When Eric Campbell wakes up on a park bench with no memory of how he got there, he finds that the season is not the only thing that has changed! Committed to a mental institution shortly thereafter, he begins questioning his own sanity while at the same time adjusting to his new life as a woman.

The story I am about to relate, to put it mildly, strains credibility. Sometimes I get confused about what is true and what isn’t, which is why I need to relate my tale with considerable haste.

It was like any other day of my meaningless existence. The only thing that differentiated it from any other day was the weather, not the crowds of people, not the traffic noise, and certainly not the fact that I was-as usual-invisible most of the time.

I wasn’t always a homeless man and a fixture of the city to be pitied or ignored. It didn’t happen overnight. I once had a fiancée, a nice two bedroom house, and a modest but lush backyard. What happened, you ask? Was it drugs or alcohol or mental illness or some combination of the two? I’m sorry to disappoint, but no. One day I became indifferent and started questioning my reasons for working at a job I detested in order to buy things that I thought I needed. I decided to simplify. I downsized from a house to an apartment. Next, I went from an apartment to a hotel. And from there, after the recession hit, it was just a hop, skip, and a jump away to my new address at the intersection of apathy and everystreet.

But enough about the inconsequential details of my journey toward living out my new lifestyle choice; it pales in comparison to the journey which I was most certainly not a willing participant in.

Like I said, it was just another forgettable day. It was late winter and I was trying to scare up as many aluminum cans as I could to augment my daily ‘income’ of spare change deposited in my pity cup-as I am so fond of calling it. At the end of day, I decided to pay a visit to one of the shelters for a brief respite from the cold. I enjoyed some hot soup as my body thawed out and I watched the regular crowd shuffle in.

I remember the date exactly. When I collapsed into one of the cots and drifted off to sleep, it was February 27th 2010. After floating in the blackness for what seemed like a matter of seconds, I awoke to a feeling of disorientation accompanied by a hangover headache, something hard pressing against my back, and a cool breeze blowing across my body. I rolled over on my side and peered around into the dim light of either late evening or early morning. I wasn’t sure which. But as twilight brightened into a red orange dawn, I realized it sure as hell wasn’t winter anymore. I didn’t know exactly when at first, but I could tell it was early Fall judging by the leaves. But that was the least of my problems! The season wasn’t the only thing that had changed.

My eyes no longer mere slits, I slowly sat up with labored effort and yawned as I tried to rub the remnant sleepiness out of my eyes. I paused at the realization that something just wasn’t right. My face felt odd. I didn’t have a mirror and I didn’t need one. Like a blind man using his nimble fingers to ‘see’ someone’s face, my heart began to race as I took stock of the changes. My face was clean and smooth, smoother than after a shave with a straight razor; in fact, there was no detectable stubble at all. Also, there was no prominent brow, and my familiar and striking square jaw had been painlessly sculpted into a more rounded shape.

I removed my fingers and there was flesh colored residue on them.

“What the hell!” I shouted at the trees in the deserted park. “Am I wearing makeup?” I ran my finger across my lower lip and looked at the red pigment that was now smeared on it. “Holy shit! I am wearing makeup!”

Was this a dream? Had someone slipped me some drugs? Was I hallucinating? I stood up to an unfamiliar bouncing sensation coming from my chest and froze dead in my tracks. I unbuttoned the satin blouse I was wearing and there they were: breasts. Yes, breasts on a chest as hairless as my face. And from the looks of things, they were about the size of my ex-fiancée’s who was quite well endowed I might add. Tears began welling up at the thought of what I was probably going to discover next. I ran my hand down inside my skirt and felt around.

“Oh my holy God!”

The old plumbing was gone, replaced with something soft and flat. I couldn’t resist. I had to look with my eyes to confirm the obviousness of what my hand was telling me.

I cringed with apprehension as I lifted up the pleated skirt that I was wearing and slid down the white cotton panties. All doubt was removed. I had a vagina. Every trace of maleness was now gone. I screamed, but it wasn’t a man’s scream. It sounded like one of my old girlfriends letting out a screech after seeing a spider. At first, I thought it was someone else screaming. It couldn’t be me. It just couldn’t. That was impossible. I kept waiting to wake up from such an awful nightmare.

After crying myself out somewhat, I looked around under the brightening morning sky and it finally dawned on me: I knew this park! I was still in the city. I looked around and made a cursory inspection to see if there were any more surprises such as a purse with some makeup and tampons in it or something. There was nothing.

I limped over to the bridge that spanned a small pond, stopped about halfway across, and leaned on the railing. The reflection that the glassy surface had to offer was not as brutally truthful as the mirror of a compact, but it sufficed for the occasion.

Instead of a grizzled guy in his early forties, there was an attractive younger looking woman with shoulder length blonde hair. The characteristic hardened expression on my face that betrayed no emotion was gone; it was replaced with a look of helplessness. As I gazed at this woman, I realized I had never felt this vulnerable or scared in my life, not even during my first night on the streets. I sat down, curled up into a ball, and wept.

By the time the jogger found me, I had no tears left.

“Miss,” she said, kneeling down beside me. “Are you okay?”

Miss? Why didn’t she call me maam instead? The soft light of early morning was more forgiving than I thought.

I stared at her with a blank expression on my face, before saying quietly, “Look what they did to me? How could they do this to me?” I was so distraught that I didn’t even notice how cute she was in her skimpy jogging outfit.

She gently put her hand on my shoulder and said, “Who did this to you? Were you mugged?”

“No,” I said weakly. “It’s worse than that. I don’t even remember how it happened. I don’t know how I got here.”

“What’s your name?”

Without thought or hesitation, I said, “Eric.”

“Eric? Don’t you mean Erica? I think you’re a little confused.”

I don’t know what happened, but something snapped within me. “Eric. My name is Eric goddamn it! Not Erica or any other stupid woman’s name!” I became hysterical. “In February, I went to bed Eric, and then I woke up this morning looking like…looking like this!” Anger surged within me as I said, “If I ever get my hands on whoever did this to me, I am going to kill them. I don’t care about going to jail. I’m going to fucking kill them!”

The woman backed off as she saw the crazed look in my eyes. Despite my petite frame, even she was starting to get scared. She jogged away and I gazed at my reflection again. I barely heard the footsteps of an approaching figure a couple of minutes later.

“Excuse me Miss?” said an unfamiliar deep male voice.

I glanced over and saw a rather tall and muscular police officer.

“Please don’t call me Miss,” I said.

“Then what should I call you?”

I shook my head and began to walk away.

He crossed the bridge and confronted me. “Look. I think it would be best if you would come with me until you calm down and we get everything sorted out.”

“I’m fine now. I’ll just be on my way thank you very much.”

Before I could fully turn around, he put his arms on me. With clenched teeth, I said, “Please take your hands off me sir.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that Miss. You’re coming with me, one way or the other.”

Without thinking, I shouted, “Get your fucking hands off of me before I sue you and the entire police department!” I clenched my fist and took a swing at him. I had done some boxing and figured I’d catch him by surprise.

Boy, was that a miscalculation on my part. At the last second, he ducked out of the way, and before I knew it, he was twisting my arm behind my back and slapping the handcuffs on.

This wasn’t the first time I’d been in trouble with the law, so why was I sobbing like a little girl when he escorted me to a police cruiser after calling the incident in? What was going on with my mind?

I was booked and locked up. As I was escorted past the cell with all of the men it, the first thought that popped into my head was, what the hell is this guy doing? Why are we headed toward the women’s holding cell? However, I was quickly reminded of my recent transformation by the ogling looks cast in my direction and a few choice phrases that I would really, really, like to forget.

“Damn!” I overheard one grungy and tattooed man say, “I’d like to tap that ass!”

What an asshole!

In a way, I was actually relieved to reach the women’s cell and be locked up. I was also grateful that I would only be sharing the cell with one other person.

“What are you doin’ in here honey?” she said with a big laugh. “Wait, don’t tell me. Is it Grand theft auto?” She laughed so hard that she started crossing her legs so she didn’t pee herself. “Seriously though, you are way too pretty to be in here, especially with your fancy clothes and all.”

I simply rolled my eyes and continued tapping one of my pretty-and probably pricey-shoes in my corner of the cell.

“Looks like we got off on the wrong foot…Wow, you certainly are touchy this morning. You want to know what I’m in for? I’ll give you two guesses, but you’ll only need one.” She spun around in her outfit consisting of a black miniskirt, a tight top, and pair of ‘fuck me pumps’ that had definitely seen some mileage. “Yeah, you guessed it.” She sighed before she observed, “Well, that’s what I get for trying to expand my client list.”

I forced a smile before returning to sulking in my corner of the cell. She seemed nice enough, although her taking it on the chin was kind of annoying.

A few moments later I quietly said, “Nothing.”

“How’s that?” she asked, furrowing her brow.

“Earlier, you asked why I’m in here and I’m telling you. I didn’t do anything. Some stupid cop put his hands on me without permission and I tried to hit him.”

“Hmmm. That doesn’t exactly qualify as nothin.’”

“He had no right!” I protested, crossing my arms. “Especially after what I’ve been through.”

“What happened?”

“Don’t worry about it. It’s not important. You wouldn’t believe me anyway if I told you. My story strains credibility as they say.”

She didn’t press the matter any further and we respected each other’s space during the remainder of my visit. The time passed slowly. Finally, an officer returned and escorted me out of the cell toward an office. I walked in and immediately knew what was going on. It was a psychologist. Did they honestly think I was going to spill my guts to some shrink?

“Please sit down,” said the middle aged man.

Like Seven of Nine, I simply complied. He reviewed some paperwork in his folder while I sat with my arms crossed. By this time, the shock had thoroughly worn off, and I had managed to salvage my stone hard look of indifference. I wasn’t going to tell this guy squat.

After a short time, he looked up and said, “Please tell me more about the incident in the park this morning.”

“There’s not much to tell I’m afraid. It was all a big misunderstanding. I freaked out a little.”

“You scared the hell out of a jogger who told the officer a very unusual story. Please be truthful with me. It will make things a lot easier on you.”

“Look, I’m sorry about what happened with the officer in the park, but can’t you just let me go? I mean look at me. I’m not crazy. I am in full possession of my faculties.”

“I’m not so sure about that. Let’s go ahead and start with some simple questions, like today’s date.”

I experienced an “oh shit” moment as I realized I had never thought to ask the jogger in the park about the date. Hell, I didn’t even think to ask my cell mate.

“Uh…uh…” I stammered. The city had a Saturday feel to it, so I said, “It’s Saturday.” There was a questioning tone to my answer.

“Yes, I know its Saturday, but I asked you the date. What is the date?”

“Well, it’s so easy to lose track, what with me being so busy and all,” I said with a nervous laugh, trying not to sound too much like a smart-ass. I knew I was screwed regardless, so I took a wild stab at it. “September 30th?”

“And what year is it?”

What the fuck kind of question was that? Of course I was sure of the year.

“It’s 2010,” I confidently declared.

I had no way to know if I was in the ballpark. His face didn’t betray any hint of whether I was right or not.

“Please tell me your name.”

“It’s…it’s Erica Campbell.”

“I see,” he said. He took off his reading glasses and said, “I want you to take a look at this. We found it in your jacket pocket some distance behind the bench.” He slid a laminated card across the table.

I couldn’t believe it. There she-I mean I-was. It was the woman I first saw reflected in the pond. The driver’s license looked real. The intricacy and attention to detail of this conspiracy blew my mind.

“Karen Shaw?” I uttered softly. I furrowed my brow as I gazed at the shiny license.

“Yes Miss Shaw. And by the way, the year is 2011, not 2010. In addition to your driver’s license, you have a social security card, tax records, medical history records, school records, and a very nice apartment I must say.”

I crossed my arms and insisted, “I don’t believe it. This isn’t real. I’m telling you that I’m not this Miss Shaw that you see on this driver’s license…which is probably forged by the way. I’m telling you that I am…”

“Eric Campbell? You mean to tell me that you magically transformed into a woman and have no memory of the past year and a half or so? How do you explain that Miss Shaw?”

“Don’t call me Miss Shaw. That’s not my name,” I said, growing increasingly agitated at having my sanity questioned.

“I am very sorry, but it looks like I have no choice but to recommend psychiatric care for the foreseeable future. It’s for the best. You’ll see.”

He got up to leave and I began pleading with him. “Please! Please just give me a chance to prove that I’m right! I can tell you my social security number, where I grew up, who my parents are, and what schools I went to. I can prove it, I swear!” I got up and confronted him. “Just administer a DNA test or a chromosome test. That’ll prove I’m telling you the truth.”

He shook his head and gave me an empathetic look that seemed to imply “what kind of terrible trauma did that poor woman suffer that has made her so delusional?”

The holding cell was definitely preferable to my “stay” at the psychiatric hospital. It wasn’t the facility per se; it was well maintained and the grounds were pleasing to look at. What bothered me were the little indignities. For example, shortly after checking in, they thoroughly searched my person-and I mean thoroughly-for any sharp objects or other contraband I might have smuggled in. A female staff member did the search, but it didn’t make it any less humiliating having unfamiliar hands touch my unfamiliar body. If I had been wearing tennies, they would have probably confiscated the laces.

Next came my intake appointment with Dr. Harold Farley, one of the staff doctors. I swear, it was like the scene in the movie Good Will Hunting when Will meet’s with Robin Williams' character for the first time. I looked at all of his diplomas on the wall and scoffed as I sat there in the soft leather chair with my arms crossed.

He flipped through some of the paperwork that the police had faxed over no doubt. He was apparently taking stock of what kind of messed up I was and how messed up I was. Judging by the raising of one of his eyebrows, it seemed this place would become my new permanent address.

“Miss Shaw,” he said, “I want you to reiterate your version of events that took place this morning.”

“Why? Isn’t everything you need to know in the shrink’s report from the police station?”

“Please, just indulge me. I would like to hear it from you. Okay?”

“This is pointless,” I said, readjusting my position in the chair and sitting there defiantly in a most un-ladylike manner. “Look,” I said, “It’s all a misunderstanding. I was just disoriented. Who knows, maybe I was coming down after some bad trip or something. Stranger things have happened. Like I told the police, I am now in full possession of my faculties. I’m not a danger to myself or anyone for that matter. Just let me go home.”

He leaned forward and rested his arms on his desk. “I believe the police officer you tried to slug would beg to differ…And where would you go Miss Shaw? You don’t even know your address.”

I really hated this guy at moment, not just because he was one of the gatekeepers of the hospital, but because he had already made his decision and was acting like if I told him my version his professional opinion would somehow be swayed and he would let me go.

“Let me ask you a question Miss Shaw.” I think he saw me grit my teeth when he addressed me as Miss Shaw. “Which is more likely, that you were given a sex change that you have no memory of and assigned a new identity by some person or persons that wish to have you present yourself to the world as a female, or that you have been female all your life and you simply invented this person named Eric Campbell because of some terrible trauma that you suffered which your unconscious is blocking from coming to the surface?”

“Gee, do you always ask such loaded rhetorical questions, or are you making it a priority to piss me off this morning?”

Instead of indulging me, he indifferently scribbled some notes down on his yellow pad.

“Well,” I began with an indignant tone, “tell me one thing doctor: explain why I have no memory, and I mean absolutely no memory of my life as a woman?”

“That’s what we’re going to find out over the course of your treatment Miss Shaw.” He nodded for one of the orderlies to come in. “Please escort Miss Shaw to her room.”

“Yes sir,” said the orderly. “Please come with me Miss Shaw.”

Being addressed as Karen Shaw was definitely going to take some getting used to. I sighed as I realized I would have plenty of time to adapt.

I took stock of my new meager accommodations after the orderlies escorted me down the hall. Then, I got washed up before lunch. I slid my clothes off and took my first good look at my new self before hopping in the shower. I laughed as I realized I would definitely be MILF material if I was married. At that moment I prayed I wouldn’t have a surprise visitor in the form of an overjoyed boyfriend who wanted to express his relief by kissing my full lips.

In the shower, as I soaped up my breasts and ran my hands over my curvaceous body, I lusted for this woman’s body I inhabited. I resisted the urge to let my hand wander south and do some more exploring if you know what I mean. Showering was both an uncomfortable yet arousing experience of self discovery.

Before lunch, I had to go to the medication desk near the common area to take the meds my doctor had prescribed.

“I don’t need meds,” I said adamantly. “Just give me good old fashioned talk therapy and three hots and a cot and I’ll be outta’ here in no time.”

The nurse simply smiled a smile that seemed to say “looks like we got ourselves another stubborn one on our hands, but she’ll learn soon enough.”

She handed me the ketchup sized paper cup with two pills and a small cup of water. “Please swallow your pills Miss Shaw or we will have to ensure that you take them. It’s important that you take your pills.”

She glanced over at an orderly who probably augmented his income by being a bad-assed bouncer at some club I had zero chance of getting into; then, she looked back at me. I may be stubborn, but I wasn’t stupid. I respected the not so subtle threat and downed my pills. Then, the nurse pulled out a tongue depressor and checked to make sure.

“You see,” she said, “That wasn’t so hard now was it?”

She seemed to be getting off on her little power trip, and I cursed under my breath as I walked away.

“Fucking bitch!”

Being told what to do and when to do it was about as foreign to me as having sex with a guy. After living in complete freedom on the streets for so long, it was difficult to adapt. For the first couple of weeks, I stubbornly fought the nurses when it was medication time. I usually acted like a statue during my therapy sessions, and I constantly held my ground, even when it came to petty privileges such as what television show we were going to watch. I had to give myself the illusion of some measure of control to maintain what little pride I had left.

I had been in the hospital for about three weeks and was pretty much used to the routine. Up until now, I had never questioned my version of events, of what I knew to be true in my heart. Boy, was I in for a very rude awakening!

One evening, I was showering at my designated time. By this time, I was getting used to my new curvy and voluptuous body and didn’t think there was anything left that could surprise or faze me.

I bent down to clean my calves and feet and was surprised to see a stream of light red liquid running down my leg. I looked to see where it was coming from. I let out a yelp. The last thing I remembered before passing out was a ringing in my ears accompanied by blurred vision. I had always been squeamish at the sight of blood.

“Karen? Karen? Can you hear me dear?”

I opened my eyes. Initially, everything was out of focus, but as the acuity of my vision improved, I realized I was in the infirmary.

“Do you remember what happened Karen?”

I was too preoccupied with my throbbing head to give a quick response and simply groaned.

“We found you passed out in the shower after you screamed. I think you screamed so loud that the entire floor heard you. There was some blood. At first we thought it was from the fall but then we saw it was…Anyway, aside from the bruise on your head, you’re lucky you weren’t seriously injured.”

I replayed the incident in my mind’s eye. My stomach turned just thinking about it.

“It was…” I hesitated. I was embarrassed to say it out loud. “I got my period, didn’t I?” I felt myself blush at using the words “my” and “period” in the same sentence.

“It was just your period. Nothing to worry about.”

I sat up and pulled the white robe I was wearing closer to my body.

“Since you’re no worse for the wear, you can go ahead and head back to your room. And here, don’t forget these.”

She handed me some tampons and maxi-pads and gave me this curious look when she did. I’m not sure, but I think I turned beat red. I dumped them in the pocket of my robe and hurried back to my room. I wanted to ask some questions about how to use them, but I felt the sudden urge to just get the hell out of there as quickly as possible.

As I lay there after lights out, I thought to myself, what if the doctor was right? What if my memories of life as a man were some kind of delusion? What if I had some kind of split personality disorder? What if I am crazy? I mean, I got my period for Christ’s sake! I must be a woman. Maybe I’ve always been one.

I cried myself to sleep.

“So, now do you believe me about the results of the genetic testing Karen?” asked my psychologist.

I squirmed in my padded chair before I confessed, “Yes. Why would you lie about it anyway? Like I said, I got my period, so I must be a woman.”

“Good. Do you now acknowledge that the memories you have of being a man may in fact be false?”

“It’s possible. But what would cause such delusions in the first place?”

“Probably a traumatic experience of some kind. You still have yet to recall what happened during the thirty-nine days you went missing before you were found on the park bench.”

“What about memories from a past life? Is it possible that this is what it is?”

“I’m afraid that’s not my area of expertise.” He looked at his watch and said, “Looks like our time is up for today. I’ll see again next week.” He smiled and said, “You’ve taken an important first step today. I’m proud of you.” He patted me on my shoulder.

Before I had time to take offense to the perceived condescending gesture, a thought occurred to me: this was the first time that I didn’t count the seconds until the session was over with. He said I was making progress. Maybe I would soon be getting the hell out of here!

After my morning appointment, I headed down the hall to the common area to vegetate in front of the television for a while with some of the other lethargic patients. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a male orderly stealing a glance at me. He had this stupid grin on his face. Then I realized why. I was still sitting like a guy, but I was wearing a skirt! I crossed my legs and frowned in disgust at the thought of some guy fantasizing about having sex with me. A normal woman’s level of disgust was nothing compared to mine at the moment. I had intimate knowledge of male fantasies which made my discomfort a thousand times worse.

I watched television with the other drugged patients whose disorders ran the gamut from schizophrenia to dissociative personality disorder and from depression to obsessive compulsive disorder. Making such downward mental health comparisons made me feel like the sanest person on the planet.

I forgot myself for a moment as I was apt to do and found myself staring at a plain yet pretty young woman in her late twenties. Her name was Alice, and the poor thing apparently had one of the severest cases of medication resistant depression I’ve ever seen. She always wore long sleeves because she felt self-conscious about the scars on her wrists.

I looked deeply into her eyes and smiled. She averted her gaze and squirmed in her chair.

Great! Now she probably thinks I’m a lesbian.

“Its medication time!” said a nurse from behind the couch.

I rushed up to the desk and queued up to get my least favorite part of the day over with.

“Here you are Karen.”

I looked at the pale pink pills in the small paper cup. I pretended to swallow them in the hopes that maybe they would forget to check today. As I walked away, a smile began forming on my face. I thought I was home free!

“Karen!” commanded one of the nurses.

I felt like a child caught red handed with a cookie. I immediately turned around. I was so used to being called such a pretty name that it didn’t even seem to bother me anymore, which bothered me.

I slinked toward her and grabbed the small cup of water from her outstretched hand and downed it like a shot.

“Please open your mouth.” She pulled out a tongue depressor and did a cursory inspection. “Good. Thank you.”

“Can’t they make pills that are less bitter tasting?” I complained, smacking my lips together.

“Well,” said the nurse, “Maybe if you didn’t hide them under your tongue for so long, and instead swallowed them right away like a good girl, that wouldn’t happen.”

I turned around and fumed. I mocked the nurse as I muttered, “If I swallowed them right away like a good girl!”

I stalked off and thought to myself about how I had been a model patient of late-for the most part anyway.

“What is she talking about?” I continued to say under my breath. “I’ve been a good girl. What more do they want out of me?” I froze in my tracks as I realized what had just casually slipped out. Did I just call myself a ‘good girl?’ I mentally slapped myself.

After the bitterness of the medication dissolved away, I looked around to see what mindless activity I was going to engage in to pass the time until lunch. I noticed that Alice was, as usual, alone in a corner. Instead of vacantly staring out of a window, she had summoned enough motivation to begin working on a one-thousand piece puzzle. I guess that’s progress for you. She was idly sifting through the box for some more border pieces when my shadow blocked some of the light sifting through the wire mesh of the windows.

“Do you mind if I join you?” I asked.

She didn’t acknowledge me. I took that as a yes and I sat down across from her and pretended to study the picture of the coastal Mediterranean village on the box. I joined in and tried to make some small talk.

“I hate being forced to take pills," I said. "I don’t like not having a say in my treatment. And I hate the side effects. First, there’s the dry mouth. Second, there’s the feeling of numbness. It’s hard to describe. It’s as if everything is just washing over me, like life is just a steady breeze. Sometimes it’s hard to remember the way things were before.”

“You’re lucky,” she said, almost in a whisper. “This is all I know now. I can’t remember what things were like before. Maybe I’ve always been this way.”

“Maybe things will get better for you.”

“Let me tell you something I’ve learned over the years: hope is an illusion. There is no logical basis for hope. It’s a life raft in one-hundred foot seas. Hope isn’t found in a pill or any combination of pills for that matter. It’s something that you either have or you don’t have. And that’s why I’m not going to get better. My parents can send me to as many places like this as they want, but in the end I will end up killing myself. There is nothing that can change that. All I’m doing now is biding my time and delaying the inevitable. That’s all life is. It’s a pretty diversion so that we stick around and make babies and delay the inevitable. I’ll die. You’ll die. Everyone in this hospital will die. Everyone on this planet will die. And then the sun will die and scorch the Earth into a molten ball, as if nothing had ever lived on its surface.”

“Whoa, that’s messed up.” It wasn’t just the words that disturbed me, it was the way she delivered her speech with such a cold monotone, as if from the mouth of the grim reaper himself.

With quiet intensity in her eyes, she said, “No. I’ll tell you what’s messed up: death comforts me unlike anything I have ever known. I can always hear its siren call.”

She cradled her head in her hand and the cuff of her long sleeved shirt slid down ever so slightly, exposing a couple of prominent raised scars. I couldn’t help but steal an impolite glance.

She glared at me. “Is this what you came to see?” she said with acid dripping from her voice.

“No…I just came over to…”

“Don’t lie to me. Yes you did. Yes you did! You wanted to get a close up look at the little pathetic depressed girl’s scars.” She jumped out of her chair and pushed the table to the side with a strength I didn’t know she possessed. She thrust her forearms in close to my body and yelled, “Make sure you get a really good look. Look at them you fucking dyke. Don’t think I didn’t notice you lusting after me earlier.”

I was paralyzed with fear. Thankfully, by this time, an orderly had rushed over and restrained her before she could do God knows only what to me. The orderly motioned for another man to give him a hand. They dragged her down the hall kicking and screaming.

“Why can’t you just let me die? I want to fucking die!”

The sound of her sobbing echoed down the hall. Now I knew why she was always by herself. When the sight and sound of her faded away, the other patients resumed what they were doing as if this was just another typical day, but I couldn’t. I experienced a wave of empathy that I never thought myself deep enough to feel. I suddenly felt some of the hopelessness she felt. I had never felt this hopeless before, not even at my lowest point after losing my job and being kicked out of my humble motel room.

I glided to the bathroom and cried. I had definitely lost my appetite for lunch.

A week later, and it was time for another visit to my psychologist. At first, when I entered the office, I thought I had gone into the wrong room. There was a woman in a dark blue suit with her hair arranged neatly in a bun. I distinctly remember looking at her beautiful earrings and admiring the color of nail polish she was wearing.

She looked up from perusing my chart and said, “Oh, hi Karen. Please sit down. Dr. Farley had a family emergency. I’ll be filling in for him for the time being.” She leaned forward in her chair and said, “Dr. Farley says you seem to be making progress and are adapting to your new surroundings and routine quite well.”

“Yes. I suppose so.”

“Tell me more about your state of mind this past week and any concerns you may have.”

“Well, to be perfectly honest, the delusions, as you call them, about living another life, seem like some kind of a dream that I’m waking up from. That’s the best way I can put it at the moment. Sometimes I’m convinced they are a delusion, and sometimes I’m not.” That part at least, was truthful. I wanted to get out of that hospital as quickly as possible, and I knew the only way to do that was to be as cooperative as possible. I needed to be a good girl. But then again, I was careful not to tell them what they wanted to hear. I needed to walk a fine line.

The session ended and I felt one step closer to freedom. As I walked back down the hall to the common room, I thought about the apartment that was waiting for me on the outside. The psychologist back at the police station had said it was nice, and the thought of a warm place to sleep sustained me and kept me in good spirits.

Three quarters of the way down the hall, I realized I was gliding down the hall and not trudging down it like I did when I first arrived. My arms swung out away from my body more freely and I was aware I was walking more with my hips. I was surprised at how such a simple act could be so liberating.

I entered the common room and my heart dropped in my chest at the sight of Alice. I don’t know what scared me more: her mere presence, or the fact that she was smiling. I thought, who is this girl and what did they do with Alice?

She was working on her puzzle, and I tried to sneak into the room. She acknowledged me briefly before averting her guilty eyes. The rest of the day continued to be awkward and we kept our distance from one another.

Shortly before lights out, as I was nearing my room, I heard the shuffling of slippers behind me. I turned around and there she was, violating our personal cooling off space.

I faced her with my arms crossed while she studied something on the floor.

“Uh…Look,” she said meekly. “About last week…I’m really sorry about what happened…about what I said. I’m really sorry I called you…”

I cut her off before she could say that horrible word.

“It’s okay. I understand. You weren’t yourself. No harm done. Good night.”

What came next really surprised me. She gave me a hug and then stood on her tiptoes and gave me a kiss on the cheek which felt good, but really wrong as well.

“What did you do that for?” I asked.

“I don’t know. It just seemed like you needed it…Good night.”

As I lay awake in bed thinking about the kiss, I smiled. I am not going to lie to you. I felt aroused. I had felt aroused before, but I had never done anything about it. I had started touching myself once, but I felt like a pervert and was ashamed of giving into such base desires.

Now I didn’t care. I decided to give in. I slid my hand down underneath my panties and started massaging. I thought about Alice and that kiss. To my surprise, other images began creeping into my mind. Recently, I had become hooked on the show Smallville, and the muscular actor that plays Clark Kent popped into my head without warning. I didn’t care. I was in the throes of passion. I thought about him laying me down and caressing my body and making love to me. I pretended I was Lana. I climaxed and then climaxed again. Multiple orgasms. That was certainly a first for me.

When I came back down from my high, I felt a little ashamed at not having the self control to prevent the intrusion of such a fantasy. Had I always had such urges and simply buried them deep in my subconscious? I fell asleep very confused about my sexuality.

It was now late October, and the rapport that had naturally developed between Alice and I was growing into friendship. After breakfast, we returned to working on the puzzle once more.

“Is this the first time you’ve ever been to a place like this?” she inquired.

“Yes, my first and hopefully last time. What about you?”

“Too many. I’ve been in and out since I was thirteen.”

“I’m sorry,” I said almost in a whisper, bowing my head ever so slightly.

“Thank you.” She looked thoughtful for a few moments before continuing. “I’ve always wondered why people say they’re sorry. There’s nothing really to be sorry about. It just is what it is. It’s life.”

I looked around at all of the other patients and understood that life was a definition open to considerable interpretation.

“You know,” I said, “I’ve noticed a change in you lately Alice, for the better of course.”

“The doctors have got me on some different meds, so maybe that’s why. Speaking of meds, if you ask me, the way they prescribe them is pretty unscientific. When it comes to doctors, it’s all about trial and error. I’ve read up on some of these meds. Did you know that the doctors aren’t sure exactly how they work? They say they think they know how they work, but they really don’t.”

“Really? That certainly doesn’t inspire a lot of confidence.”

“You got that right,” she replied, rolling her eyes. She snapped another puzzle piece into place.

I fitted another piece in place myself before saying, “If you don’t mind me asking, how many different kinds of meds have you been on? I’m just curious.”

“Let’s see,” she said, taking a break from the puzzle and stretching her neck. “Over the years, I’ve been on Zoloft, Paxil, Neurontin, Effexor, Wellbutrin… I’m probably forgetting a couple others. Oh, they even put me on Depakote at one point. Get this: it’s primarily used to prevent seizures! Right now, I’m on Remeron.”

“Remeron?”

“I think the Doc wanted to kill two birds with one stone. It helps me sleep, which is nice.”

“Sounds like you could be a psychiatrist considering all of the meds you’ve been on.”

“I couldn’t do any worse,” she said with a half smile. The smile ran away from her face as she leaned in toward me. “Let me share some wisdom with you: stay away from the SSRIs if you can.”

“SSRIs?”

“Selective Serotonin Reuptake Inhibitors.”

“That’s a mouthful.”

“I was on this SSRI called Paxil. Let me show you what it did for me.” She showed me the scars on her wrists and I winced as it triggered a memory of our first conversation together.

“I’m so sorry,” I said automatically. Remembering her feelings about using the word sorry, I said, “Sorry for saying sorry!”
“Anyway,” she continued, “I suppose because of me and others like me, they finally issued a warning that SSRIs may increase the risk of suicide.” She laughed in disgust.

“Doesn’t that defeat the whole purpose? That’s like purchasing a sleeping pill with the disclaimer ‘may cause insomnia,’ or using a hemorrhoid cream that states, ‘may cause a burning sensation!’”

She let out a hearty laugh before saying, “It’s so absurd that it should be funny.” She forced the corners of her mouth to rise up.

I confided, “I wish there was a medication I could take to get my memory back. Alas, there is not. But they’ve got me on the next best thing: an anti-psychotic. Imagine that, you try to hit one police officer and they label you as psychotic.”

“You’re funny,” said Alice.

I was pleased to see her enjoy a good laugh for a change. She looked at me with the softest expression on her face and rested her head in her hand and sighed. Then, she got up and walked over to the window and bathed herself in a shaft of sunlight.

She said, “Either it’s a placebo effect, or it’s working. I’m not sure…It’s strange. The colors seem brighter and sounds seem crisper. It feels like a fog is lifting.” She closed her eyes and soaked up the warmth.

I was truly happy to see her making progress. However, I was depressed because while her fog was lifting, mine was lingering. I had a ways to go before I made my way out of it. I decided to join her at the window, and admired the beautiful reds and yellows that still dotted the trees of the October landscape.

After lunch, Alice, myself, and most of the other sufficiently medicated patients were allowed outside to stroll around the grounds under careful supervision. The juxtaposition of the waning fall foliage and the still summer-like lush grass triggered a memory from childhood of me diving into a pile of leaves and frolicking around.

Noticing the reminiscent glow my face had taken on, Alice said, “A quarter for your thoughts.”

“A quarter? I thought it was supposed to be a penny.”

“You forgot about inflation!” She giggled like a schoolgirl and I joined in.

After my laughter subsided, I said, “I was just thinking about when I was a kid and how I’d play in the piles of leaves.” It felt like a legit memory, but I couldn’t be sure if it was Karen’s or not.

“I wouldn’t recommend doing that now,” she said. “They might think you’re crazy and lock you up!” She twirled her finger around her ear.

“You’re just too funny!” I said.

As we were ushered back inside after a healthy dose of fresh air, a crow flew overhead. When it passed by, the minor key of its harsh call alerted me to the relentless march of time; to the rapid approach of winter. A chilly wind kicked up and I pulled my jacket closer to my body. I felt a wave of sadness at the thought of Mother Nature repainting the bright canvass before me with bleak grays and browns.

“Earth to Karen!” said one of the nurses. “It’s time to come inside. It’s getting late!”

Looking around, I noticed I was the last patient. I loitered by the door for a few more seconds before silently walking in.

“Looks like we’re settling in for some cold weather,” commented the nurse to one of the orderlies.

“I know,” I whispered. “I know.”

“It’s all futile,” observed Alice as she stared at the fading pale orange sky after our nice walk.

That damn somber tone of voice that had lay dormant for quite some time was somehow managing to reassert itself, trying to sabotage her mind once more.

Oh boy! Here we go again!

I was working on the word jumble when Alice turned her head toward me. Any remnants of her earlier good cheer had drained away. The emotionless creature I saw before me scared the hell out of me and made my heart sink. But, I knew her well enough to just let her be.

“It’s all futile and I’ll tell you why it’s futile,” she continued. “Because Mother Nature always wins. Always! The leaves fall and we rake them up just so more can fall. We mow the grass just so we can let it grow again. Workers repave crumbling roads just so opportunistic weeds can have another go at crumbling them. It’s pointless. And look at us. We take medication just to find out that it doesn’t work. And do you know what’s really sad Karen? You may get your memory back, but you’ll probably grow old and get dementia and forget everything all over again.”

“Alice!” I snapped. “Don’t say such things!”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” She held up her hands in mock apology. “I’m sorry…sorry…sorry…sorry! Now doesn’t that just make everything all better?”

She sat back down and studied the puzzle as if it were some major construction project that would take years to complete. She rested her head on the table. That’s pretty much how she spent the rest of the evening. I distracted myself by watching jeopardy. I glanced over at her a few times and prayed that my friend would return the next day.

That night, I didn’t have as much trouble falling asleep as usual. Maybe it was the fresh air. Falling asleep wasn’t the problem. However, staying asleep was a different matter.

I woke up early in the morning, soaked with sweat and screaming.

“Help me!” I yelled into the pitch black. I was terrified and angry and disoriented, but I was more terrified than anything else.

By the time a nurse and an orderly rushed in, I was sobbing uncontrollably.

“Karen, what happened?” asked the nurse.

In between gulps of air, I said, “Someone was holding me down against my will, like they wanted to smother me or something!”

“Who?”

“I…I don’t know. I couldn’t see their face. I told them to stop but they wouldn’t listen.” I looked at her with pleading eyes and said, “They wouldn’t listen.”

The nurse sat down next to me and motioned with her hand for the orderly to remain outside my door. Like a mother comforting her child, she assured me, “It’s okay Karen. It’s okay hon, you’re safe now. It was just a dream.”

In my gut, I knew it was more than a dream. Maybe this was the traumatic experience my subconscious was protecting me from! Now that her soothing voice had brought my crying under control, I asked, “What time is it?”

“It’s a quarter past five.”

I wiped some tears away and asked, “I was wondering, do you think maybe it would be possible to hang out in the common area for a while?”

“I tell you what, you can pull up a chair and hang out near the nurse’s station if you want.”

I nodded my head. I needed to be surrounded by other people. I needed the illusion of safety at the moment. We walked down the hall together, with the terrifying immediacy of the dream fading with each step.

We reached the nurse’s station and I pulled up a chair and flipped through and old People magazine from March, the Oscar issue.
I perused the best and worst dressed section. I gazed at all of the beautiful women resplendent in their ridiculously expensive gowns made by fashion designers I had never heard of, some of whose names I had trouble pronouncing.

It wasn’t just their dresses I was admiring, but the accessories as well. I loved the dangly earrings and the shoes. I found myself very suddenly-and naturally it felt-longing for nicer shoes to wear. I really saw the appeal. I was like, "that’s a cute pair" or "ooh, those are pretty!"

Looking at the best dressed section wasn’t as fun as it turned out as looking at the worst dressed portion. I found myself stifling my laughter on more than one occasion. I certainly didn’t want to get a case of the giggles and get intimately familiar with the padded room! At the sight of one unusual dress-one that looked like Bjork and Lady Gaga had gotten together to design-I thought to myself how I wouldn’t be caught dead in such a get up.

Yes, I was discovering the idle joys of fashion. I looked at my plain robe and plain white slippers and was glad there wasn’t a mirror nearby so I could wince at my equally plain reflection.

Oh how the time flies when one is worshiping at the altar of celebrity-America’s version of royalty. Before I knew it, sunrise had come and gone and my dream had completely faded away with the twilight.

The patients filed into the common area, but Alice was not among them.

While I waited for her, I passed the time by observing some of the antics of the other patients. Charles, as usual, was scribbling in his journal. This guy was OCD to the extreme. It was so sad and pathetic. He would fill a page, and then an expression of disgust would suffuse across his face as he read through the lines of fresh ink. Then, he would grab a red ink pen and viciously mark everything out with it. He finished by ripping out the blooded page and throwing it away. He used to be a writer, but now he was striving for a perfection he couldn’t define.

I looked over at the card table and shook my head at the sight of one of the patients who seemed to take a perverse pleasure in adding a little chaos to order. He was apt to remove a piece of the puzzle from here or there when he thought the coast was clear.

“Ethan!” chided one of the orderlies who had been shooting the shit with a smaller yet scrappier employee. “How many times have I told you not to mess with other people’s work?”

He laughed gleefully, relishing in the attention as usual. He held his hands up in the air. “Sorry officer. I didn’t think benign interference with communal property was a crime!”

The orderly rolled his eyes and muttered, “I’ve got better things to do than babysit this guy.”

The orderly seemed very protective of Alice and her project as of late. I think he was sweet on her.

Just then, Alice came belatedly strolling in, yawning as if the Doctor had doubled her dosage of her sleeping pill.

“Well, well,” said the orderly. “Look who’s decided to grace us with her presence. Good morning sunshine!”

Alice flashed him a fake smile that said, “if this were any other place, I’d give you the middle finger right about now.”

Alice’s expression softened as she walked over to me. I was just lounging on the couch as usual, feeling ambivalent about another predictable day at the resort. Well, not entirely predictable. I wasn’t sure which Alice was going to greet me.

“Good morning Karen!” she said.

“Good morning Alice! You seem downright chipper this morning.”

“Right side of the bed this morning, I guess.”

“Indeed.”

“Sorry about yesterday evening,” she said. “I guess I let myself get a little down again.”

“Sorry? Sorry? Why do people always feel the need to say they’re sorry?” I joked. I flashed her a toothy grin.

“I did say that, didn’t I?” she said sheepishly.

While we were talking, and the orderly was stealing a glance at Alice’s butt, Ethan sneaked back over to the table. Alice saw him out of the corner of her eye, and with daggers in her eyes, shot him a withering glare. Ethan saw the look in her eyes, fidgeted with his clothes for a couple of seconds, and then wisely retreated to his usual corner.

I glanced over at the table and remarked, “At this rate, we’ll have that thing finished just before the apocalypse in 2012!”

“I swear to God, if I’m still here in December of 2012, I’m going to have to…” Her voice trailed off and the smile ran away from her face as she realized what she was about to say.

I cleared my throat before asking, “Are you going to get something to eat?”

“I’m not very hungry this morning. I think I’ll pass on the scrambled egg product… Hey, watcha got there?” She was pointing to the magazine I had forgotten I had placed on my lap.

“It’s just an old magazine,” I said dismissively. “Anything to pass the time, right?” I let out a nervous laugh.

I placed it on the table. Then, she sat down and picked it up and leafed through it before quickly tossing it back on the table.

She rolled her eyes and said, “It’s all trash. Just a bunch of overpaid actors and singers.”

While I agreed that they were overpaid, when she used the word trash, it stung me. After all, what’s wrong with admiring some actresses and fantasizing about being one of them? Did she somehow think she was better than other women because she sought out more intellectually stimulating literature? I let out a sigh and decided to just let it slide.

She looked around and took an inventory of the patients while I chewed over her words in my mind.

“I think we’ve got about every DSM IV diagnosis accounted for in this room,” she said. She looked back at the magazine and with a wry smile added, “Everything except for narcissistic personality disorder.” She frowned as she looked around again. “There but for the grace of God go I.” She sat down across from me and confided, “My mother used to say that often before I got sick. When we’d either pass by or see someone less fortunate depicted on television, she’d remind me how lucky we were; of how lucky I was. And I did feel fortunate. Sometimes I find myself wondering what I did wrong to lose favor with God.”

I suddenly realized I needed to think of the right thing to say to nip this possible downward spiral in the bud.

“If you want my advice, try to wait until after lunch to ask such questions. It’s too early.” Actually, I felt there was probably never a good time of the day, week, or month for Alice to ask such questions. She couldn’t seem to wax philosophical without becoming suicidal.

I was oddly relieved when the nurse called out that it was medication time. Maybe her meds would help bring out and sustain the Alice I saw the other day during our stroll. I groaned as I shuffled over to get in line. It was time to be a good girl again.

“Karen,” said Dr. Farley. “I must tell you that I was understandably disturbed when one of the nurses informed me of the episode you experienced the other morning.”

“It was terrible! It was one of the worst nightmares I can remember having in a long time. But, it was just a dream,” I lied. “Do you think perhaps it was a side effect of the medication?”

“The medication has, on occasion, been known to cause bizarre dreams, but I don’t recall ever reading in the literature about night terrors being a side effect. However, it is a relatively new drug and everyone is different. For now, I’d like you to stay on it at the current dosage. I’d also like to give you something to help you stay asleep. You shouldn’t have any trouble with the new medication I've prescribed. It’s well tolerated.”
“Thank you,” I said.

“Looks like we have a little extra time,” he observed. “If you don’t have anything more to add, you can go ahead and head on back if you like.”

I started to get up, but that fleeting memory during the stroll on the hospital grounds surfaced. “Oh, there is one thing. It’s kind of insignificant but I thought you might like to hear about it.”

“What is it?”

“I had this really vivid memory of when I was little…when I was a little girl. I was playing in the leaves and I remember being very happy.”

Okay, I bent the truth a little. So sue me!

“That’s wonderful news! You see, I told you it was just a matter of time before things would begin resurfacing.”

“You were right! For a while, I was scared that it would never come back.”

“Just continue to be patient and take your meds and you’ll continue to have more moments like these. I must say, I’m very pleased with your progress.”

“Thank you doctor Farley.” I got up to leave.

“Oh, and one more thing,” he said, “you look very nice today Karen. It’s good to see you taking more of an interest in your appearance. Have a good afternoon and I’ll see you in another week.”

Nice? Did he just say I looked nice? Nice is a term that should be used by weatherman when describing an ideal day for a picnic. I thought I looked better than nice. I had actually brushed my hair-thoroughly. It was silky and shiny and I was wearing some lipstick. I thought I looked pretty but I guess he had to choose his words carefully. He didn’t want to say something that could be misconstrued as inappropriate.

The months passed, and little by little, I was beginning to see the light at the end of my own tunnel. With the help of the medication, I was slowly burying some of my false memories, and in so doing, I was beginning to convince myself of my true identity along the way.

Over the fall and winter, Alice and I became more intimate. We became more than friends, and I came to love her more like a sister and so did she. I was so happy that she was getting better. Her depression was now being treated with a combination of drugs and trans-cranial magnetic stimulation, or TMS for short. It seemed that the painful and demoralizing trial and error portion that characterized her long struggle toward the light had finally come to an end.

Spring arrived and she was finally deemed well enough to be discharged. It was an emotional morning for both of us.

Before her parents arrived, we hung out in her room and talked about our future prospects as she fretted over how to make herself as presentable as possible.

“Which shade of red do you like better? Do you think the shade I have on now is nice, or should I try this?”

I said, “They both look nice to me.”

“Gee, thanks! That was certainly helpful.” She gave me a playful shove.

I laughed before observing, “About as helpful as a husband telling his wife that both dresses look good on her.”

I sat in a chair in the corner as she sat on the edge of her bed and skillfully put on her makeup. I was amazed at how second nature it was for her, at how easily she was able to multitask. I saw this as more than an opportunity to spend some time with my friend. I saw it as an opportunity to learn about something that was going to happily lengthen the duration of my current low maintenance routine.

“What are you thinking about over there?” asked Alice, using a tissue to remove some excess lipstick.

“I was thinking about how I can’t remember the last time I wore that much makeup."

Her eyes lit up and she said, “Hey, I’ve got an idea! When I’m done, why don’t we give you an impromptu makeover?”

“Sure, why not. That sounds fun!” I agreed. My heart fluttered at the thought of being able to express more of the femininity that was welling up inside of me.

After agonizing over what to wear for about fifteen minutes, her strappy shoes clicked on the floor as she spun around in a beautiful pleated skirt-reminiscent of the one I was wearing in the park all of those months ago-and a purple blouse.

I smiled and nodded my head and she beamed a big smile. Her enthusiasm waned temporarily when she grabbed a bracelet from on top of her bedside table and put it on.

She quietly sat back down and applied some more concealer to her wrists.

“Hey,” I said. “Do me a favor when you get out. Try and sneak me in some decent food. Lots of chocolate would be nice. I wish the doctor would prescribe me some chocolate instead of my current meds. Not only are they a natural mood enhancer, but they have antioxidants too.”

She laughed and then set the concealer back down on the bedside table. “I’ll see what I can do.” She looked at her watch, patted the bed, and said, “Are we going to do this or what?”

I smiled and walked over. I have to admit, I felt a little embarrassed and self-conscious while she helped me with my makeup. She instructed me while I applied it. Applying a smooth and even layer of foundation was the most vexing part of the ritual.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m really terrible at this!”

“Why are you saying you’re sorry? There’s nothing to be sorry about. It’s not your fault that you have some gaps in your memory.”

“I just wish I remembered how, that’s all.”

“Just relax and try again,” she said.

“Alice?” I began, as I applied some blush.

“Uh huh.”

“I need to ask you a favor when you’re on the outside.”

“Oh?”

“I need you to go over to my apartment building in the city and take a look at it and describe it for me. I also need you to Google my name and see what you can find. Like you said, I still have some gaps and I would appreciate your help.”

“I see,” she said with a knowing expression. “The doctors need some more convincing.”

“Something like that.”

“I think I can take time out of my busy schedule and find out for you. I’ll give you a call when I do.”

“That sounds great. I really appreciate it!”

“That’s what friends are for. Right?”

It felt as if a huge weight had been lifted off of my shoulders.

After the trial and error makeup tutorial, she said, “Wow! You look amazing!”

“Really?” I asked, not so subtly fishing for a complement.

“Yes, really.”

I strutted around a little and said, “Not bad for a forty-three year old.”

“You have really nice skin, that’s why.”

“Not as nice as your skin,” I said. She smiled at the compliment. “You know, you’ve got a lot going for you: you’re bright, you’re genuine, you have a beautiful smile, and you have lovely skin. Like I’ve always said, you’d make a terrific actress!”

“You forgot one thing: talent.”

“Don’t run yourself down like that. Don’t ever run yourself down like that. You’ve got talent and I mean that. Remember when you performed that monologue for me? I was blown away.”

“But it was just for an audience of one.”

“Just promise me one thing when you get out.”

“What’s that?”

“I want you to stick with acting. Don’t quit just because you’re somewhat a prisoner of your own inhibitions.”

“Okay,” she said quietly.

“Okay? Okay? Come on, say it like you mean it!”

“Okay Karen. I promise!”

“Thatta girl!” I exclaimed before I gave her a big hug.

Brushing her hair, she casually said, “Do you have anyone waiting for you back home. I’m not trying to pry or anything, it’s just that I’ve never seen anyone come to visit you. That makes me really sad.”

“Don’t worry about me,” I assured her. “I’ll pick up the pieces and move on. Besides, it’s not like I don’t have anyone. I’ll have you waiting for me on the outside.” I gave her another big hug.

She nodded and smiled.

When her parents came to pick her up, we chatted for a while.

“Alice has spoken very highly of you,” said her mother. “Thanks for being such a good friend to her,” she said with tears in her eyes.

“Thank you,” I said, unable to prevent tears from streaming down my face.

The father shook my hand and said, “For a while there, we weren’t sure if she was going to pull through. Thanks for helping her and us through a difficult time.”

“You’re welcome,” I said meekly.

Now came the difficult part, the part I had been putting off for as long as possible.

As I stood there, unsure of what to say, I couldn’t get over how beautiful Alice looked. She was as bright and cheerful as the idyllic spring landscape outside. She came closer and we embraced.

“Take care of yourself,” she said. “I expect to see you on the outside soon so we can get together over some coffee or lunch or something.”

“I promise,” I said. I wiped away tears and forced a smile. “Goodbye.”

The staff member at the desk got up and swiped her badge and the door opened up.

Alice disappeared into the bright sunshine of the warm spring day.

I walked back to the common room and looked at the card table. I smiled as I looked at the puzzle. Aside from a few missing pieces, it was finished.

A couple of weeks later, I received a much anticipated phone call. I rushed over to the phone.

“Hi Alice!”

“Hey girl! How are you doing?”

“I’m hanging in there I guess. I’m going a little stir crazy though.”

“I hear you, but hang in there. It won’t be too much longer. I’ve got the information you wanted.”

“Great…Uh huh…Uh huh…Really? Good.”

A few minutes later, I thanked Alice and hung up. I believed I’d finally found the key to unlock the door to freedom! I eagerly told Dr. Farley during my next appointment about my new “memories.” Technically, they were memories based on images that formed in my mind’s eye when Alice described my apartment to me and some other unremarkable details of my life. So what if they were second hand memories. As they say, close enough for government work!

I was released about a month later. There was no family or friends that came to pick me up. There wasn’t any kind of tearful goodbye with any of the other patients, just a quiet exit to a waiting taxi outside.

The cab driver greeted me and helped me with my suitcase containing some clothes as well as some makeup that had recently been brought over from my apartment. I found it funny that his eyes briefly greeted my breasts before acknowledging me as a person.

I enjoyed the scenery as it flew past me and thought about the return to the familiar sights and sounds of the city with both anticipation and apprehension.

The cab’s neglected brakes ground the car to a halt in front of a posh looking building. It was strange being back in the city after such a long absence. You don’t realize how habituated you’ve become to the noise until after you’ve returned from a tranquil setting. I stepped out onto the sidewalk, and with arms akimbo, took in my fancy new permanent address. It was just as Alice had described it. The driver brought me my suitcase and I paid him.

“Welcome back Miss Shaw!” said the doorman.

Surreptitiously looking at his name tag and then feigning recognition, I said, “Hi Donny. It’s great to be back.”

“I’m just relieved to see you again. After you went missing, I feared the worst. Thank God is all I can say!”

“Indeed. He must have been watching out for me.”

I pulled out a slip of paper from my purse and stepped into the elevator. I hit the button for the fourth floor and rode in silence.

I stepped out onto an unpopulated floor. I walked down the hallway of the fourth floor, savoring that crisp and dry new carpet smell the whole way. In fact, everything seemed new, even the coating of off white paint on my apartment door. I hesitated after inserting the key into the lock. For some reason, I felt that knocking would be more appropriate. I shrugged off that feeling, turned the key, and slowly opened the door.

After fumbling for the light switch, I said, “Hello? I’m home!”

I don’t know why I said it, but like the transient urge to knock, it just felt like the appropriate thing to do, especially in light of the fact that the apartment seemed too spacious for just one occupant. I half expected a cat to come bounding into the room, announcing its presence with a chirp before rubbing up against my pantyhose.

Besides the spaciousness, one of the first things that caught my attention was that new house smell that the place had. It was as if I hadn’t left the hallway at all.

I took a tour of the apartment. I started in the bedroom. First, I checked out the closet. It was huge! It seemed large enough to be a small bedroom for a child, and every square inch of it was filled up. There were, as expected, lots of dresses and skirts. And there were shoes, shoes, and more shoes. It seemed that there was a pair for every day of the month. And like the hallway and the rest of the apartment, everything seemed brand new.

After perusing the closet, I sat down on the queen sized bed with its floral comforter and rummaged through the drawer. There were just the usual items one would expect to find, but nothing that would offer further enlightenment about Miss Shaw. Among the items were a romance novel and a pair of reading glasses. I tried them on and found that they were the perfect prescription.

I went into the living room and wandered over to the bookshelves. In particular, I was interested if there were any photo albums mixed in with the books. To my dismay, there weren’t any. After checking out the living room with its beautiful suede furniture and large plasma screen television, I went into the other bedroom which had been converted into an office and sought out more information about myself.

I still couldn’t find a photo album or even an address book. I decided to log onto the computer. Maybe all of the photos and information were stored in the computer. Yeah, that was probably it. I’m sure I had an external hard drive lying around somewhere to back up the information too.

I turned on the computer and logged in but, wouldn’t you know it, the damn hard drive crashed.

“Damn!” I said. “Talk about inconvenient.”

I shrugged off the incident and attributed it to the fact that it was a late model computer. But still, something didn’t add up. However, my curiosity would just have to wait. I was too tired. I’d call tech support tomorrow to find out about my options. Right now, all I wanted to do was get something to eat and vegetate in front of the television. I ordered some Chinese food using my debit card and relaxed for the rest of the day.

The next morning, I made a list. I needed to do some grocery shopping, call tech support, get a cell phone, and third and most importantly, Google the name Karen Shaw to find out what the police and doctors didn’t get around to telling me about.

I perused the yellow pages and found a grocer that delivered. While I waited for the knock, I called tech support and was put on hold for what seemed like an interminable amount of time just to find out that all my files were lost and I needed a new computer.

After I had a quick breakfast, I headed downstairs to take a taxi to Best Buy to purchase an iPhone. But before I had the driver drop me off at the store, I went to the nearest bank to check my account balance.

I searched my memory for the pin, and typed it in. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I wasn’t used to seeing so many zeroes!

Oh my God. Ten-thousand dollars!

And that was just checking. I had over seventy thousand in savings. I was so elated that I felt like dancing a jig right then and there; instead, I had a statement printed to find out what my source or sources of income were.

Walking back to the taxi, I was on cloud nine. I think I actually sashayed. It felt really good to be Karen Shaw.

“To Best Buy my good man!” I said to the driver.

Even though I knew exactly what I wanted before I entered the store, I still had to resist the urge to endlessly compare the features of the iPhone with its competitors, which is easy to do when one is confronted with the tyranny of choice.

On the way home, I stopped at a nice restaurant, and while I was there, I gave Alice a call. I was disappointed to get her voice mail.

“Hi Alice. It’s Karen. I’m a free woman now and was wondering if you’d like to meet up for lunch sometime. I look forward to talking to you. Bye.”

When I left the restaurant, a nice young man held the door open for me. The entire day, I think the only time I ever had to open a door for myself was when I was back at my apartment. Being a woman certainly had its advantages and I liked the attention-well, not all of the attention. I could do without guys staring at my tits and mentally undressing me all of the time. Oh well, you have to take the good with the bad as they say.

I was home at last! It was amazing how quickly I had come to call this place home. I kicked my heels off and lounged on the couch with my iPhone in one hand. Even though Alice had filled me in on some of the details, I Googled Karen Shaw anyway to see for myself. Looking at the search results, I got that “something’s not quite right” feeling in my gut.

According to the brief bio, I was forty-three, which I already knew. Also, I was an only child, both of my parents were dead, I was widowed, and I had no children. I found it strange that I didn’t have any family to vouch for my identity at the moment and set my mind at ease. Right now, I felt I needed more reassurance than the recognizing eyes of the doorman.

Before I could delve deeper into the mystery that was Karen Shaw, my phone rang with the default ringtone and my heart skipped a beat.

“Hey girl!” I said to Alice. “It’s wonderful to hear your voice again!”

“It’s good to hear your voice too Karen. I was wondering when you’d call. Are you calling from the city?”

“Yeah. I’m settling back in at my apartment. I was wondering if you’d like to have lunch. I know this great café. Would sometime this week be alright?”

“I don’t know about this week. I’m pretty busy. But I think I might be available either Tuesday or Wednesday of next week. How does that sound?”

“It’s all good. I’m quite flexible at the moment. I seem to be a woman of leisure.”

“I’ll tell you what: I’ll go ahead and shoot you a text later today or tomorrow and let you know which day I can hop a train to the city. Okay?”

“Sounds great.”

“I’ve gotta go. My lunch break is almost over. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Okay. Bye.”

I returned to my bio and found that I was a freelance writer-mostly essays and a few short stories-but nothing to write home about. There was a short story collection titled “Out of the Blue” that caught my attention. It seemed an appropriate title for my experiences as of late. The title triggered unwelcome memories of that fateful morning on the park bench. I shuddered, but with the aid of a glass of whiskey, I was able to push it to the back of my mind. I knew I probably shouldn’t be drinking, but then again, there are a lot of things I probably shouldn’t do, like asking too many questions.

Everything was going well until Thursday rolled around. I had ordered some more Chinese food and was reading the local paper. My heart dropped in my chest as my eyes came across a story about a woman’s untimely death.

Late yesterday evening, a thirty-nine year old woman whose name has yet to be released by police, threw herself in front of a bus. She was killed instantly. According to bystanders, the hysterical woman kept shouting “look what they did to me” before she ran into the intersection. One individual said he found it odd that she became enraged when he called her Maam and tried to calm her down. “It was like really weird,” said William Brown, one of the bystanders. “It really seemed to piss her off. She said, ‘Don’t call me maam! Do I look like a maam to you?’ I don’t know, maybe she wanted to be addressed as Miss. Whoever she is, it’s really sad that she felt she had to resort to suicide.” According to police, her motivations still remain a mystery.

I felt a chill run down my spine. I rushed over to the kitchen and made myself a mixed drink and downed it like a shot. Then, I made myself another, and sipped it as I sat on the couch.

“Damn it,” I quietly protested. “Everything was going so well. Why did I have to read the paper today just so I could come across this?”

I shook my head and once again questioned the line I had drawn separating fantasy from reality. I began to suspect that this line wasn’t permanent like a stone wall; rather, it was just some arbitrary line I had drawn in the sand under the guidance of a doctor’s arrogance. Maybe this person called Eric Campbell did exist. I made up my mind then and there to indulge my burning curiosity against my better judgment.

The next day, I did some research on private detectives. I wanted to find out if this Eric Campbell existed in the first place.

I made an appointment and stopped by on Tuesday of the following week. The detective greeted me with a light handshake and a gruff voice.

“Good morning Miss Shaw. Thank you for being on time.”

“Thanks for getting back to me so quickly,” I said.

As he sat down, I noticed that he was kind of cute in a John Goodman sort of a way. I tried to keep the smiling to a minimum. I wasn’t here to flirt. I was here to get down to business.

He pulled out a piece of paper and put on his reading glasses. “So, you want me to track down a Mr. Eric Campbell. Correct?”

“Yes. He’s a former high school crush. I tried to get in touch with him myself but it seems like he just fell off of the grid.” I let out a nervous little laugh.

“Just to let you know, I charge a standard upfront fee for such an investigation and I cannot make any guarantees.”

“I understand.” I handed him an envelope, and said, “I hope cash is alright.”

He chuckled. “Yes Miss Shaw, cash is quite acceptable.”

“Oh, and by the way. I almost forgot.”

I pulled out a slip of paper with Eric’s social security number and handed it to him. The detective gave me a questioning glance, wondering why I had such detailed information about a boy I supposedly had a fling with a quarter of a century ago.

“Don’t worry,” I attempted to reassure him. “I’m not with the IRS or anything. Let’s just say I have a really good memory.”

He tapped his fingers and said, “Like I said, I’ll do my best. I’ll send you a text when I’ve got some leads.”

“Great,” I said. “I look forward to your call.”

When I got up out of my chair, I noticed something seemed to be on the detective’s mind.

“Miss Shaw. Can I ask you a question?”

I checked my watch before saying, “Sure.”

Realizing I was probably very busy, he said, “Never mind. It’s not important.”

With that, I walked out and took the elevator back down into the lobby.

Based on my woman’s intuition, I got the impression that he wasn’t just interested in me as a client. Did he want to ask me out to lunch sometime? Realizing that I hadn’t been on a real date in a very long time, the prospect was quite appealing.

That night, I awoke early in the morning in a cold sweat. I dreamed I was homeless and curled up on a piece of cardboard in some anonymous alley somewhere. The feeling of despair lingered after I awoke. I cried because it seemed so real. I had to turn on the lights to convince myself that I was in my apartment and safe. I shuffled into the bathroom, wiped the tears from my eyes and broke a sleeping pill in half and swallowed it.

As I lay there in the dark, I found I still had trouble falling asleep. I got out of bed and walked over to the living room and scanned the bookshelves. I picked up Stephen King’s collection of short stories and flipped to Rita Hayworth and the Shawshank Redemption. I only got about ten pages into the story before I drifted off into a wonderful deep and dreamless sleep.

The next day, I overslept. I rushed through my routine. In my haste to leave the apartment in time so I wouldn’t be late for lunch with Alice, I forgot to take my medication.

I arrived a few minutes late and searched through the patio tables for Alice. She waved at me and I carefully weaved my way between the tables and waiters. She set down the frozen daiquiri she was enjoying and stood up to greet me. We embraced as tightly as we did during that emotional goodbye over a month ago.

“God,” I said, “You have no idea how wonderful it is to see a familiar face!”

“It’s good to see you too Karen,” she said.

“Oh,” I said as I sat down, “Thanks for ordering me a drink.”

“It’s mango iced tea. I thought you might like it.”

“It’s delicious!” I took another long sip to get rid of a serious case of cottonmouth I had developed. “Well, my dear. You look positively glowing today!” She was wearing a lovely sundress with blue flowers and I found myself envying her youth at the moment.

“Thanks,” she said modestly as she brushed a few strands of hair away from her forehead. “You’re looking good yourself.”

I let out a little laugh. “Thanks for being kind. I feel a little out of sorts after having to rush over here. I’m sorry I was late.”

“Don’t worry about it. I think it counts as fashionably late anyway.”

We placed our order and a few minutes later, our salads had arrived.

We made the usual chit chat as we munched on our salads. I found out that Alice was doing well. She was only working part time at a restaurant. Her parents wanted to make sure she eased back into a normal routine.

“What about school?” I asked. “Are you thinking about pursuing a degree in theater?”

“I really want to, but that’s on the back burner right now. I can’t just up and go off to finish college right now. My parents want to make sure that I don’t…relapse.”

“Are you okay?” It was clear that something was clearly disturbing her.

“That word scares the hell out of me…Relapse I mean. Usually I can push the possibility to the back of my mind, but what if I do relapse? What if I go back to that dark place and can’t find my way back. I can’t go through that again. I just can’t,” she asserted with pleading eyes.

“Listen to me,” I said firmly, grasping her hand, “You don’t have to go back there. You don’t ever have to go there again. Just stick with your meds and keep going to your treatments and everything will be fine. Just worry about the important things, like finding a guy to date that isn’t a complete asshole.” I was glad that I managed to get her to smile. What I didn’t tell her was that I was just as terrified of the word relapse as she was at the moment.

“How are things with you Karen, memory-wise I mean?”

“Slowly but surely, things are coming back to me,” I said.

“That’s good to hear. I can only imagine how terrifying it must have been to wake up one morning and not know how you got there or even who you are.”

“It was difficult, but now it’s behind me. Thank God.” I forced a smile.

Everything seemed to be going well. The food was as good as our conversation and our spirits, and I thought I was well on my way to forming a memory for Karen Shaw to cherish for the rest of her life. But, as it turned out, the day was memorable for all of the wrong reasons.

I first noticed it in between our salads being cleared and our main courses being brought out. I just didn’t feel right. I felt really agitated and on edge, and these feelings seemed to come out of the blue. Or did they? I wondered if they had something to do with missing a dose of my medication.

“Karen, are you alright?” asked Alice after her vegetarian plate was placed before her.

“I’m fine,” I said, diving into my mahi mahi with a fork. “My blood sugar is probably a little low, that’s all.”

“I know what you mean. I’m not very agreeable if I miss a meal.”

But agitation grew into a full blown panic attack when I heard an ambulance burst onto the scene. It pulled up alongside the curb across the street. The paramedics rushed into the store and wheeled out an older gentleman on a gurney who was clutching his chest, apparently having a heart attack. The way he was writhing around in pain triggered something in my mind.

A memory raced through my brain in a nanosecond of me writhing around like the man in the gurney; Only in the memory, I wasn’t having a heart attack. I knew there was nothing wrong with me but I was terrified anyway, and I didn’t know why.

My heart started pounding in my chest and I dropped my fork on the floor. As if I was having an allergic reaction, I found it increasingly difficult to breathe which just made my heart race faster. The terror from the memory was replaced with the terror and fear of the moment.

I rushed into the bathroom and sought refuge in one of the stalls. I finally got my breathing under control by the time Alice came in to check on me.

“Karen, are you alright? What happened back there?”

“I’m fine. I’ll be alright.” But I wasn’t fine. I started softly crying. “Just give me a few minutes. Please just give me a few minutes.”

It took me a while to compose myself and even longer to fix my makeup. God, what a mess I looked like in the mirror!

I finally walked back out onto the patio, able to present a smile to Alice.

“What happened?” she asked.

“I think I forgot to take my meds. But I’m okay now.”

“If you’re not feeling well, it’s okay. You can go ahead and leave. We can finish catching up some other time.”

“Nonsense. After all, it’s too beautiful outside for me to leave and let my mahi mahi go cold.”

The rest of the meal was as light on conversation as the salad dressing. We said our goodbyes and during the cab ride back, I was still at a loss as to why I had the panic attack in the first place. The memory was too fuzzy and it faded too quickly for me to hang on to.

The following Monday, the detective got back to me.

“Yes detective, what did you find?”

“You’re not going to like this, but I found nothing. Absolutely nothing.”

“But what about the social security number I gave you?”

“There’s no record of anyone having that social security number, let alone one Mr. Eric Campbell. You must have been remembering incorrectly and given me the wrong SSN.”

“Maybe I transposed a digit or something. Did you think of that?”

“Yes I did, and I still got no hits. In fact, there’s no record of anyone named Eric Campbell matching the description you gave me. There’s no record of him attending the high school where you graduated. Are you sure that you’re not mistaken?”

I should have been relieved that he had found nothing, but instead, I felt ambivalent.

“Miss Shaw, are you still there?”

“Yes. I appreciate everything you’ve done for me. I need to go now. Goodbye.” I hung up.

I should have just let things be. I should’ve been satisfied that by disproving the existence of Eric Campbell, I had provided the verification that immediate family members were unable to provide; however, the panic attack haunted me and I began to wonder if perhaps a past life experience might be intruding into the present in a very bizarre way.

Now it was time to do some more internet research on past life regression hypnosis. I figured what the hell. I was lucky enough to have thousands of dollars to indulge a whim on the off chance it might provide the closure the detective was unable to give me.

I still remember that unforgettable look on the regression hypnotherapist’s face when I first came to.

His mouth was gaping open and he was looking at me with eyes wide open without blinking. It was as if he had learned the truth about the Roswell incident from the aliens themselves.

Other than his expression, I noticed my face was wet and my mascara had run.

“Is everything alright?” I wondered. “What is it? What did I remember that has you looking like you could use a stiff drink right about now?” He remained stunned. “Really, what is it? What did I tell you?” His silence was really starting to scare me.

With a stunned expression still etched onto his face, he walked over in silence and handed me the tape recorder.

“You…You need to listen to this,” he said quietly. “I think I’ll take your advice and have that drink now.”

As he turned to head out of his office, “I asked, “Would you like me to write a check?”

“I’ll send you a bill.”

I looked down at the tape recorder and wondered what answers it contained.

When I arrived back at the apartment, curiosity didn’t get the best of me right away. Suddenly, I was afraid of what I might have said during the session. A thought popped into my head: should I listen and risk being stunned or horrified at the truth? More importantly, did I really need to know the truth? I liked being Karen Shaw. I liked being a woman. And I liked my comfortable apartment. Was I willing to jeopardize my new found sense of contentment for some potentially unpalatable answers?

I set the tape recorder on the coffee table and stared at it for a while as I thought it over. Then, I read the disturbing article about the woman’s suicide once more. After reading the article, I summoned the courage to listen. I fixed myself a drink, realizing that I’d probably need one to fortify my resolve.

I took a deep breath and pressed the play button of the tape recorder and heard the therapist’s calming voice.

Karen, you are now in a state of perfect relaxation. I want you to visualize a staircase. Do you see the staircase?

Yes. I see it.

Good. I want you to slowly start descending this staircase.

I am walking down the staircase now.

At the bottom of this staircase is a door. Do you see the door?

Yes. I see it.

This door is special. It will take you to anywhere in your past that you want to go. Now, I want you to walk through this door when you get to the bottom of the staircase.

Okay. I’ve reached the door. I’ve grabbed hold of the knob and I’m opening it.

Excellent. Now, I want you to go back to February 27th 2010, the last day you remember before waking up on the park bench. Tell me, where are you?

I’m on the street.

And what are you doing on the street Karen?

Don’t call me that! My name’s Eric Campbell.

I’m sorry… Eric. Just remain calm and tell me what you are doing on the street.

I’m homeless. Its evening and I’ve finished collecting aluminum cans for the day.

What else is going on?

It’s really cold. I’m going to head to the shelter to get something to eat and stay warm.

So, you’re going to spend the night there?

Yes. I finish my soup and lie down on one of the cots in the back. I fall asleep quickly.

Now I want you to go forward in time. It doesn’t have to be a specific date, just tell me the next thing you remember.

Uh…Uh…I’m having trouble. Things are a little blurry. I’m not sure what the date is.

What are you doing?

I’m talking to an older man…a doctor I think.

What are you two discussing?

Some kind of experiment. He says I meet the criteria, and I agree to volunteer. I feel very strongly about volunteering.

Why do you feel so strongly?

Because I feel like I need to do my part to ensure our survival. He tells me when to come back and we shake hands and I leave.

Good. Tell me the next thing you remember.

I’m on a gurney. I’m being wheeled toward a set of double doors. I’m really scared.

Don’t worry. You’re safe. Just tell me more about why you’re scared.

I’m restrained. I try to convince them not to do it but they won’t listen. Please don’t do this to me! I didn’t sign up for this. This is wrong!

What didn’t you sign up for?

Surgery. I never agreed to have surgery. I thought I was just supposed to get the serum. They said they’d fix everything after I was finished, but they’re fucking liars! Everyone involved with the project is a fucking liar!

Kar…I mean Eric. Calm down. Please calm down. You’re safe. Nothing can hurt you now.

Oh God, please don’t let them take me in there and make my outside match my insides! I don’t want a sex change! I don’t want a sex change!

I pressed the stop button and dropped the tape recorder on the table. I couldn’t take anymore of listening to my screaming. Fighting back tears, I pulled out the cassette and ripped out the ribbon. I threw it in the trashcan. Instead of reaching for my mixed drink, I grabbed a bottle of tequila and took a swig. Then, I rushed to the medicine cabinet and popped another pill.

After I calmed down, I grabbed my phone and called the detective.

“Hi. It’s Karen Shaw again. I need to ask you to do one more thing for me. I need you to track down Jonathan Campbell and Deborah Campbell. Jonathan Campbell was born on…was born on… July 22nd 1930, and my moth…I mean Deborah Campbell was born on December 4th 1939 I think. Actually, it might have been December 3rd 1939 or 1940. I’m not sure. They used to live in Springfield Missouri. I don’t know what their new address is. That’s all I have for you. Thank you.”

As I became drowsy, I thought about how difficult it was becoming to remember details of my life. The life story of one Eric Campbell had faded like the deck of a weathered boat. I needed to strike while the iron was still hot, before everything faded away and there was only Karen. I had to find someone to vouch for the existence of Eric Campbell. I owed him that much.

I thought about how Eric probably hadn’t spoken to his parents in years, what with living on the street for so long. They probably figured him for dead long ago and mourned. And, for all I knew, they could have been dead and buried long ago. If they were alive, and the detective found them, they would never believe such a fantastic story, and if they were dead, I’d feel guilty about selfishly falling off the grid and missing the funeral. Either way, I’d never have a relationship with them again.

I realized that I was reaching the point of diminishing returns-if I hadn’t sailed past it already.

As it turns out, I was half right. The detective informed me that Jonathan Campbell had died of heart disease five and a half years ago and my mother was in a nursing home in Missouri, suffering from some form of dementia. I decided against going to see a woman who, on a good day, might be aware of where she was. The last thing I wanted to do was upset my poor, widowed, and senile mother.

I decided to move on. I never paid another visit to the regression hypnotherapist, and I never bothered the private detective again. I wrote Eric Campbell off as dead once and for all just as his parents probably had, and decided to re-embrace my new life. I was Karen Shaw again, and I liked the attractive and confident woman I saw in the mirror.

Three years later…I remember it like it was yesterday. I was jogging on the treadmill at the fitness center just like I always did on a Monday. I was listening to my iPod while watching the news headlines lazily scroll along the bottom of the screen, when the station broke away from commercials for a breaking news story.

This just in: We’re just now receiving information from our correspondents in Israel. The localized outbreak of a flu-like virus in southern Israel that we were reporting on earlier in the week has unfortunately spread, and has now been classified as a regional outbreak. Our sources tell us that only women have fallen ill. For some unknown reason, men seem to be immune to the virus. The death toll thus far is seventy-three and climbing, with more and more women being admitted to hospitals with the same symptoms as we speak. It is unclear whether the virus has spread beyond Israel’s borders, and as a result, panic is now widespread. Millions of women in neighboring countries are refusing to leave the safety of their homes for fear of dying, even though there have been no reports of the deadly illness outside of Israel. A state of emergency has been declared in Israel and emergency quarantine measures have been enacted. All air travel in and out of Israel has been suspended as of this morning, and other countries are following suit. In the U.S., the President has already signed an emergency declaration suspending all air travel in and out of the United States. At airports throughout the U.S., traffic has already almost come to a standstill as hundreds of thousands of frustrated, scared, and stranded passengers…

I turned off the treadmill and experienced a perfect moment of clarity. I wasn’t afraid. There was a reason everything happened to me after that cold late February day back in 2010! I now knew my purpose. I was an insurance policy in case a terrorist or terrorists unleashed such an unthinkable virus on half of the world’s population. I sincerely hoped that the virus would be contained. And I sincerely wished that my hope was not a life raft in one-hundred foot seas.