Un-Ruined
Chapter 1 of Un-Ruined, a novel by Roger Vaillancourt (Malarkey Books, December 2022)
I did look like him. Not like-a-twin similar, but certainly like-a-brother similar. That was what caught my eye when I saw the ad. Not because I was looking for an acting gig, and hell, I didn't even know what an "immersive acting experience" would be. But I needed work, and it said I should look like the picture. So I called.
The woman was named Marissa. As she described it, it made sense. I myself couldn't remember anything earlier than four. My earliest memory is pulling myself up to look out of the car by leaning on the window crank in my parents’ Rambler. They got rid of that car when I was about five, so I guess my earliest memories were from my fourth year. Gramps died when I was three, and I don't remember him. So my experience confirms what she told me. Memory begins at four. Her son would be two next Tuesday. The contract was for a minimum of two years, with options out to four. Two years of guaranteed employment for showing up and playing house, in the role of her dead husband. It was a lot of money. No fool, I provided all the background materials and references, and when the contract arrived, I signed.
She sent me home with a book. Like two hundred pages printed out and held together with a binder clip. The story of how she'd met her husband, Neil, what he'd done for AON, their couple-hood in-jokes, their past residences, their relationships with their in-laws, their pet names (she called him "Bear"), their nickname for their unborn child, their plans for their old house in Vermont, the dead man's hobbies, the favorite toys and inclinations of the boy. The boy was named Calvert.
Later the same week, the videotapes arrived. I noted her husband's tics, his peculiar gesticulations and habits of moving, and imitated them all the time. Just did them. Much footage of him with the boy. That was useful. He seemed to be very physical; always hugging, tickling, tossing him into the air, on his shoulders, under his arm. He did a growl thing. I noticed it and then began to see it again and again. I couldn't make out what he was doing at first, but then finally in one clip she was walking with the camera and she walked up close as he tipped Calvert back in his arms and pressed close to the boy's ear and made the sound. It was a "rowr rowr rowr"-like chewing sound and the boy squealed like he was being tickled. But happy being tickled.
I came to the apartment when the boy was at daycare; Marissa took days out of work to do this. I learned the layout and the family routines. On weekdays I would be Dada from pre-dawn to 8 a.m., at which point I would leave and have the day to use as I wished. I would return at 6 p.m. each night to resume the role straight through to 8 a.m. Most of this time would be spent sleeping. Marissa and I would, for appearances’ sake, share a bed. There was to be no physical intimacy of any degree, beyond what was needed in the presence of Calvert. Weekends were fully devoted to the role. Complete immersion, except for periodic "golf games," which would also be free time to use as I wished. I was much relieved to find out that I would not need to learn golf.
The day of the birthday was going to be when I first met the boy, or rather, it would be the day I returned. Marissa prepped me extensively the night before. In the darkened apartment, we leaned through the cone of light that shone down on the dining room table. There were flashcards with the faces and names of family members who would be present. They had all been briefed and would be prepared for me, or as prepared as their imaginations would allow. She quizzed me. She engaged in conversations with me. She threw my actual name in once or twice as a trial, but I was not shaken from character. After some hours, she seemed satisfied. She asked if I wanted to see the boy before tomorrow, not just in pictures, but the actual boy.
We padded to the door to his room, me avoiding the squeaky floorboard I'd learned of the week before. A tiny night light with a slowly spinning cover shone changing colors over Calvert. His sleeping eyes squinted in the shaft of light from the hall and he rolled over. I watched him for some time. He would be my son tomorrow. My mind sped through forged recollections of his birth, his infancy, his pre-verbal toddlerhood. I arrived at a counterfeit love. I stepped lightly in and kissed his head above his ear. He did not respond.
I returned to the hall and kissed Marissa lightly on the lips. She started back, shocked. She shook it off. Then she looked down, nodded, and without looking up waved her hand towards herself meaning "okay, one more time." She turned her face up and I kissed her exactly the same way again. She returned the kiss, and then stepped back and smiled at me beatifically.
"Okay. Started early. I'll see you tomorrow at Noon. Enjoy your last free night."
