by Nadia Trudel
Wendy Kaufman is dead.
It feels so good to get that off my chest. I could just… shout it from the rooftop.
But I won’t.
Because then the people parked outside Wendy Kaufman’s house would hear.
Wendy Kaufman is dead, and it’s a secret. Only two people in the world know.
I shouldn’t write this down. What if Beth decides to get nosey or a stalker breaks in?
The reason it’s still a secret is that we haven’t talked about it since we decided. And by we, I mean Ivy. But maybe I’m avoiding responsibility. My therapist said so.
My therapist doesn’t know Wendy Kaufman is dead. Because I am Wendy Kaufman. So I talk about a friend I lost named Maria. That’s Wendy’s real name.
I tell Dr. Grant that I miss Maria. That I feel guilty. That I feel angry.
I’ve never told Dr. Grant that I am also glad. Relieved. That Maria—Wendy Kaufman—is dead.
Dr. Grant suggested that I write a letter to Maria. Maybe I will. What could I say? Sorry you died and I agreed to be you so people could keep profiting off Wendy Kaufman? But I’m deflecting blame again; I profited the most.
*
I used to be able to go months without thinking about how Wendy Kaufman is dead. I grieved, but Wendy Kaufman has a busy lifestyle. Exciting. So it was easy to get caught up in things, forget that I wasn’t really Wendy Kaufman and that she had died. Things have slowed down though and I’m getting older.
Nowadays she’s all I can think about. She’s in my dreams. We look identical but I can just sense it’s her.
I guess we won’t be identical someday. I keep getting older and she’s forever nineteen. Lucky bitch.
*
I thought about it more and I guess we’re already no longer identical. She must be like a skeleton by now, right?
*
I keep having nightmares of falling. Like Wendy. I think she fell 12 feet.
I didn’t see her body, but I imagine it.
I see our body on the floor, all twisted up as if we’ve been possessed by a demon, pooling blood creating a red halo around our delicate skull. She’s either completely alone or surrounded by flashing cameras. Subtle, right?
Did she know she was dying?
Did she think of me?
The big question is: what would she think of me being Wendy Kaufman? Of course, we’d like to think she’d be happy that I am maintaining and furthering her legacy or whatever, and that I finished her album.
And then continued to make albums…
But I’m also Maria. Her parents don’t know Wendy Kaufman is dead, so they don’t know Maria is dead.
I resent them for not being able to tell the difference between their daughter and a stranger.
I guess it’s okay; we have that in common.
*
Dr. Grant asked me today what would give me closure. And it was sort of funny because there’s nothing more closed or final than death. But maybe if I could visit a grave… leave flowers or something that would be nice. I’m not sure what happened to her body after she died; I didn’t think to ask then.
If she had a burial, did they put her real name on her gravestone? Probably not, her real name is on the internet.
So an alias then.
Another one.
You could lose track if you weren’t paying attention.
Okay, so no grave visit like in the movies. There was the letter, like Dr. Grant suggested but… I don’t know, it feels silly.
*
I’m 27. How am I supposed to compare to a dead nineteen-year-old?
*
I’m listening to Wendy Kaufman’s albums. Her voice has changed.
Because women’s voices get a bit deeper when they get older.
And Wendy Kaufman has smoked cigarettes since she was fourteen.
And Wendy Kaufman is dead, and I am Wendy Kaufman now.
I wonder which one of us is a better singer.
We’ve each won a Grammy.
Hers was for New Artist. Mine was for Best Impression.
It’s okay if Wendy Kaufman is a better singer than I am.
Deep down I’m really an actress.
*
When you think about it, who’s really Wendy Kaufman? She was Wendy Kaufman for three years. I’ve been Wendy Kaufman for eight and I might be for eighty. Does time dictate ownership?
Wendy Kaufman is an African artifact, and I am the British Museum. I stole it and because it’s been so long, I refuse to give it back. Without the stolen artifacts, the British Museum has nothing.
*
I sort of lied earlier. Wendy Kaufman and I are not totally identical. Almost.
People don’t know Wendy Kaufman is dead, but they do know Wendy Kaufman got in a big accident eight years ago. She was in the hospital for two months.
The accident explains for any slight changes. Besides, everyone knows fame changes you.
*
She has a few tattoos. Paradise on her wrist, her parents’ birthdays on her ankles, her dead dog Mickey on her arm. But the one I hate the most is the cross on her back. I’m not a Christian.
Since her death, Wendy Kaufman has gotten an angel tattooed on her arm.
After the Black Dahlia era, Wendy Kaufman also got a tattoo of her alter ego’s floral namesake.
Wendy Kaufman and I went to the movies once. I think it was the only semi-normal hangout we ever had. They were playing a gory, experimental indie drama about the real Black Dahlia. The one who was murdered, you know?
We took a walk after and I just listened to Wendy talk about the Black Dahlia.
“Isn’t it kinda awful that we never call her by her real name?” she asked. “The journalists just made that name up; she never gave permission.”
She thought about it more, “It is a pretty name though. Romantic. Glamorous.”
“Wendy, she was murde—”
“Cut in half. I mean it’s sick, totally, but, it’s also weirdly poetic, don’t you think?”
“Uh…”
“I don’t know… two names, two halves… kinda like us,” she smiled.
Then a fan walked over and asked me, Wendy Kaufman, for a photo. Her, Wendy Kaufman, took the picture.
I don’t know much but I’m pretty sure Wendy would have liked that I thought to use that name for the one album. A break from being Wendy Kaufman. She’d like the tattoo too.
*
Today I got an M tattooed on my hand.
Maria.
And Melissa.
I’m Melissa.
I was Melissa.
Maria and Melissa.
Funny coincidence.
Both dead.
No one remembers either.
At least I remember Maria.
I forget about Melissa.
Poor Melissa.
*
Why should I feel guilty?
It’s not like I pushed her.
She died all on her own.
Thomas Paine said, “It is the living, and not the dead, that are to be accommodated.”
*
I had a panic attack today. Like Wendy Kaufman.
They were outside the dance studio waiting, then they followed me home.
They used to follow Wendy Kaufman more, but then she stopped going out. Whenever she’s not working, she’s at home. I started getting anxious being in big crowds, so no parties or clubs. Wendy Kaufman is still okay with concerts because she is above them all in her own little world and they just watch. The edge of the stage is lined with yellow tape.
I only saw Wendy Kaufman have a panic attack once. She was in a limo. She was meant to go on a carpet, but it happened before she got there. I got a call and I had to clock in. We changed clothes in the limo with a small team in our company.
I felt bad for her. She had no dignity, but they managed to take even more. She was naked and still crying when Wendy Kaufman got out of the limo fully dressed.
“Close your eyes, I don’t want anyone to look at me.”
It’s uncanny. My body doing this thing. Her big weakness. The reason I was found, the reason I exist.
Ultimately the panic attack itself freaks me out more than what actually caused the panic attack.
*
I had good intentions at first. I wanted to protect Wendy Kaufman. She was a sweet girl. Shy. She’d started getting panic attacks because of all the attention. So they just hired me to distract or fill in occasionally. That’s all. An innocent body double. You know how it goes.
*
I wish I’d never met Wendy Kaufman.
It would’ve been so much easier if she’d been a stranger.
But we were friends.
At least I thought so.
But maybe she was just being nice.
Wendy Kaufman was a people pleaser.
*
When I first met Wendy Kaufman, I thought she was beautiful.
And it was weird because I’d never looked at myself and thought that I was beautiful.
We were both giddy the day we met. We got ice cream, and I went to the studio with her.
We laughed when I tried imitating her singing.
We kept touching each other, checking to see if the other one was real.
She said it was a miracle. She believed in those kinds of things.
She also believed in things like sin and karma and hell.
*
Ivy told me at rehearsals today that she’s worried about me. She said Wendy Kaufman looked tired and I told her I haven’t been able to sleep. When I do, I have nightmares. Ivy didn’t ask what my nightmares were about. She knows. But I wish she would ask. I wish we could share this load on our shoulders. But we were never partners in crime.
Sometimes I wonder if Ivy has forgotten that I’m not Wendy Kaufman, or that I wasn’t always Wendy Kaufman. Does she miss Wendy Kaufman? Did she grieve her like I did?
What if Ivy never knew? Did I imagine that conversation? The one that happened in the hospital.
*
Wendy Kaufman had a boyfriend when she died. River. He was a movie star.
We—I—was scared that it would be too obvious if I broke up with him right away.
I cried after we had sex.
He didn’t notice anything, or he just didn’t care enough to say something. Tits are tits.
River and his wife died a few years ago. I don’t remember why.
Tragic.
*
I never thought it would go on for this long.
But why did I say yes if I thought I’d get caught?
Maybe I want to get caught; maybe I did from the start.
I always ask myself why I said yes.
A choice was presented but really it was an illusion. Who could say no to being Wendy Kaufman? If I wasn’t going to be Wendy Kaufman I wouldn’t exist.
Someone has to be Wendy Kaufman. Might as well be someone convincing.
*
What if they get rid of me?
*
Wendy Kaufman is very busy nowadays. She feels better when she’s working.
And it makes Wendy Kaufman’s fans happy when she makes music and she performs and when she’s pretty and skinny and smiling.
This is why I’m Wendy Kaufman.Wendy Kaufman wouldn’t mind. She’d be grateful really. Pat me on the back. One day she will pat me on the back. She’ll kiss me right on the mouth.
*
I can just sense that Wendy Kaufman’s next album will change the world.
Because I’m going to show them who I really am.
Who I really am.
Who Wendy Kaufman really is.
Who… that other girl really is.
Her name is on the tip of my tongue.
*
I’m the Pied Piper
Follow the sound of my song
Come here darling, I’m your paradise
Please don’t reject me
I’m here to save you, here to ruin you
Please forgive me because we can’t live without each other
You can’t ever escape this maze
*
I dreamed about her again last night. Both of us.
We were wearing matching red jester outfits. Bells and all.
I was holding a white rose and she was carrying a bindle. And there was this tiny white dog following us, yapping and nipping at our heels. I kept pricking my finger on the thorns but she told me I had to keep it. We were arguing about it and didn’t notice we were falling off a cliff. But then, as we were falling, the setting changed and we weren’t alone outside. We were surrounded by people, stage diving, and we looked at each other and smiled.
At the last second, the crowd disappeared, and she hit the ground. I saw her bleeding and I got scared because I couldn’t save myself. I woke up as I hit the floor.
*
I saw my parents today.
I missed them.
They complain that I don’t come home often enough.
My mom asks me if it’s true I’m dating Swan. She reads everything about me. So do I. I’m Wendy Kaufman’s biggest fan.
My dad gave me an old diary with song lyrics. I used to always write my own songs.
“You’d keep us up at night playing piano,” he says.
Did I? I guess so. The grand piano in my house is gorgeous but decorative.
When they hug me goodbye my mom says, “I love you, Maria.”
Maria’s parents. Not mine. My inheritance.
I wonder where my parents are. Have they forgotten me too?
But, well, if it mattered, then I’d know. If Melissa mattered at all she wouldn’t be dead and forgotten either.
*
I should try writing lyrics again.
Turning distress and negativity into art sounds like something that therapist would tell me to do.
Or write that letter.
*
Given or Taken?
Given or Taken?
Given or Taken?
Blessed or Cursed?
Blessed or Cursed?
Blessed or Cursed?
Star, Saint or Sinner?
Star, Saint or Sinner?
Star, Saint or Sinner?
*
Victory was inherited, a secret in plain sight, ugly, under stage lights.
I’m dancing in the marionette’s square.
For her, for you.
*
I bought blackout curtains for all the windows.
I wish I could burn out their eyes like some kind of biblical revenge.
*
Can’t you see me?
*
Wendy…
Wendy of loneliness.
Wendy of jealousy.
Beautiful Wendy.
Insecure Wendy.
Mint-choco flavoured Wendy.
Wendy the fraud.
Wendy underground.
Wendy in stripes.
It’s all Wendy.
Wendy, Wendy, Wendy.
Wendy, Wendy, Wendy.
*
Tell me the name lingering on my lips.
Please call my name.
*
Dear Wendy,
I am sorry that you are dead. But you are so lucky to have me. You came back from the dead. You’re a vampire.
I’m trying to be a good Wendy. A good girl. So please be on my side.
I hope you didn’t suffer too much when you died. But maybe Ivy had mercy and just smothered you in the hospital bed. I think she’s out to get me too now, so I don’t sleep. She’s probably found another Wendy Kaufman, or maybe Ivy is switching it up and she’s found another Black Dahlia.
I wonder if you were a good person. Please write me back to let me know if you’re upstairs or downstairs so I know where to go. I want to see you and hear all your names.
Love,
Maria
*
I think Melissa is evil.
I’m scared of her.
I think she wants to kill me.
*
The show must go on.
Forever
and ever
and ever
1. for the money.
2. for the show
3. we get ready
4. we go
*
I have to burn the diary.
Nadia Trudel is a Tiohtià:ke/Montreal based writer, culture journalist, audio storyteller, one-time playwright, and general attention seeker.
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