she said, pleasantly humming along to the innocuous music. “My parents died when I was nine.”

  I stroked her knee for want of knowing what else to do.

  She stopped at a light about to turn red. In the side mirror, I could see the driver behind us swearing at her.

  “I was an only child. I moved in with my aunt and uncle. They had no other children. So they adopted me, and yes, they loved me like their own. I’m sorry if I sound impatient. It’s nothing personal, Jesse. Please understand. I’ve been telling this story all my life, and . . . I don’t know, with you, I want to keep things happy. My birth parents would want it, too. People treat me like damaged goods, and I’m tired of it.”

  “May I ask how they . . . uh, died?”

  “There was a fire.”

  I could see the question made her uncomfortable—even a little impatient, after telling me why she didn’t want to go into details. Well, there was plenty of time to talk about the past. And she certainly was more forthcoming than I’d been. “So do you work?” I asked, changing the subject.

  “I’m very fortunate. I have a trust fund that my parents set up for me. But I like working with kids. I volunteer at the city children’s art center a few days a week.”

  “That must be fun.”

  When she turned on her blinker and looked in the rearview mirror to change lanes, her concentration made you think she was flying a space shuttle. “It’s very challenging. Kids in the twenty-first century. It’s all video games and special effects. It’s hard to interest them in the idea that they can draw a picture themselves. The kids I work with have all been labeled slow, or ADD. A couple of Asperger’s. A lot of them come from—you know, not very nice families.”

  “I see,” I offered sympathetically. “You must be a patient person. Patient and giving.”

  Sequoia was distracted, though. “A parking place! Have I died and gone to heaven?”

  We parked in front of a building that was a plain, five-story rectangle; I was seeing that Sequoia disliked anything fussy. Still, it was in an upscale neighborhood. It also was in the dead center of the city, and as my mom seldom left the suburban tranquility of her condo, it was unlikely she’d bump into me. She lived about a half hour away, but it might as well have been on the moon.

  As Sequoia got her mail in the lobby, I noticed that her name was not on her mailbox in the foyer. “Is that on purpose?” I asked. “You know, keeping your name off the mailbox?” In a fit of protectiveness, I wanted to lecture her on identity theft, of all things.

  Sequoia sighed, sorting through what appeared to be a typical day’s assortment of bills and junk mail. “Reporters. To this day, they hound me.” She paused at an envelope.

  I saw that Sequoia’s name and address were handwritten, though there was no return address.

  “Oh, no,” she said. “Not again.”

  My slightly sinking feeling at the thought of getting within a million miles of a reporter gave way to concern. “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  She flashed her beautiful smile. “Nothing. An old nuisance, that’s all. Go ahead and look around,” she said, as we entered her apartment. “I trust you. I need to finish reading my mail.”

  The apartment featured white walls with black furniture that had white accents or black walls with white furniture that had black accents. I’m no interior designer, but I couldn’t help noticing the complete absence of colors. Nothing was even gray or tan. Her own artwork on the walls consisted of black-and-white lithographs; her salt-and-pepper shakers were white and black, respectively. For that matter, I realized she was wearing a white blouse with a black skirt and black high heels. I sneaked a peek into her clothes closet, and sure enough, everything was black, white,
or black and white.

  “Cool pad.” I smiled at her as she sat at the white desk in the living room.

  “I’m nuts for black and white, in case you were wondering,” Sequoia said cheerfully. “I even try to eat black and white. White asparagus, never green. White seafood and poultry or else beef charbroiled to black. Black and white sundaes. Marble cake.”

  I sat on the white coach. “That’s . . . uh, interesting.”

  “I know exactly what you’re thinking.” She sat down close to me and put my arm around her. “That it’s some sort of weird thing because of my parents.” Before I could speak, she added, “Look, I’ve been in therapy. I’m not OCD or XYZ or anything else. For your information, I’ve always preferred black and white. It’s who I am.”

  “Sounds good enough for me.” I kissed her passionately, and she responded. By the time the long, deep kiss ended, I was a pile of mush. Somewhere in the corridors of memory was my mother’s admonishment for me to move far away, but I couldn’t begin to consider leaving Sequoia for a second.

  “Should we make love now, or are you hungry?”

  I had the passing thought that she asked what had to be the happiest question a man could be asked. “I can only eat farina for a month.”

  “It’s white, what a happy coincidence. I’ll spoon feed you like a little baby.” She quirked an eyebrow in a cute, dirty way.

  We went at it three times in three different ways in less than an hour. With Betsy, I was lucky to get it three times a decade. Wasn’t there some old saying about how it’s the nice women who were the most ravenous in bed? Sequoia was solicitous of my wounds whenever we changed positions; I literally thought I might cry. In the haze of making love and pain pills, I slipped in and out of a dream in which Sequoia would reach into my gunshot wound and pull out a baby, a little girl we named Jessica. I know that must sound weird and gross, but the dream itself was beautiful.