we shall always be you and I alone on earth, to start our life.”
He smiles, pleased. “Nice line, that. Guy who wrote it must be a genius.”
“Neruda, right? It was Neruda who wrote it, right? Not you?”
Something flickers across his face, like he’s rifling through mental file cards, trying to pull the correct one. “Neruda? No,” he says. “Like I said, I wrote that. I never much cared for Neruda.”
“Because I think I read it in college.”
He bites into the steak and the juices run down his chin. He lifts a napkin to his face and speaks from behind it. “I think you’re remembering wrong.”
“It’s OK if you didn’t write the poem. Just…tell me the truth.”
He puts down the napkin and looks at me with those piercing, pale eyes. How did I ever think that they were clear and open? Because right now they might as well be a wall, concealing everything going on in his head. “Baby, what’s wrong?” He says it softly. “I hate to say this, but…you’re kind of starting to worry me, with all this weird paranoia. First Nina, and then the car thing, and now this. Do you think you need, maybe, some help? Should we call a psychiatrist?”
“A psychiatrist?”
“Well.” He sounds like a cowboy, gentling a horse. “You do have that family history. Your brother’s schizophrenia. And your mom was mentally ill, too, yeah? I mean, think about it. It’s worth considering.”
I stare at him, and can’t decide whether I should laugh or cry. Because how do I know? What if I am being paranoid, a symptom of the same disease of the mind that took down half my family? How do I know if I’m going insane?
“No,” I insist. “I’m fine.”
* * *
—
I hide in the bathroom of my bedroom and make a phone call to the police station in Tahoe City. The front desk connects me with a weary-sounding detective, who asks me what my trouble is.
“I think my husband might be a fraud,” I say.
He laughs. “I know a lot of women who say that about their husbands. Can you be more specific?”
“I don’t think he is who he said he is. He said he’s a writer but it turns out he’s just a plagiarist. And he gave me a ring that he said is an heirloom but is actually a fake.” I think I hear footsteps on the stairs, and lower my voice to a whisper. “He lies. About everything. I think.”
“Does he have government identification?”
I think about this. I haven’t looked at his driver’s license; but he must have had it when we got married, right? And our marriage license, the one we got from the late-night county clerk in Reno—it definitely says Michael O’Brien. I think back to that night, wade through the memories left behind after the haze of tequila faded, and yes, I remember him handing over a driver’s license, along with mine. “Yes,” I say. “But a driver’s license, it could be fake, right?”
I know how I must sound. And so when the detective speaks again and his voice is louder and brighter, as if he’s speaking to someone in the room with him, my heart sinks. “Look. Have you considered divorce?”
“But can’t you investigate him? And tell me if I’m right or not? Isn’t that what the police are here for?”
He clears his throat. “I’m sorry, but it doesn’t sound like he’s broken any laws. If he’s a problem, kick him out.” I can hear him writing on paper. “Look, give me your name? I’ll make a record of our conversation, in case anything escalates and you want to file a restraining order.”
I almost say Vanessa Liebling but then I imagine the awkward silence on the other end—or worse, the suppressed laughter. Another Liebling bites the dust, that family sure is a mess. Instead, I hang up.
* * *
—
I call Benny at the Orson Institute. He sounds a little better than he did when I saw him two weeks back, as if he’s surfaced