When I woke the next morning, Carla was sitting on the floor, staring at me. Her eyes were red-rimmed, and her face looked as if she'd cried every drop of sadness out of her.

"Hey, honey," I said. "Are you all right?"

At that, her face screwed up in dismay and she burst into tears. I jumped from the bed and wrapped my arms around her saying, "Honey, honey, it's okay, it's okay," over and over. As a dad I was never good at this part of Carla's life. Usually Kristy Anne took care of the tears. Whenever I tried, or happened to be there when she was crying, I'd do my best to say comforting things and try to find out what was making her cry. Most of the time (it seemed) she'd cry about something so small that it didn't matter, or something so huge that nothing could be done. In either case, I'd be stumped, and end up waiting for her to finish, endlessly repeating the same phrases. She'd get frustrated or angry, and I'd have to leave.

This time, Carla got right to the root of the problem. "I was hoping last night was only a dream!"

"No, hon, sorry. It all happened."

"But, Dexie, Dexie, Dexie — she's dead!"

"Sorry, hon. We'll all miss her."

Carla started beating her fists against me — not hard, it didn't hurt at all. It was more of a gesture than a blow. She said something as she sobbed, but I couldn't make it out. I had to ask her to repeat it twice before I understood. She was saying, "You look like her, and you sound like her, but you're not her! Dexie is gone! My best best friend is gone."

I held her while she cried, but I didn't speak. To be honest, I was still waking up, and my brain wasn't quite in gear. Add to that the distraction of my new body — I may never have felt so fit and sleek and energetic — even when I was a teen myself — and the mop of red curls on top of my head kept falling in my face. The biggest, most unsettling change of all, of course, was the pair of breasts hanging on my chest. I kept getting the instinctive urge to take them off, as if they were an accessory, and not anatomical.

At last Carla stopped crying. She wiped her nose with the back of her hand and said, "I'm sorry." Then she wiped her hand on her pajama pants.

If you're not a parent, you might not understand what happens when you watch your child do that. I wanted to tell her Don't do that! Get a tissue! but I stopped myself. Instead I said, "Don't be sorry, kiddo. I understand."

With her head still resting against me she asked, "Can you do me a favor? Can you quit calling me hon and honey and kiddo? It's such a Dad thing. It sounds really weird coming out of your mouth. You have to call me Carla."

"Um, okay." It was a little thing; she was quite right, but I was taken aback. Did I need to call Kristy Anne 'Mrs. Holderlin' now? No. I'm going to stick with Kristy Anne.

"But listen, h— Carla, I know you lost your friend, but do you think that *we* could be friends?"

At that, she abruptly pulled away from me and drew back so there was some distance between us. She raised her tear-stained face to me, but she was no longer crying.

"No, how could we?" she replied. "You're not Dexie. You're not. You're not Dexie, and you're not Dad."

"I'm a part of each."

"But you're not both, and you're not one or the other. You're something different. I mean, are you my Dad? Are you going to tell me when I have to be home while you stay out as late as you want?"

"Why would I do that?"

She scoffed. "Because you're a teenager! What do you think you'll be doing from now on? Do you think you're still retired? Are you going to dig in the garden and play bingo and shuffleboard?"

"I never did those things!" I protested.

"No," she agreed, "but now you're eighteen years old! You have to figure out what to do with your life."

"I guess I do," I agreed. I hadn't really thought about it. I figured the three of us would go back home and life would go on, pretty much as before.

Then she added, "But you're not really eighteen — not really. You live in the past. You'll be saying all this Dad stuff and telling everybody what to do!"

"I don't think I do that," I told her. "But I'll learn. I'll find a way to fit in."

"Eventually, yeah," she said. "And you're lucky, I guess, that Dexie is kind of… different." She bit her lip. "But it's weird for me. Can't you understand that?"

"No, I don't. I honestly don't. I'm still the same person inside. You know me."

She scratched her head for a moment. "Okay," she said. "I get it. From where you sit, everything looks the same. I'm still Carla, Mom is still Mom. But for us it's not that way." She looked at my face and saw I wasn't getting it. "Okay, how about this: forget that the car accident happened, okay? The four of us are the way were a week ago, right? And then I die. You know I'm dead. And then Dexie comes over and says, 'Hey, I'm Carla.' How would you feel?"

"I'd be angry," I said. "I wouldn't believe it. I wouldn't want to talk to her. But that isn't the same thing."

Carla frowned. Then, after a moment, an idea struck her. "Okay, then. Picture this. Suppose that last night, instead of what happened, you and Dexie were fine. Me and Mom were the ones who were hurt. And in the end, they put me into Mom's body. Tell me that wouldn't be weird."

Then I got it. It stopped me cold. The picture — of Carla's mind or self or spirit in Kristy Anne's body! It was the most disturbing thought I ever had. I wanted to push it out of my mind.

"Now you get it," Carla said, nodding. "Not a pretty picture, is it?"

"No," I agreed. A shiver ran through me. It was like Carla had thrown a bucket of ice water over me. But I needed to hear it. It clarified what Kristy Anne was trying to tell me last night.

If Carla was in Kristy Anne's body, I'd feel like I'd lost them both. Kristy Anne wouldn't be my wife any more. And Carla would and wouldn't be a full-grown adult. My life would turn upside down. It would be like Freaky Friday without any laughs.

Carla was watching my face. "Okay," I told her. "I get it. I'm not your best friend; I'm a painful reminder that she's gone. And I'm not your Dad. It's like I died too, but in a weird, uncomfortable way, you can still talk to me."

"Yeah," she said, and smiled, relieved that I understood. "But don't worry. We'll figure out who we are to each other. I'm going to call you 'Dexie' from now on, but you're a new, different Dexie who for some reason looks like my old friend."

I smiled at what she said, but I was still taking it in. The world wasn't completely upside down, but it was definitely turned sideways.

"Luckily, I'm grown up now, and so are you. We're eighteen, and about to start our new lives."

"Yeah," I said, a little sadly. "You're going to be apart from us." She nodded. "But still connected, right?" I smiled hopefully.

She smiled back and gave me a hug. "Enough crying," she said. "Come on, New Dexie, let's get some breakfast."
 

The first thing I did was call Dexie's parents. Her father picked up the phone. I explained the situation. He surprised me by not hanging up. He actually listened, and asked if I was okay.

"Yes, I'm fine," I replied. "Not a scratch."

"Good," he said. "So when will you be back?"

"Today, I think. Maybe late. I'll stay with the Holderlins."

"Okay," he said. "Listen, can you meet me Sunday morning, tomorrow, at 9:30? At the Coffee Cup? I'll buy you breakfast."

"You will?" I asked, incredulous.

He paused for a moment. "Yes, I will. Now that you're leaving home, we have to talk. I need to give you some things and explain some things, especially about your birth-mother."

"Okay," I agreed. "9:30."

"I'll bring all your stuff. It's not like you have a lot."
 

The drive back was four very quiet hours. I was driving, since on paper neither Carla nor Kristy Anne could drive. Carla sat up front with me. Kristy Anne sat directly behind me. I tried at various points to start a conversation, but Kristy Anne didn't want to talk. At last she flat out said it: "Dexie, stop. And yes, I called you Dexie. That's your name from now on. I'm very upset. My life is blown apart, and I don't want to talk about who is sleeping where and how we're going to live. Can we just get through the funeral and then see where we are? You can sleep in the guest room, or the room in the basement, or wherever you want. But don't talk to me about the future. And for God's sake, don't say we'll figure it out. If you say that one more time, I swear, I will lose it. I will LOSE MY FREAKING MIND! And please stop at the next place with a decent bathroom."
 

When we got back home I took my bag (Fred's bag) and Dexie's bag into the basement. I figured it would be best to keep out of sight as much as I could.

A few years back I started to finish our basement. It was supposed to be a long-term DIY project. It didn't get very far, but while most of the basement is still just concrete and not very pretty, we do have a nice guest bedroom down there with a full bathroom. Honestly, no one ever stayed down there, because it's right next to the laundry, and you have to walk through the unfinished part to get to it. Once you go inside the room and shut the door, it's fine.

I sorted through my — through Fred's suitcase, but there was nothing worth keeping in there. The police had given Kristy Anne Fred's belongings, and she kept them, so I didn't have my wallet, my wedding ring, or my watch. The three W's. My essentials. I never left home without them. In fact, my left hand felt strange without a ring on it, and I kept glancing at my naked wrist to see what time it was.

I put the Fred suitcase on a shelf in the basement, and unpacked Dexie's suitcase. We'd given her the suitcase, and all the nice clothes inside were hand-me-downs from Carla. The toiletries, Kristy Anne had bought for her, including a small package of maxipads and a smaller one of tampons. Oh, hell, I thought. I hope the fact that she brought this doesn't mean her period's on the way.

As I was looking at the box, Carla walked in. "Oh, boy," she said, laughing. "Welcome to girl world! If you could see the look on your face!"

"Um, can you explain to me the uh—" I began, but Carla cut me off.

"No," she said. "No frickin' way! No. And don't ask Mom, either. I'm sorry, but you can go look it up on the internet. It's not that complicated. The first time can be a surprise, but… anyway, look it up."

Carla was carrying some clothes and bags. I took the bags and set them on the floor. She dumped the loose clothes on the bed. Then she opened the closet. "Oh, good, coat hangers," she observed. "I was going to give all this stuff to Dexie when she came back from seeing her birth-mother. But you can probably use it now."

She poked in some of the bags. "These are things that Mom bought her. You'll need them, but you should make sure you know all the brands, especially for the hair care products, because I think you'll have to buy them for yourself from now on."

Of the new stuff, there was a pack of panties and three bras, some ankle socks, shampoo, conditioner, something called "curl tamer," and a big pack of maxipads.

Carla looked around the room, though there was little to see. "I think there's an extra bureau someplace… I can help you move it down here tomorrow."

"Oh yeah, and a desk and chair," I added, remembering where they were.

"It'll be… okay," she concluded.

"Yeah, it'll be fine."

"Just one piece of advice, if you don't mind," Carla offered.

"No, I appreciate it. Anything you can tell me."

"Don't ask Mom about girl stuff. Just don't. Use the internet. Or find someone else to ask."

"Right," I agreed.

"Okay," Carla concluded. "I'll leave you to organize your new life, New Dexie. See you tomorrow!"

She gave me a quick hug and left, clomping up the stairs to the kitchen.

I looked around at the clothes and the bags. It wasn't a lot of stuff, but I felt overwhelmed. I needed to shower and brush my teeth, but… the hell with it. I pulled off my clothes and tossed them into an empty corner. After running my hands up and down my new body, I weighed my breasts in my hands. That's the moment I realized there was no mirror in the room.

Oh, well. Another thing to do tomorrow.

I fished a "nightgown" out of Dexie's bag — it was more like a very long yellow t-shirt. On the front was the word ERMAHGERD and a distorted cartoon of a woman's face. I figured that she was Erma, or Ermah. Anyway, it fit well and felt nice, and slid right into my armpits when I got into bed.

I was about to tug it down around me, when I was struck by curiosity: I got out of bed, took Dexie's bag — I mean, her purse… or whatever you call it — and emptied its contents on a bare piece of floor.

Aside from a few dollars, her drivers license, and her birth-mother's phone number, it was all trash. Really. There were pictures ripped from magazines, tiny trinkets, a few foreign coins… There were no photographs, no letters, no receipts or old tickets. No cell phone.

My first impulse was to throw it all away, but instead I just stared at it. I was pretty sure there were no mysteries here; only clutter. I wasn't looking at the remnants of a life: I was looking in a trash bin that hadn't been emptied. Maybe ever.

This life is a blank slate, I realized. A tabula rasa. She really hasn't *had* a life up till now. I didn't need to find out who Dexie was. She was… a no one. I didn't need to uncover her history. She had none! She would BE whoever I wanted to be.

How wrong, how arrogantly wrong, I turned out to be.