Runtime, p.1
Runtime, page 1
Runtime
Barbara Fister
Runtime by Barbara Fister is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0 International License, except where otherwise noted.
Contents
Part I
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Part II
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Part III
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Part I
One
I never planned to become Maggie Farnham. Blame the moose.
It had wandered far from its woodland home to the land of cornfields and cow pastures and into the path of our car one foggy morning. Poor moose.
Poor Maggie.
The day I was discharged from the hospital, I got a ride to the bus station from an aide going off shift. She looked tired in her scrubs, probably thinking about getting her kids off to school and throwing a load of laundry in the washer before she fell into bed, the kind of person who was habitually kind but distracted, constantly making to-do lists in her head. A person to hitch a ride with, too occupied with her own life to ask questions about mine. A good thing, too. I wasn’t ready to deal with questions.
She pulled into the gas station where the Greyhound made its daily stop. My head ached and I was craving the coffee that might take the edge off. “Take care, now, Maggie,” she said as I opened the passenger door.
I almost looked over my shoulder to see who she was talking to before I remembered: Oh right, that’s me. I smiled, aiming for the kind of reassuring cheerfulness Maggie would surely have projected under the circumstances. “I will.” It’s Maggie now, I told myself. I should have been used to the name after being her for the past three weeks, but the morning sun was too bright and the pill I’d taken before leaving the hospital hadn’t kicked in yet.
She hesitated, frowning. I thought she was going to say something neither of us wanted to hear.
“I’m good,” I rushed in. “I’ll be fine. Really.” I tried the smile again, and it felt more natural. Like I was merging with that girl I barely knew, whose life I had crawled into and was going to inhabit like a hermit crab, at least for now. “Thanks for the lift. For everything. You’ve all been so kind.”
I held the smile as she examined my bruised face and punk hairstyle, which was beginning to look like an intentional fashion choice now that it was almost a half-inch of bristle. I grinned fixedly as concern for a stranger fought for space on her to-do list. It was a relief when I was checked off with a nod. “Okay, then. If you’re sure. It’s your life.”
Mine? Or Maggie’s? I felt bubbles of totally inappropriate laughter rising in my chest. Stop it.
I held the smile and waved as the aide drove away, feeling as if I were waving at the girl I had been traveling with. So long, Maggie! Thanks for letting me borrow your identity! I’ll take good care of it! Then I burrowed into the plastic bag they’d put my stuff in at the hospital because nothing right now was more important than caffeine. The wallet was empty, I knew, except for an expired university ID, a tattered coffee shop punch card, three credit cards I couldn’t use, and the driver’s license that proved I was Maggie even if the face in the photo had a straighter nose, long hair, and a more genuine smile. I felt for the loose coins that had fallen to the bottom of the bag, hidden under some clothes that I would never have chosen. Wrap-around skirts made from repurposed saris, floaty floral dresses. That would have to be my style, now, at least until I had some cash and could hit up a second-hand store for jeans and tees. I groped under the corners of the battered but still working laptop and a book of essays by Annie Dillard that was full of Maggie’s underlining and scribbled notes, chasing every coin down. Good. Should be enough money to buy a large coffee.
The woman at the till gave me six cents change and a look that mixed sympathy and naked curiosity. “You the one that had the accident? The moose?”
“That’s me.”
“Terrible thing. You’re looking good, though.”
“Yeah, right.” I made a face at myself in the big mirror tilted over the counter, the one positioned to watch for shoplifters. My nose had a bend in it, my cheek bones didn’t quite align anymore, and the rainbow of purple and green had turned mostly yellow, like cheap spray-on tan unevenly applied.
“That bruise will be gone before you know it. You’ll be your old self again.” I felt another urge to laugh. Being the new self was taking all my energy. “I’m awful sorry about your friend,” she added.
“Thanks.” It didn’t sound right. Maggie wouldn’t snap out a single syllable, just because her head ached and she really needed that coffee. “It’s really sad,” I added, and for moment thought I’d captured her voice, all innocence, hope, and desperation.
“We had the jar out for her.” She pointed to a jar by the cash register that now had a blurry photo taped to it of a woman named Phyllis who had breast cancer. “To help with the funeral expenses, you know. We raised almost two hundred dollars. I hear the service was nice.”
Nice? No. Adequate, just barely. It had been held in the hospital chapel, a place I discovered when I was finally able to test my legs, rolling an IV pole with me as I hobbled down the hospital hallway. It was a dark little room with a few wooden benches, narrow slits of windows filled with colored glass. It smelled of wax and floor cleaner, but at least it was dark and quiet, away from the fluorescent lights, cheery voices, and squeaking shoes that passed by my room at all hours. There was only one person there that day, slumped in a pew and staring at nothing, probably taking a break from someone’s bedside. We ignored each other, my preferred state.
The chapel was more crowded the day of Amber Grace Schultz’s funeral service. My funeral. Around two dozen people were there, mostly staff in scrubs, a few administrators in suits, plus a couple of state cops who nodded to me, familiar from the accident investigation. They all listened to the hospital chaplain say nice things about a woman none of them had ever met. Earlier the chaplain had asked if I wanted to speak about my friend, but I said it would be too hard. Instead, I sat in the front pew with a packet of those scratchy tissues they give you in hospitals, trying not to think about Maggie, whose ashes were in the next-to-lowest-cost urn on the altar.
If we hadn’t switched drivers that foggy morning, if that urn had actually been full of my ashes, the real Maggie would have gone to the front to speak. She couldn’t, though, because she was the one who’d been napping in the passenger seat when a sudden wall made out of solid moose appeared in front of our car, making the windshield explode and the roof crumple and twist in ways it didn’t seem possible for something as substantial as a car to fold.
The real Maggie would have written a touching, beautifully crafted essay perfect for the occasion. It might have started out: Her name was Amber. I only had a few days to get to know her, but in those few days I learned that she liked crisp apples and the smell of new-mown hay and that she wanted to travel to Tibet someday. That she had lost her mother a year ago and still missed her but was excited about finding a new job in Minneapolis. That she was funny and smart and yada yada, blah blah blah.
She would say something like that, though none of it was true. Except for the apples. I do like crisp apples.
It was a relief to be done with Amber Grace Schultz. That name, Amber, it grated every time I had to write it down. It didn’t fit me. Maggie was okay. Maggie Farnham, I muttered to myself, getting used to the sound of it as I filled a cup from one of the coffee urns and fitted a cover over it. It’ll work, I thought, sipping my coffee.
Then I felt like shit because Maggie, bubbly and talkative and full of kindness and a ridiculous amount of innocence, had died and I hadn’t.
But I didn’t think about it for long. It wasn’t like this was the escape route I had intended. Blame the damned moose. I took my coffee outside to wait for the bus.
This is what led to the moose moment: Three weeks earlier, I’d seen the notice on the bulletin board in the coffee shop where I was working, one of those places with a university vibe where students with Norton Editions and highlighters studied among tables full of gray-haired faculty members talking to each other about Henry Giroux and the evils of neoliberalism and what their incredibly gifted grandchildren were up to.
Rideshare needed.
Transportation to Minneapolis or points in between
share gas $$, driving, and good conversation.
I could see another line, one written in invisible ink right above the tear-off telephone numbers: Here’s your chance. Take it. Don’t think, just do it. After seven months of peace and quiet, too many weird things were happening: a coworker was suddenly looking at me funny, the same black SUV showed up in the parking lot of our apartment and in front of the coffee shop, a new customer who didn’t fit the profile of the usual clientele lined up at the counter to order coffee from a coworker, his hooded eyes reflecte d in the stainless refrigerator, staring at my back, looking away as soon as I turned. It could be nothing, but it was enough. I pulled off a strip of paper with a phone number on it and used the back office phone.
Fantastic! Maggie was sure we’d get along great. Was there any chance we could leave, like, maybe even today? She knew it was short notice but she wanted to get going, and anyway, she had been locked out of her apartment. Good thing she’d already packed, huh? We could trade off and drive through the night, would that be okay?
“Works for me.” I took my apron off, told the shift supervisor I was taking my break, slung my backpack over a shoulder, and took a round-about path to the campus parking lot where she told me to meet her. I didn’t stop by the apartment I shared with three other women. I texted them to say I was moving and they could do whatever they wanted with my stuff, just some clothes and books. They had never been very friendly, and one of them had mentioned more than once that a friend needed a place, hint, hint. My boss would be pissed, but not for long. He was used to people walking off the job, but it never seemed to dawn on him it might have something to do with his being a total jerk.
As I passed a trash can I ejected the sim card from my cheap pay-as-you-go phone and dropped it in. The phone went into a dumpster a couple of blocks away. I’d get another burner to match my next identity. As soon as Maggie dropped me off in Minneapolis I’d have a few blissful hours to drift between being one person and whoever came next. Being nobody.
We shared the driving, though it took me a while to get used to Maggie’s rusty Chevy Cavalier, with the trick it took to open the door on the driver’s side so the handle wouldn’t fall off in your hand, the way you had to jiggle the key just right for the engine to turn over. We didn’t share the cost of gas as it turned out, not after all three of Maggie’s cards were declined and she started to cry. I had enough cash to get us there, no worries. To make up for it, she did way more than her share of the talking.
Which was annoying at the time but turned out to be useful. I got to hear Maggie’s entire life story, from her earliest memories to the death of both parents, her mother from cancer and her father from alcohol, through her struggle to finish the Dissertation from Hell while working a miserable combination of part-time gigs. She talked about her hopes for the new job, a whole year at Magnusson, a wonderful little college, where she would teach eight courses. Only eight! She’d taught as many as twelve a year at different universities to make ends meet, plus delivering Domino’s and cashiering at Walmart. She had completed her degree five years earlier, but it had taken until Fall 2019 to land something full time, with benefits. Now she would have reasonable class sizes, an office of her own—an office!—and employer-paid health insurance for the first time ever. For a whole year!
She’d been so happy until that moose came out of a bank of early-morning fog and ended her story. When I was lying in bed with the worst headache of my life, woozy with painkillers and tangled up in tubes, it dawned on me the police officer who was asking questions about the accident assumed I was Maggie and the deceased—that’s what he called her, “the deceased”—was a woman named Amber Grace Schultz. This seemed impossible at first. I didn’t look anything like the photo on Maggie’s driver’s license, with her wavy hair and sunny smile. But then, most of my hair had been shaved off and the part of my face that wasn’t bandaged had been rearranged with a broken nose, cheekbone, and eye socket, all of it painted with lurid bruises. Our height, weight, and eye color matched, or close enough.
The dead girl, the one they thought was Amber Schultz, didn’t look like Maggie either. She looked the way you do when you have to be removed in pieces from the twisted metal that didn’t look much like a car anymore. They’d had to use the Jaws of Life. What if both of us had died, would they call it the Jaws of Death?
Fortunately, the original Maggie had never been arrested or lived in a state that took your fingerprints if you signed up for food stamps, and there was no telling where her dental records might be, if a woman as broke as she was even had dental records. “Poor Amber,” I murmured when it finally sank in, when the identity swap seemed possible, then I pretended to doze off so I could think it through. Would it work? “I didn’t really know her,” I told the officer the next time he came to interview me, and he diligently wrote it in a notebook. “She was sweet, though. Worked in a coffee shop. Never went to college, but liked to read. She didn’t have any family to notify. She just wanted a ride to Minneapolis, even though she didn’t have friends there. Just liked the idea of a fresh start, I guess.”
It was too easy. So easy, it made me nervous. I figured I would have to call the people at Magnusson and explain I’d had a debilitating accident and couldn’t take that one-year sabbatical replacement job after all. Go somewhere Maggie had never been before and tell anyone who asked that she was starting a new life. I would gradually taper off the messages and Facebook posts. Erase her history bit by bit so I would never find myself in a situation where people might squint and think “that’s not the Maggie Farnham we know.”
I started the process before leaving the hospital. As soon as I was physically able I booted up her old Toshiba laptop (which the original Maggie hadn’t bothered to password-protect, bless her trusting heart). It still worked despite a cracked case and a noisy fan. I cleared out the malware and tracking cookies, reset the privacy settings on her programs and social media accounts, then read through her saved email. I connected to the hospital guest Wi-Fi long enough to download the Tor browser and look for any records of the woman I was supposed to be. A couple of digitized yearbooks from her undergraduate years. An article she’d written for a literary website, making a big fuss about some obscure poet. I read it carefully, committing the trivia to memory in case anyone asked about it. I found a blog she had started years ago and dropped after making a handful of posts about food and the weather and how she felt about a book she’d read. I poked deeper and found a few more tidbits: records from her overdrawn bank account and credit cards, North Carolina voter registration, some of her previous addresses. Her parents’ obituaries.
Her hard drive and Facebook account were more informative, but not by much. As talkative as she had been, the old Maggie didn’t seem to have many friends, and the men in her life didn’t appear to last more than a date or two, thank goodness. Nobody to sweep into the new Maggie’s life to renew a romance and ask what happened to the birthmark on her back or the tattoo on her butt, if she’d had such things before ending up in an urn with the wrong person’s name on it.
The emails revealed a part of my new identity that wasn’t so great. I not only owed the hospital the ridiculous deductible and copays for the bare-bones coverage Maggie had signed up for, I had over $100,000 worth of school loans to pay off. All that money for an English PhD? Girl, what were you thinking?
The job she had been so excited about didn’t pay much more than my minimum-wage gigs, but I was tempted to stick with it, at least until I was fully healed from the moose encounter. I’d been living in a college town, and liked it. The vibe was chill, there were a lot of transients, and it wasn’t hard to blend in with crowds. The work sounded easy and I could probably pick up something on the side while I figured out my next steps. How much effort would it take to teach bored college students how to write essays in classes that only met three hours a week?
It turned out to be a little more complicated than that.
The first problem was that I was supposed to get settled in and start teaching in the first week of September but wouldn’t get a paycheck until the end of the month, and no, they didn’t give advances, or so the woman who guarded the HR office said, looking a little scared. New faculty members probably didn’t show up with a limp, a misshapen face full of bruises, and a wrinkled dress that didn’t fit very well, asking for money a week before classes started. Or maybe she could tell, somehow, that the new English professor had slept on a Greyhound bus, hadn’t eaten in nearly twenty-four hours and had nowhere to sleep. She suggested I talk to my department chair. Yeah, that’s a nope. I had to be prepared before I talked to the people who’d hired Maggie and I was barely keeping it together.
