Identity Thief Page 9

  Turning away from Esther, I curled up like a fetus as one awful possibility after another went flashing through my mind. In her sleepiness, Esther put my arm back around her.

  “Stay put,” she murmured. “No more running away.”

  I kissed her forehead. “I love you, Esther.” Her drowsy smile said the same thing in return. It should’ve been one of the nicest moments of my life. But all I could think of was that motherfucking letter. Then I remembered about the identity thief again, unable to decide which terrible thing to obsess about the most.

  SEQUOIA WAS BRINGING ME A JOY I never thought possible. Corny as it sounds, I became a firm believer in love at first sight. Our life together was one of those amazing spells in which everything you say and do feels like making love. When she gave me her fortune cookie over some take-out Chinese, it was as if she’d given me her heart. And when the fortune said something like, “You have a secret admirer,” it was as though God blessed our union.

  I did notice that Sequoia was extremely unsentimental. Not that she wasn’t affectionate, but she refused to have photos of us on display because she claimed it was a cliché and did not care much about things like birthdays or talking about how long we’d been together. Still, one on one, she was extremely kind and present. And given her childhood, I figured she had good reason not to trust nostalgia.

  Maybe love at first sight was the only kind of love there was. Maybe first impressions never did go away, and you either loved, liked, or hated someone from the moment you met. Looking back, I think I always hated Betsy, but in some crazy way that made me feel sorry for her, especially when she got pregnant. And Biff was always a nut job.

  Yet at the same time that my life had never been better, my life became more and more of a lie. I missed Scotty a whole lot, and though I know it sounds wimpy beyond belief, I felt guilty lying to Mom. Supposedly, I was living low profile someplace else, exactly like Mom said I should do. Mom had temporary custody of Scotty, and the only time I found out what he was doing was when she’d call me, using one of her friend’s phones. I decided that even e-mails were too risky. Plus, of course, there were all the crimes and lies I was hiding from Sequoia. Yet in a strange way, that didn’t bother me as much. I couldn’t comprehend our not staying together no matter what happened.

  One of the more inconvenient situations was the fact that I periodically had to go away for a day or two on “government business” to make that particular lie look good. I would fly to Washington, DC—I very quickly racked up bonus miles—and would stay at an inexpensive hotel I’d found that had no frills but was bug-free. I’d kick off my shoes, loosen my tie, and watch TV for a day or a weekend, miss Sequoia so badly I’d thought I’d lose my mind, and then gratefully fly back home. Sequoia once asked if the government couldn’t do better than the cheap hotel I stayed at, and I told her I couldn’t discuss why I always stayed there.

  Obviously, I also had to keep Sequoia completely out of the divorce, since she thought I was Dr. Jesse Falcon. I told her I didn’t want her to have to get involved or worry about any of it at all. That much was true. I got a PO Box for all my correspondence with Ondine.

  My original plan to take only $20,000 more from Dr. Jesse Falcon proved naïve at best. Besides getting my website going, there were Scotty’s living expenses, which I insisted on paying for, plus my own, as I refused to be supported by Sequoia. It’s funny how relative life becomes. I told myself that I’d done a highly moral thing when, thanks to substantial advertising contracts and benefit options that Sequoia helped me set up, I got my online business going for a mere $85,000 of the $120,000 I’d stolen to date. As for what the business was, it was Sequoia who came up with what she saw as the perfect solution. And she could not have known, on that happy day, how life-changing her brainstorm was.

  “What do you think?” she asked me, showing a mock-up of my possible homepage.

  I leaned over into the laptop and saw the title: Ask Dr. Jesse. It would be a kind of online “Dear Abby,” only I’d offer answers to four menus of information: Personal Advice, The Facts about Sex, Mental Illness Guide, and Physical Fitness. There was even a subheading that read: “The Psych of All Trades.”

  Of course, I really wasn’t a doctor of any kind, but it was only natural of Sequoia to want to capitalize on the assumption that I was. “Um, it’s great, sweetheart. But I have to be extremely low-key, remember?”

  Sequoia made the funny face she’d make when some minor problem emerged between us. “Ah yes, all those government secrets. Don’t worry, I didn’t mention your last name. And I can set up a small business to own the copyright.”

  “Still, even ‘Jesse’ is too much.”

  Sequoia tapped her index finger to her lips. She was a quick thinker. “What about ‘Dr. Know-It-All’? Or ‘McShrink’? Or maybe ‘Free Psychology’?”

  I thought about it. I did, after all, originally want to be a psychologist. Way back when, I was a straight A student. There also were all sorts of books and websites I could get accurate information from. And it seemed poetic justice to finally live out my dreams without Betsy’s lies spoiling them.

  “McShrink,” I decided.

  “Great! We’re in business. I already looked up the legal wording for our disclaimer, so no one could sue for bad advice.”

  “Great!” I parroted back, though in truth that hadn’t even occurred to me. Sequoia was not only incredibly easy to love, but she made an excellent business advisor.

  It was then that we launched the website. Sequoia already had an alias she used for investment reasons and that was the only name that appeared on any contracts. She also was the webmaster. We advertised on a bunch of other websites and fairly quickly I began getting e-mails from people seeking advice.

  From the first e-mail I received, I never consulted any of the textbooks I thought I’d refer to. Instead, I relied on my gut. Or what I really mean is that I relied on my inner bad guy. I advised people to do the kinds of things I’d always wanted to do but never had the nerve. It was as if every time I’d stuffed my anger, it turned out to be a bank deposit of sorts, and now I was ready to cash in on all that pent-up energy by helping others. I didn’t assume people would follow my advice, but—except for the occasional slimeball—I thought that the people who wrote to me needed to feel like someone was 100 percent on their side. I was their online life coach egging them on to tell whoever was bugging them to fuck off.

  Dear McShrink,

  I’m a 5’ 7” woman who weighs 140 pounds, not excessive for my height. Yet my boyfriend says unless I lose weight, he’ll break up with me. His best friend is always there to back him up. They get drunk and call me a fat slob. What do I do?

  Badgered

  Dear Badgered,

  Your weight is fine. Tell your boyfriend that his best friend must be secretly in love with him because there’s no other reason why he should care how much you weigh. Say this to the best friend as well as everyone you know he knows. Then breakup with your boyfriend. But before you do, go through all his drawers and fill them with lard. Don’t forget the glove compartment of his car.

  Dear McShrink,

  My mother-in-law hates me. She hates that I have an outside job, she hates how I care for our kids, she hates everything I do. My husband never stands up for me. He just sits there while she tells me that everything I do is wrong. Help!

  Wit’s End

  Dear Wit’s End,

  How you choose to live your life is up to you and is nobody else’s business. If your husband can’t say at least that much to his mother, divorce the wimp, and find a husband who has balls. In the meantime, when your mother-in-law pulls her crap, do something harmless but effective, like throw a bucket of water over her head. Tell her you’ll be doing things like that from now on until she starts minding her own business.

  Dear McShrink,

  My live-in girlfriend insists that I support both of us, even though she makes as much as I do, and we have no kids. She says I’
m not a real man unless I do this. Her paychecks go into a separate bank account I’m not allowed to touch. Is this normal?

  Desperate Guy

  Dear Desperate Guy,

  It is far from normal. Insist on getting married, then immediately divorce her and sue her for alimony, since she makes more money.

  PS: If it’s safe to assume you have a dick, you’re a “real man” in the eyes of the law.

  Dear McShrink,

  My ex-boyfriend has been diagnosed psychotic, but he’s gone off his meds and refuses to take them. He’s been acting very strange and keeps calling me. Please help.

  Scared

  Dear Scared,

  Stop whatever you’re doing right now and do this instead: Change your phone number, report the ex-boyfriend to the cops, get a restraining order, move, if at all possible, (with no forwarding address), and get a license for a handgun and learn how to use it.

  Dear McShrink,

  My family is very close, but I’m gay, and at twenty-five, I’m still afraid to tell them. I think they’ll disown me. What should I do?

  Closet Guy

  Dear Closet Guy,

  If your family isn’t even willing to talk about such a big part of your life, then you aren’t “close” in the first place. Turn the tables. If they disown you, hire a lawyer and sue them for psychic trauma.

  These and other answers quickly garnered far more attention than I could’ve predicted. Very quickly, our advertisers reported significant increases in web hits and sales, and before long I was making much more money than I thought possible. Any number of blogs or magazine blurbs started speculating on who “McShrink” really was. There was even a joke on The Tonight Show about it. My anonymity remained integral to my mystique and popularity. Once, when I was buying flowers for Sequoia, the flower vendor laughed and said something like, “What happened, did McShrink tell you to make up with your girl?” I laughed back and said that was exactly what happened.

  Soon, there came TV offers. Acting as my agent, Sequoia explained that my anonymity was key to my popularity. “Besides,” she added, “Dr. McShrink wants his advice to be received with no bias whatsoever. So that people learn to trust the truth.” Popular talk shows fell for the gimmick. I put lifts in my shoes to be taller than I was and padded my arms and stomach to seem huskier than I was. I’d arrive wearing a ski mask—a bit ironic, under the circumstances—and say nothing. They’d put a sack over my head and electronically disguise my voice, and in silhouette behind a curtain, I would field questions from the audience. I’d usually end with a standing ovation.

  Book contracts were soon underway. I had money saved to start a new life, and I was approaching having enough money to pay back Jesse Falcon, which I still had every intention of doing. To keep things simple, I figured I’d do it in one lump sum.

  I not only enjoyed the material success but the fact that I was having an impact on people’s lives. In a way, the gimmick wasn’t really a gimmick at all. I felt appreciated for who I truly was, without the paraphernalia of what I looked like, what I was wearing, or all the crap that was going on.

  To find my true self, I had to make myself a total secret.

  Ondine knew about McShrink and never told anyone due to attorney-client privilege. She was proud of me and told me so. Ondine never questioned why I chose to be an anonymous online shrink, she only cared that the idea worked. Nothing about Jesse Falcon ever came up with her. She got the judge to agree that all divorce proceedings would be sealed, since secrecy was integral to my livelihood. Further, Betsy would only be told I had a computer-related job of substantial income, given her likelihood of retaliation. I told Mom nothing about Sequoia or my specific website, only that I was doing well with “computer stuff” and hopefully could soon take custody of Scotty. I thought Scotty would love Sequoia, once I figured out how they could meet. Even though I’d promised Sequoia I’d never deceive her again, I realized that at some point I’d have to at least tell her my real name. Probably I could get away with it by saying it was part of my government cover.

  In the meantime, Biff became an official missing person. His wealth worked against finding him. He had the money to be anywhere. And let us not forget his last alleged message to his parents—courtesy of me—stated that he needed to get away from Betsy. The police told Biff’s parents that as part of the investigation they needed to be told there were allegations that he was a pedophile. I would’ve expected his parents to at least feign outrage at the suggestion, but oddly they said something about how Biff was always a troubled boy and to please be gentle with him when he was found. As I thought more about it, I realized that keeping themselves utterly blameless in the eyes of public was more important than anything else. Even the suspicion of being a child molester branded someone for life. Or in death, for that matter.

  Betsy told Biff’s parents about his being the real father of Scotty. They wrote her a check—for a hundred grand, I think— and had her escorted out of their house. Betsy being Betsy, she yelled and screamed that Biff couldn’t possibly have wanted to get away from her, and why would anyone be afraid of her because she certainly was no monster. Her anger turned to self-pitying nobility before long, as though she were Penelope waiting for Odysseus to return. The reason was obvious. She needed to behave in ways that did not make the cops suspect her of bumping off Biff for dumping her. Mom, for her part, was sure that Betsy had knocked off Biff. But it was Mom’s nature to sit back, amused, and let the cops figure it out for themselves. Ondine thought it was funny that Betsy had been jilted.

  So, with head held high, Betsy kept fighting for sole custody of Scotty.

  As for me, I briefly appeared at the cop station to be interviewed about Biff. They only asked me questions about Betsy. I told them that Betsy was crazy but surely not capable of murder, if that’s what they were getting at. Besides, Biff had always been a coward, so it didn’t surprise me that he disappeared. I added that I doubted he was dead. I offered to give them my DNA. They said it wasn’t necessary for now. That “for now” did a number on my nerves. It told me I wasn’t totally ruled out. Still, I tried not to let it show. Nothing came up about the last time I saw Biff, or what might’ve happened to Scotty. Was it police incompetence or part of a master plan? It was impossible to know.

  I was not surprised when Betsy asked to meet me at a trendy coffee house and when I agreed to do so, that she’d discuss reconciliation. The notion of having a career never occurred to her. She took it for granted that she would spend all her days being pampered by a man.

  “It’s best for Scotty,” Betsy said to me, with a big smile, as though everything was great between us. “He needs both his parents.” She took a loud sip of her upscale latte; one thing about Betsy was that she made no apologies when she liked something.

  Scotty already told the judge that he’d rather live with me, and Betsy knew this. I decided to be a gentleman and not remind her. She may not have been Mother of the Year, but it must’ve hurt her deeply to hear what Scotty said.

  I stared into the steam of my unadorned cup of decaf. “Betsy, please. Don’t insult my intelligence. Or yours.”

  “A child needs a mother.”

  “A child needs love.” I stared at her without any fear of her temper.

  She threw her gourmet oatmeal cookie at me. “Now you’re saying I don’t love my son. Daddy is always nice, while Mommy is . . . ” She paused, as if unable to continue.

  “A selfish bitch?”

  “Bitch—I mean Biff is his father. I wanted to right a wrong. What’s so selfish about that?” Now she was practically screaming.

  “And get laid in the bargain.”

  She smiled with superiority. “How dare you! I cheated with Biff for years. If I only wanted sex, I could’ve kept doing what I always did.”

  You’d have to know Betsy to understand she was dead serious in defending her morality thusly. It dawned on me that what made her more irritable when I lost my job was that I was around the h
ouse during the day. There was less opportunity to cheat on me.

  “Well, maybe you should’ve kept fucking Biff, instead of trying to live with him. I’m sure he’s not dead. He wanted to get away from you.” Just when I was feeling that for once I was winning the unspecified contest between us, I clumsily spilled my coffee on the table.

  As I reached for a bunch of paper napkins, Betsy said, “Ha! Good one. You’ve always been such a . . . such a loser.”

  “Then why want me back?” I shoved the coffee-stained napkins to the corner of the table.

  “I told you. For Scotty.”

  “Okay, let me make sure I have this straight. First you sacrificed yourself so that Scotty would have Biff, his biological father. Now you’re sacrificing yourself so that Scotty has me, his non-biological father that he had in the first place. Is that about right?”

  She slammed her hands on the table, utterly out of patience. “Biff is gone, remember? Look, I thought I could go about this in a nice way. We’re getting back together, and that’s all there is to it.”

  “Not in a million years.” Damn, it felt good to say that. I only wished I could tell Sequoia about it.

  “You’re right. It’ll be more like five seconds from now.” She looked as if she could kill me with a snap of her fingers. Maybe that she already had. “You’ll be moving back in today. I have all sorts of plans for you, Dr. Jesse Falcon.”

  My insides fell into the soles of my feet. I couldn’t even speak.

  “At a loss for words? Don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll have plenty to say when I tell you how the rest of your life will be lived. After all, I know you have lots of money, Dr. Falcon.” She stood up and grabbed my necktie as that bank robber did, like I was a dog on a leash. “You think you’re such a good person, and I’m some piece of shit. Well, if I’m a piece of shit, so are you. It’s like you’re St. Bernard shit, while I’m one of whose—whatdoyoucallits? You know, those yappy little dogs? Anyway, your shit is tons bigger than mine.”