A Face in the Crowd
Christian Rappaport did not have a memorable face. Like millions of other people, his countenance was neither handsome nor particularly ugly. It was a plain face that blended in with those around him. Few women, if any, had ever felt their knees go weak at the sight of him. On the contrary, most hardly took notice of him.
Liv Whitmore, on the other hand, had a face that stopped men in their tracks and left them gaping open-mouthed as she walked by. Like that of the legendary Helen of Troy, her beauty could have launched a thousand ships. Feature for feature, Liv was more attractive than most Hollywood actresses, beauty queens and fashion models. Yet despite all the heads that turned her way, Liv rarely noticed anyone herself. No faces stood out in a crowd for her. She never turned her head for a second glance. No man—or woman, for that matter—made her pulse race. She never smiled at a friendly face that passed by and rarely made eye contact with a stranger.
Why Liv Whitmore first took notice of Christian Rappaport then is a mystery whereas the questions when and where are easily answered. When: late one Sunday afternoon when she was driving home after visiting an old friend in Rochester, New York. Where: a service plaza along the Massachusetts Turnpike, one of those easy-on-easy-off pit stops where travelers could get gas, use the restrooms and grab a quick bite to eat before continuing on their journey.
There was no lightning bolt or chorus of heavenly angels when Liv's eyes first met those of the nondescript young man from Concord, Massachusetts. The earth did not move beneath her feet. In fact, his face did not leave much of an impression at all. Only a moment after she had seen him, her brain filed his nameless likeness in a bottom drawer of her memory, and she quickly forgot about him.
Hungry and exhausted after the long drive, Liv had only one thing on her mind: whether to get a chicken teriyaki wrap at Fresh City or a basil chicken panini at Papa Gino's.
The following evening, Liv stopped to get gas on her way home from work. After she topped off her tank, she hung up the nozzle and replaced the Toyota's gas cap. On impulse, she went into the gas station's convenience store to buy a cold drink. Inside, at the self-serve fountain, filling a paper cup with Mt. Dew, was Christian Rappaport. For the second day in a row, despite her history of not noticing strangers' faces, Liv made eye contact with him. A memory clicked, and a momentary feeling of déjà vu came over her. It was quickly forgotten, however, no doubt filed in the same bottom drawer as the memory of their first encounter.
On Tuesday evening, after leaving her office, she stopped at a local video store. As she walked down the aisle, scanning the rows of newly released DVDs, she selected an action movie starring Mark Wahlberg and brought it up to the counter to check it out. Christian was working behind the cash register. Again, the bottom drawer of the mental file cabinet was opened, and a memory of a face emerged. This time, however, the memory was not re-filed quite so quickly.
That's odd, she thought. In just three days I've seen this same man three times in three different locations.
After the customer in front of her pocketed his change and left the store, Liv stepped up to the counter. Christian smiled and asked for her phone number.
"Why do you want my number?" she demanded to know, immediately suspicious of the young man's motives.
"We use your phone number as your account number," he explained. "Haven't you ever been here before?"
Liv felt ridiculous.
"I'm s-sorry," she stammered and gave him her phone number.
After paying her rental fee, Liv hurried out of the store.
When she returned the DVD the next day, she was relieved to see that Christian was not working. Not only was she still embarrassed about her behavior the previous evening, but there was also something about the young man she did not like. She could not put her finger on it, but she did not trust him. The smile on his face when she left the video store had been too familiar, not one someone would bestow upon a stranger.
"Or maybe I'm just being paranoid," she said with a nervous laugh. "Is it really so unusual for a man to smile at an attractive woman?"
Liv decided to put the entire incident behind her and subconsciously filed Christian back in the bottom drawer of her memory.
After leaving the video store, she went to Concord Market to pick up fresh fruit. She pushed her shopping cart through the produce department, stopping to fill a bag with apples. When she reached for a twist-tie on the plastic bag dispenser, she saw Christian in the next aisle, checking the price of a container of mushrooms.
Not again! she thought with exasperation. Four times in four days?
When Christian looked up and saw her staring at him, there was no sign of surprise on his face. Liv did not return his smile. Instead, she put the apples in her cart, finished her grocery shopping and quickly left the market.
* * *
Over the next two days, Liv saw Christian three more times: at the post office on Thursday afternoon, and then on Friday at both the pharmacy and the bank when she went to cash her paycheck.
"So, we meet again," he laughingly observed as he followed her out the door of the bank and into the parking lot.
"What do you want?" Liv asked, fighting down her rising panic.
"Me? I don't want anything," Christian replied, surprised at her hostility.
"Then why are you following me?"
"I'm not following you. I always come to the bank on Fridays."
Christian's indignation quickly faded. He supposed a girl as pretty as Liv would naturally be wary.
"Look, I realize it's pretty odd seeing me so often over a short period, but Concord isn't a big city. There are quite a few people I run into several times a week, but they don't accuse me of following them."
Liv was again overcome with embarrassment at her conduct.
"I'm sorry. I don't know why I'm behaving like this. I'm usually not a suspicious person."
"Well, just in case we meet again, let me introduce myself. My name is Christian Rappaport."
Liv reluctantly shook the man's outstretched hand.
"I'm Liv Whitmore."
"I already know your name," he said and was amused at the scared look that appeared on Liv's face. "I waited on you the other night at the video store. Remember? Your name came up on the computer screen when you checked out."
While Liv was somewhat relieved by the logic of his explanation, she felt a sickening lurch in her stomach when she realized that the video store's records would contain not only her name and phone number but also her address—information to which Christian, as an employee of the store, would have easy access.
* * *
In only six days Liv had gone from a happy, well-adjusted young woman to a frightened, hopeless neurotic. When she returned to her apartment that evening, she checked the lock on every window, bolted her front door and placed a heavy chair beneath the door handle to prevent an intruder—Christian Rappaport in particular—from breaking in.
The following morning, Sunday, Liv sat at her kitchen table, her eyes red and burning from lack of sleep. As she drank a second cup of hot, strong, black coffee, she debated whether it was safe to leave her apartment.
"This is ridiculous!" she said aloud, slamming her mug down on the table and spilling her coffee. "I will not be a prisoner in my own home!"
Forty-five minutes later Liv was dressed and heading out the door. It was a warm, sunny day, so she decided to walk to the Common where an arts and crafts show was being held. As she walked past the tables where vendors were displaying hand-blown glass, paintings, pottery, handmade quilts and all sorts of things crafted of wood and fabric, she felt a warm ocean breeze caress her face. It was a perfect New England day. She momentarily closed her eyes and smiled. When she opened them again, her good spirits vanished.
Standing less than twenty feet away, Christian Rappaport was haggling with one of the vendors over the price of a watercolor seascape. Having successfully gotten the artist to drop his price by ten dollars, he took out his wallet and paid for the painting. When he turned and saw Liv staring at him, he smiled.
"Good morning, Miss Whitmore. Nice day, isn't it?"
As Christian walked toward her, Liv felt a rush of anger.
"This has to stop!" she cried. "There are laws to protect people from stalkers."
"What?"
The man's shock appeared to be genuine.
"I'm not stalking you."
"Oh no? How do you explain the fact that every day this week I've run into you?"
"Just coincidence I guess—or maybe fate. Look, why don't we go for a cup of coffee and discuss this calmly? You'll see that I'm just a nice, normal guy and not some crazed stalker."
"Stay away from me!" Liv screamed, not caring if she caused a scene. "If you come near me one more time, I'll go to the police. I'll even take a restraining order out, if necessary."
"Anything you say, Liv," he said, using her first name rather than calling her Miss Whitmore as he had done previously.
Then he turned, walked away and disappeared into the crowd.
* * *
Liv had no wish to return to her apartment. Instead, she went to the Brookside Shops in nearby Acton and stocked up on groceries at Trader Joe's. Afterward, she stopped at Starbucks for a light lunch before going home.
Her body tensed the moment she neared her apartment, which was located above a law office on Main Street. Being Sunday, the office would be closed. If she were to call out for help, no one would be there to answer.
Although nothing seemed out of the ordinary, Liv was on the verge of panic.
Could I defend myself if Christian jumps out at me? she wondered, nervously eyeing the recessed doorways of the surrounding buildings. If only I had a weapon, something I could use to bludgeon or stab a would-be attacker.
Liv quickly took a mental inventory of the items in her purse: wallet, comb, lipstick, keys ....
That's it!
The frightened young woman unzipped her handbag, reached inside and found her key ring. She grabbed it firmly, leaving the longest key protruding from her fist like a knife blade. She might not actually be able to stab someone with a key, but given enough force, she could easily poke an eye out.
Thankfully, the makeshift weapon was never put to the test. Liv walked into her building without incident.
"Home!" she said with relief as she entered her apartment.
Once inside, she immediately locked the door behind her.
Liv walked across the small entryway to her living room, put her purse on the glass-topped coffee table, kicked her shoes off and sat down on the couch. It was only then, when she felt safe behind her locked door, that she noticed the changes in the room. There was nothing drastic, no missing piece of furniture or walls painted a different color. Like in one of those puzzles where you had to spot ten differences between two nearly identical pictures, the changes were much more subtle. For one thing, the magazine on the end table should have been Cosmopolitan. Instead, it was PC World. Furthermore, the DVD lying on top of the television had been Cold Mountain; now it was Four Brothers.
Liv's heart began to pound in her chest. Someone had been in her apartment. But who? There was only one answer: Christian Rappaport.
Who else could it have been?
Her suspicions were confirmed when she saw the watercolor seascape he had purchased at the arts and crafts fair hanging on the wall by the door.
A noise from the kitchen sent a sudden bolt of fear through her heart. Someone was in the apartment! Quietly, she rose from the couch and slowly inched her way toward the door. She did not even bother to put on her shoes or retrieve her handbag. Her only thought was flight. Several feet away from freedom, the frightened young woman heard her tormenter's footsteps on the kitchen floor. She ran toward the door, but her nervous fumbling with the chain lock prevented her escape.
"Hello, Liv."
She turned toward the voice, fearing the worst, but was surprised to see that Christian did not appear in the least bit threatening. He was wearing an apron tied around his waist and held only a cooking spoon in his hand.
"I was just making spaghetti and meatballs. Would you like some?"
Liv had read it was best to humor the insane and not upset them. She must do her best to keep Christian calm until she could think of a way out.
"No, thank you," she replied pleasantly. "I don't like spaghetti."
"Yes, you do. You love it. In fact, Italian food is your favorite."
"You really think you know a lot about me, don't you?"
"Just about everything there is to know. Your favorite author is Stephen King, your favorite actor is Al Pacino, your favorite actress is Charlize Theron and your favorite music group is the Rolling Stones. I even know your favorite color, blue, and your favorite flavor of ice cream, peanut butter—although you usually order chocolate because most places don't carry peanut butter ice cream. You like to eat hamburgers, hot dogs and pizza, and you hate the taste of beer."
Liv's knees went weak with fear.
"You must have been following me for some time. I don't suppose you'll tell me how you were able to get into my apartment so easily."
Christian put the spoon down on the counter and wiped his hands on his apron before replying.
"This isn't your apartment; it's mine."
"You're crazy," Liv laughed, forgetting her intention to humor him.
"Did you ever bother to read the name on the mailbox outside? It says C. Rappaport."
"That's preposterous! You couldn't even afford a place like this. You're just a video store clerk."
"For your information, I own that video store, but let's talk about you. How can you afford a place like this? What do you do for a living?"
Liv's first instinct was to shoot back a sarcastic retort, but she hesitated. Was it because she did not want to anger him, or was there another, more frightening reason why she held her tongue?
"All right, then," she said with feigned sweetness, "if this really is your apartment, I won't intrude any longer."
She turned toward the door.
"Don't forget your purse and shoes," he reminded her, making no attempt to stop her from leaving.
Liv glanced at the coffee table. Her handbag was gone, and so were her shoes. She had not moved them, and Christian had never stepped foot out of the kitchen. So, what had become of them?
"What's going on here?"
"Why didn't you answer my question?" Christian asked calmly as he opened a box of pasta and poured the contents into the pot of boiling water on the stove. "Where do you work?"
"I can't remember right now."
That was true. For some strange reason, her mind had drawn a blank.
"Don't you think that's odd? I mean people forget phone numbers, dates and other people's names, but who forgets where they work?"
"What do you expect?" Liv cried defensively. "I'm being stalked by a madman who has broken into my home ...."
"It's my apartment. I already told you that."
"No! I live here. I've lived here for ...."
Again, she drew a blank.
"Three years?" Christian asked.
"Yes. That's right. Three years."
"Did you know that before I told you?"
"What a ridiculous question. I won't waste my time answering you."
"What's your favorite movie?"
"Stop it! I won't play any more of your games. I'm leaving, shoes or no shoes."
"It's The Godfather. Do you know how I know that? Because I wanted it that way. I wanted the girl of my dreams to share my tastes. Your favorites are my favorites."
Liv ran toward the door again, unfastened the chain lock and grabbed the handle.
"You can't leave," Christian said with a sickening finality. "Not unless I say so."
Liv's feet remained firmly glued to the floor despite her desire to flee.
"What have you done to me?"
"I created you in my mind. You're nothing but a figment of my imagination."
"No!"
"Last weekend, I went to visit an old friend of mine in Rochester," he patiently explained. "On the long drive back, I began to daydream about the perfect woman. When I stopped at a service plaza on the Massachusetts Turnpike, I saw a photograph of a beautiful model on a poster advertising Dior perfume. At that precise moment, you were born."
"This is insane! I exist. I'm flesh and blood."
"You only exist because I want you to exist."
Hope blossomed in Liv's heart.
"If that's true, then why have I tried to get away from you? Why don't I just run into your arms and kiss you?"
"Because I wanted a woman with a mind and a will of her own, not some brainless pretty face with a good body."
"And what if your dream girl doesn't return your affections?" Liv asked arrogantly, feeling less like a pawn and more like a player who had checkmated her opponent.
"That's the funny thing about daydreams," Christian replied. "If you're not happy with one, you can simply dream another."
From out of the bedroom came an attractive redhead wearing Liv's black silk bathrobe and slippers.
"Is the spaghetti done yet, darling?" the woman asked in a voice that sounded remarkably like Liv's own.
"In a few minutes, dear."
As the woman put her arms around his waist and kissed him on the back of the neck, Christian looked at Liv and shrugged his shoulders.
"You're free to go now, Liv," he said, and the confused young woman vanished into thin air.
* * *
Later that night, Christian lay awake in his bed. For the first time in a long while, he was happy. Why shouldn't he be? He was young, healthy and fairly well-off. Someday—he had no doubt—he would meet the right woman, and they would live happily ever after. Until then, he had his dreams to keep him company.
He closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep.
Sometime around 3:00 a.m., Christian heard a noise in the living room. He got out of bed, turned on the light and went to investigate. At first, there was no sign of trouble, but then he noticed the changes in the room. There was nothing drastic. Like in those puzzles where you had to spot ten differences between two nearly identical pictures, the changes were more subtle. For one thing, the magazine on the end table should have been PC World, not Cosmopolitan. For another, the DVD lying on top of the television should have been Four Brothers, not Cold Mountain.
What's going on? he wondered.
Suddenly, a woman's handbag appeared on the coffee table and a pair of high-heeled shoes on the floor beside the couch. Christian turned and saw Liv Whitmore standing behind him. In her right hand she held a set of keys, one long one protruding from her clenched fist like a weapon.
"You're not real!" he shouted.
"No, I'm not. I'm a figment of your imagination—a dream. Funny thing about dreams. You can control your daydreams, but at night, when you go to sleep—well, that's an entirely different matter. When you close your eyes at night you never know if you'll have a pleasant dream or a nightmare."
Without warning, Liv's fist struck out and plunged the key into Christian's eye. He screamed with fear and agony, but, as hard as he tried, he couldn't force himself to wake up.
"You may have gotten rid of me in the real world, but here in your dreams I'm the one in control."
Liv's maniacal laughter then joined in a discordant duet with Christian's agonized screams.
* * *
"Poor guy," the senior attendant told the trainee as the two men made their rounds through the hospital psych ward. "He's having another nightmare. He's been plagued with them ever since they brought him in over a year ago."
The trainee looked at the patient who was secured to the bed with restraints.
"Is he dangerous?"
"Only to himself. At least that's what the doctors think."
The patient suddenly cried out in his sleep.
"No! You're not real."
"What the hell happened to him?" the trainee asked when he saw the deep, jagged scars on the young man's face.
"He gouged his own eyes out with a car key. Can you imagine that?"
The trainee shuddered and thanked his maker that one of the doctors had ordered the patient restrained. Meanwhile, the senior attendant gave the patient a shot.
"What's that you're giving him?" the trainee asked.
"A sedative. He gets too agitated when he's awake, so we keep him sedated most of the time."
The two attendants then continued on their rounds, leaving Christian Rappaport at the mercy of Liv Whitmore, the nightmare he created, the one he had meant to be the girl of his dreams.
Salem's dream girl is Lady Godiva--no, not the famous woman who rode naked through the streets of London, but the one who makes those delicious chocolates!
