Chapter 27
27
Yes, I took a sponsorship on a video of me spreading my sister’s ashes. News flash! Extortion isn’t cheap. Life isn’t cheap. Believe it or not, I need the extra capital.
I barely had time to breathe in this cushy new identity before I was smacked in the face with an influencer’s second-worst nightmare, after cancellation: taxes.
I thought finances would be a breeze since Chloe had been raking in a steady six figures per month. But running an operation of her caliber isn’t cheap, especially since she tended to outsource. There are several people on her payroll, ranging from salaried staff like Fiona to stylists and artists like Kim and Fernanda, to all the other stragglers and freelancers who help with video and content production. Even the accountant himself costs a pretty penny. And unfortunately for me, Chloe paid them all fair wages—more than fair. Everyone is earning above the market rate. Which is kind of her. But also, kind of fucking me over.
To top it all off, in a few weeks, good old Uncle Sam will come knocking with his grubby little hands, snatching away half my pie to fund foreign wars, since I’ve meddled my way into a high tax bracket. Seeing the estimate of how much I will have to fork over was a gut punch. It’s more than I ever made in a year as Julie.
And look, life in New York is expensive. A good chunk goes to pay off the mortgage on the apartment. Restaurant bills plus tips climb to at least $80 a meal if I get a drink. Not to mention, my Ubers always happen to consistently fall during peak hours. And maybe I’ve been online shopping during sleepless nights. Also, I got a haircut and a straight perm as a treat-yourself, which totaled $850 after tips. I’m working on fixing my underbite at a boutique orthodontist and the treatment is coming up to five figures…
Okay. Fine. I’ll admit it! I’m not great with money, okay? Having an AmEx to swipe at leisure is infinitely appealing. I can finally remedy my points of insecurity with cold, hard cash. Let me live like a rich person for a while and I’ll get my shit in order before you know it. And in my defense, I can’t risk damaging Chloe’s clean brand by being caught inhaling a Big Mac.
Anyway, after being hit with the gruesome reality of my financial matters, I realized I needed to get ahead and take more deals. I’m not trying to ruin myself with Auntie’s compounding interest, so yes, I did make the executive decision to accept a BetterTherapy sponsorship. But it’s not like Chloe wouldn’t do this. She literally exploited me for one of her videos. If anything, I’m a mental health advocate. BetterTherapy is paying me fifty grand and offering free therapy sessions with a certified counselor.* (*BetterTherapy is not responsible if users are matched to a therapist without a degree or certification.)
I’m watching the final video that my editor sent over to approve. The first half is B-roll of me walking along Riverside Park with the urn, the Hudson in the background. After some voice-over monologues about made-up childhood memories, it cuts to the scene of me dumping the ashes. Fiona expertly zooms in on my misty eyes, then pans up to the gray sky as if my twin is now in heaven. The end of the video is marked by a minute-long stretch of statistics about addiction, hotline directories, and my BetterTherapy discount code.
The total length is thirty minutes, which allows me to stick in three mid-rolls without being excessive about ads.
I click on the thumbnail Fiona sent. It’s of me staring wistfully into the distance. You can see my pores since she didn’t put blurring filters over my face. It looks authentic. Raw. She pitched a few titles, but I’ve thought of one that’s better.
Logging on to YouTube, I drag in the video, attach the thumbnail, and type: goodbye… All lowercase with an added ellipsis for emotional emphasis.
I keep the description simple: This is the hardest video I’ve ever had to make. If you need counseling support, consider BetterTherapy with my code “CHLOE” for a free online trial.
Estimated upload time: fifteen minutes.
While waiting, I click around Chloe’s YouTube channel and find some archived videos from years ago. The oldest one was filmed with a monochromatic iMovie filter. She’s in her room, maybe sixteen years old, a ukulele in hand as she belts her little soul out to Justin Bieber’s “One Less Lonely Girl.” The cover is horrendous. Thank god she didn’t pursue music.
Unable to bear her pitchy voice, I exit and watch the next archived video. This one has no filter, her turquoise wall in the frame. She’s attempting comedy: Sh*t teachers say. It’s not funny, but I chuckle a few times due to the embarrassing earnestness in Chloe’s face.
Her archived videos take me back to the old-school internet days when the only people caught on YouTube were weird loners, filming content as a last-ditch attempt at human connection. All we get now are grifters eager for clout.
Near the end of the video her door suddenly swings open. A man stands in the doorway. Chloe jumps to stop recording. The video abruptly cuts.
I frown. Was that Mr. Van Huusen?
I scroll back to when the door opens. His head is out of frame so I can’t read his expression, only the brief panic in Chloe’s eyes. It’s probably nothing. She was likely embarrassed. Yet I can’t ignore it. I’m unsettled.
It’s been a while since Julie died, and the Van Huusens still haven’t reached out.
I bite my lip, curious. Chloe’s calendar had a repeating event on March 12 for “Mom’s Birthday.” The twelfth is only a week away. I can use it. Against all logic, I send a text in the family group chat: Hey. What’s the plan for mom’s birthday?
As I wait, I scroll through more of Chloe’s archived videos. There’s a rigidity in her movements, and I can’t tell if it’s because she’s uncomfortable in front of the camera or if there’s something else bothering her. “Hi, guys” is her opening. Her voice is soft, almost a tremble. I feel like I’m looking at a mirror version of myself as a teen. I can’t take my eyes away. I’m so immersed, time loses meaning.
I startle when an iMessage pings. My heart blares with excitement, thinking it’s the Van Huusens. But it’s a message from a random number:
Hey Chloe, I saw your newest video and I am heartbroken for your loss. I know it must be a difficult time, but our previous conversation was incredibly productive, and I don’t want to lose the momentum of your story. If you have the energy, could we touch base about next steps? You mentioned wanting to talk about your adoptive parents. Maybe I’m being presumptuous, but it seems like what happened to them was a critical turning point for you and contributed to why you reached out to me. Perhaps unpacking that could help with your current grief too? But of course, no rush. Let me know if I’m overstepping.
My eyes circle the crumb of information about the Van Huusens and the string of numbers floating at the top of the screen. This person was familiar with my twin, but why aren’t they saved as a contact? There’s no record of a previous conversation either—did Chloe erase them? At first glance, the message seems like something between a therapist and a patient. Could this person be a counselor or psychiatrist?
I plug the phone number into Google with no results. But a search through my laptop produces an email from Jessica Peters that had been sorted into trash a few weeks ago. The name sparks a memory: I had asked Fiona to cancel an appointment with her on my second day as Chloe. The email provides little context. Fiona forwarded a meeting invite and Jessica thanked her, but there’s evidence of other exchanges that had been permanently erased by the system. Above her phone number and contact information: Staff Writer at The New Yorker.
I frown. Why was Chloe in contact with a writer at a magazine? About a story, no less.
A link in Jessica’s email signature redirects to her contributor page, where I find dozens of reports on news and culture—specifically, digital culture. These articles aren’t simply recaps of the newest social media scandal—quick, biting headlines meant to keep fans clicking mindlessly—but thorough examinations of the online zeitgeist, connecting internet phenomena to broader societal implications. Her most recent essay articulates how a recently viral and seemingly vacuous meme of a duck wearing sunglasses is actually a reflection of the political disengagement of young adults in America, going as far as to interview philosophers and political strategists to evidence her theory. Another article profiles a once popular but now canceled influencer, detailing their quick fall from glory and their grievances with internet fame, drawing an analogy between scrolling on social media and walking through a zoo.
I close the tab, unable to read further, as questions tumble through my mind. Jessica had mentioned Chloe having a story to tell, something that involved her parents. And based on Jessica’s previous reporting, it must be related to Chloe’s life as a digital creator. Whatever the story was, it must have been important for my twin to reach out. What could she possibly want to say?
Despite my curiosity, I need to consider my self-preservation. I can’t have Jessica snooping around me when I’m impersonating my dead sister. Voluntarily engaging with a reporter would be like putting a gun in her hand and giving her permission to shoot. Better to nip this all in the bud before it’s too late.
I compose a reply: I’ve changed my mind. I can’t go forward with the story. Please don’t reach out to me any further.
After sending the message, I delete the text thread, then block her phone number and email so she can’t message me back. I sit staring at my screen with dry eyes, fingers tapping at my keyboard. Doing the right thing didn’t chase away my dissatisfaction and curiosity.
Chewing on my lip, I open my chat with Fiona. I’m about to do something stupid, I already know it. But the Van Huusens’ silence and Jessica’s message have pried open another can of worms. I can’t deny myself a peek.
I type: Good work on the video! My brain is failing me these days. What is my parents’ address again?