The Passenger Read Free Page A

checked me in without an ID, no problem. Her name tag said “Darla.” I’ve always been fond of name tags, since I’m terrible at remembering names. Or maybe I don’t see the point of learning someone’s name when I’ll just have to forget it later.
    â€œHi, Darla,” I said. “How’s your day going?”
    â€œGood, Ms., Ms. . . .”
    â€œJane Green.”
    â€œRight,” she said, pupils as unfocused as a blind man’s.
    â€œI’m expecting a package to come for me tomorrow. It’s really important. Can you call my room as soon as it arrives?”
    â€œYes, ma’am,” Darla said, writing herself a note.
    I gave her a twenty-dollar bill, even though she’d called me “ma’am.”
    I turned off my disposable cell, trashed it in a Dumpster outside the Swan Lake, and bought a new one at the corner convenience store. I strolled down the main drag, found another diner, and ordered a burger and fries. I made it clear to the waitress that I wasn’t into small talk. I avoided eye contact with every person who passed my way.
    Having no name is dangerous. One false step, someone discovers that you’re no one, and eventually they find out who you really are.
    I spent the night in the motel room, watching people on television pretend to be someone else. I realized I had to have a new personality, new mannerisms, inflections, likes, dislikes. I picked up the scratch pad and the cheap ballpoint pen by the bed and began jotting down character traits that I might try to shake.
    Tanya hated broccoli and avocados. She called everyone a bastard, even in a friendly way. Sometimes she just used it as a replacement for a name that had slipped her mind. Tanya had a tattoo on her ankle. Something stupid she got in high school. Tanya was always twisting her back or rubbing her shoulder, trying to align herself between adjustments. Every once in a while, she stole Frank’s pills—he had a bad knee. Unfortunately, Frank wasn’t much for sharing narcotics and was very good at basic math.
    I looked at the piece of paper on Tanya and thought how fucking dull this woman was. How lucky I was to be able to leave her behind. I found a book of matches at the bottom of my purse. Tanya’s purse. I ripped the page off the pad and set the corner on fire, dropped the ashes and last bit of flame into the toilet, and let her go.
    Then I scribbled some ideas for what Amelia Keen might be like. She’d have good posture. She’d look like someone who read books. She’d read books. Amelia was a good swimmer, but so was Tanya. Maybe Amelia should take up running. It might come in useful sometime. Maybe she was the kind of person who made friends easily. No, that wasn’t a good idea. One thing I knew for sure about Amelia Keen: she was a single woman and she was going to stay that way.
    D ARLA CALLED me in the morning. The package had arrived. I tossed a sweater over my pajamas and rushed into the lobby, trying to swallow my adrenaline.
    Darla held out a large brown envelope. I forced a warm smile, said thank you, and made a swift departure.
    I got a paper cut rushing to unzip the seal with my index finger. A small dot of blood landed on my new birth certificate. Amelia Keen, born 3:32 a.m. on November 3, 1986, to George Arthur Keen and Marianne Louise Keen at Providence Hospital in Tacoma, Washington. A Scorpio. Powerful, magnetic, jealous, possessive, compulsive. My mother used to read charts obsessively. I never bought into it, mostly because I was a Pisces, which always sounded a lot like a jellyfish without the sting. But looking back, maybe that’s exactly what I was.
    Now I could change all of that. Change everything about myself that I didn’t like, starting with my hair. I had become a blonde a long time ago when I realized that men look at you differently when you burn the color out of your hair. I wondered how they’d