When I'd told her the basic story, I asked, "Do you believe me?"

"Well, no," she said. "It's impossible."

---

 

15. Marcie Whoever-You-Are
 

Nina and I sat on the couch, sitting as close as two people can sit. We both needed reassurance: me, because of Maisie's danger, and Nina, because her big sister was going away for the first time.

"You know she'll only be gone a few days, don't you?" I told her.

"Yes," she said, "but Mom says that after the summer, Cassie will go away to college and she won't live here any more."

I wasn't sure what to say. So I tried asking, "Will you miss her?"

Nina shrugged. Then she smiled at me. "She won't be whacking your butt anymore!"

"No," I agreed. "Thank goodness for that. There'll be no more butt-whacking in this house!"

Nina laughed.

"Do you want me to read to you?" I asked.

"No, thank you."

So we sat in silence until Dad returned with Cassie in tow. "Nina, honey," he said, "I need Marcie for a minute. Can you spare her?"

He drew Cassie and me into the kitchen. "Okay," he said. "I just talked to Art Donner. He's going to call me later when he's able to talk freely, but he did let me know that he's dealing with the problem. He found a way to warn Maisie's mother. In fact, Maisie is with her father now, which—"

I broke down in a visible display of relief. "So, she's safe," I said.

"Yes," he agreed. "We're going to talk again about the rest of it... whether the threat still exists, and all that."

"Do you know whether that policeman is still on the force?" I asked.

"I couldn't ask. He couldn't talk."

"Okay, good," Cassie said, breathing a sigh of relief as she looked at me. "One less thing to worry about."

I knew she meant me, but I bit my tongue and said nothing.

"Can I call him?" I asked. I didn't even mean to ask. The question just popped out of me.

Cassie's eyes grew as large as saucers.

"Call who?" Dad asked. "Do you mean, can you call Mr. Donner?"

"You might get his wife," Cassie smirked.

"Would that be a problem?" I asked. Cassie guffawed in response.

"Well," Dad replied, obviously trying to be diplomatic, "As much as she loved you when you were her daughter, right now... well, let's just say that you are *not* her favorite person."

I frowned, not understanding.

Cassie grinning, took a different tack: "Now, you're the crazy girl that used to date her son! The son she had to fly all the way to California to save!" she cackled.

"To save?" I repeated. "To save from what?"

"From you!" Cassie laughed.

"Alright," Dad put in. "That's enough."

"Was I really that bad?" I asked.

"Why don't you give Mrs. Donner a call and find out?" Cassie teased.

"Don't call the Donners," Dad told me. "It's a bad idea. A really bad idea. Wait a couple of days, and if you still want to talk to him, I'll call and set up a time when he can call you. Okay?"

"Alright," I agreed.

"Oh, and don't call Jerry, either," he cautioned. "Or his mother will start World War Three."
 

---

 

When Dad and Cassie left the room, I sank down on a kitchen chair. So... I said to myself, life — or what seems like life — goes on.

Everything was better now, I guess, but my nerves were still jangling. Maisie was safe; that was the main thing.

That business about my parents — I mean, the Donners — was pretty disturbing, though. I still didn't remember dating Jerry Donner. If his mother had come to Tierson to "save" him from me, I must have had some interactions with her, too, which I didn't yet remember.

Oh, well. One thing at a time.

Feeling at loose ends, I took Mom's kitchen notepad and a pen. After scribbling aimlessly for a minute, I tore off a clean sheet. I was suddenly inspired to make a list.

I made a list of all possible explanations for this "Marcie Auburn" experience:

• A dream (I was still on the plane to Hawaii, asleep and dreaming.)
• A coma (The plane had crashed, and I was in a hospital somewhere.)
• A reality show (This was all an elaborate trick, with cameras and microphones hidden everywhere.)
• Hallucination (I've lost my mind, or am hypnotized.)
• Fake memories (I never was Marcie Donner; those memories are fake.)
• Science fiction (There really is a time machine, and everything is real.)

I re-read the list, and crossed off the reality-show explanation. It didn't account for my anatomical changes.

I *almost* crossed off the dream explanation. The problem with that one, is that everything makes too much sense. There's none of the bizarre, alogical quality that dreams have. It just keeps going on and on in the same way — but dreams tend to change, don't they?

And another thing: I've fallen asleep and woken up in this dream! In fact, it started off with me waking up. I've always heard that you can't die in your dreams, but can you fall asleep in your dream? Can you dream in a dream?

Plus, pinching myself wouldn't work. If *that* would wake me, Cassie's swats would have woken me right away. Unless...

What if I was asleep or in a coma, and something was happening in the real world, but it turns into something else in my dream? What if somebody is trying to wake me up... or something in my bed is pinching me... and whatever it is, the dream turns it into Cassie giving me a crack on the backside.

No... that didn't make any sense.

Nothing did, really.

When it was time to leave for the airport, I folded up the list and stuck it in my bag.
 

---

 

As I watched the uninspiring scenery go past, I tried to think about my list, but there was nothing left for me to think.

I wished for the umpteenth time that I could talk to Susan about it.

And then I thought: Maybe I *can* talk to Susan! I do know her number, after all.

But... would her parents let me talk to her? They didn't usually let her use the phone.

And if I could talk to her, what would I say?

I could tell her that I heard how smart she is, and lay out the problem for her. Or something. But then again, it probably didn't matter how I began... Susan was absolutely unflappable. She was never surprised by anything...

If I could talk to her, I was sure she'd listen.

Right now, though, we were in a car on the way to the airport. Cassie had to catch her plane.

Well, I could wait a couple of hours. After I got back home, as soon as I possibly could, I'd call Susan and find out what she thought.

Once I made that decision, I saw Cassie looking at me with disapproval. I gave her a mind your own business face and resolved in my heart NOT to give in, not to be denied a chance to figure this whole mess out.

She turned her head away and looked out the window. Good. One big sister, out of the picture. At least temporarily.
 

---

 

The phone rang twice before someone picked it up. "Hello?" It was Susan!

"Hello, is this Susan Ash?" I asked, knowing full well it was her.

"Yes. Who's speaking?"

"Hi, my name is Marcie uh-Auburn, and I'm calling from California."

"What are you calling about?"

I sighed. "I have a problem, and I think that you're the only person who can help me."

Unbelievably, she listened to my whole story, interrupting only to clarify a point here and there.

When I got to the end, I asked her, "Do you believe me?"

"Well, no," she said. "It's impossible."

"Well, I have to find some kind of explanation," I told her, with some desperation. "Have I lost my mind?"

"I can't tell you that," she replied, "but just based on this one phone call, you don't sound crazy. The story you tell is crazy, but at least it holds together."

"So what do you think happened to me?"

"I think that you are Marcie Auburn, and that you've always been Marcie Auburn. Your memories of Marcie Donner aren't real. That's the simplest, most likely explanation."

"Then how come my sisters have those same memories?"

"You've probably told them the same stories in the past."

That stopped me. I hadn't thought of that. But... "Yes, but, Susan, how do I know your phone number?"

"You could have looked it up. You said your old boyfriend is here in Flickerbridge. Maybe you're looking for a way to stay connected with him."

I fell silent, looking for another question to pull her to my side, to validate the whole Marcie Donner business, but I drew a blank.

"Look," she said. "I don't know you, and I don't want to hurt your feelings. I'm not a psychologist or a scientist. I'm just a fourteen-year-old girl."

"I know," I said, "but you're the smartest person I know!"

"Oh!" she said, quite surprised.

Then something came to me. "Hey," I said. "Did you figure out the business with Misty Sabatino yet?"

"Misty what-now?"

"Misty Sabatino. Mrs. Wix and Ms. Overmore went to BYHS together. They were really good friends–"

"No way!"

"–until Mrs. Wix's twin sister, Misty died. You figured out how she died, and that Ms. Overmore blamed Mrs. Wix."

"Whoa! Whoa!" she said. "This is too creepy! I'm sorry, but now you're just getting weird. I think I'd better hang up!"

"No, no, wait, wait!" I said. "At least, tell me what you think about what I said! Please? Tell me honestly. Don't hold back."

She took a deep breath and let it out. "Okay. But remember: I'm not a doctor or a psychologist or anything like that. I'm just a kid, so I could easily be completely wrong. But this is how it sounds to me: I don't think your family is telling you everything. I think that you have some kind of condition that makes you lose your memory."

"Condition?" I repeated.

"But, um... there's one thing you said that doesn't fit. They told you that you forget less and less, right?"

"Yes, why?"

"I don't understand that part," she said. "I'd expect it to happen more and more. You should ask about that."

I blanched. "Why?"

"Because... because... never mind. Just listen: Maybe I'm wrong about the medical condition. In fact, there's another possibility. Now that I think about it, it's a lot more likely. I think that you have a highly developed imagination — more than most people — and that you built an very elaborate — and really remarkable — fantasy about being Marcie Donner.

"Maybe your should think about being a writer? You could write stories about this Marcie Donner."

"No," I said, feeling tired.

"Anyway, your family said that the forgetfulness will fade. Maybe, in the meantime, they're just humoring you with that wacky time-machine story, and–"

"But if they're humoring me, why are they using such a stupid, unbelievable story? Couldn't they come up with something better, if it's just a lie?"

"Maybe they didn't come up with it," she replied.

"What do you mean?"

"Maybe you came up with it," she suggested. "It sounds like they're repeating back to you, stories that you've told them."

"Oh," I said. It felt like I was collapsing, like a balloon with the air let out.

After a bit of silence, Susan asked, "Are you going to be alright, Marcie?"

"Yes, I guess so," I replied.

"Well, it was nice talking to you," she said. "I hope it helped. But I'd better go now. My parents will be home soon, and they don't like me using the phone."

I knew that, but I didn't say so.

"Thanks, Susan," I said. "Can I just ask you one more thing? Have I ever called you before?"

"No," she said. "First time, ever."

"Okay," I said. "Well, thanks so much."
 

---

 

I sat on the floor for a while, hugging my knees, and thinking. It still wasn't right. I still didn't have the answer. Even Susan's explanations didn't fit.

Even if I somehow looked up her phone number, how would I know she went to BYHS? She seemed to know the names Wix and Overmore, and she was friends with Maisie. Also, I *had* known how smart she is. How can you explain that?

As I went over the conversation in my mind, one thing stuck out: the one thing Susan said she didn't understand. She thought I should be losing my memory more often, not less often. AND she said that my family wasn't telling me the whole truth.

I swallowed hard and tried to keep from feeling overwhelmed. If you looked up the word lost in the dictionary, would you see a little picture of me, next to the definition, hunkered on the floor in my worn-out jeans?

Time to get a grip, I told myself, Marcie Whoever-You-Are. There had to be something else I could do; someone else I could talk to.

And then it came to me: there *was* someone I could talk to.

I got up and made my way downstairs. Mom was in the kitchen, with her glasses on, flipping through an issue of Martha Stewart Living.

"Mom?" I asked, and chewed my lip.

She pulled off her glasses and looked at me. "What's wrong, honey?"

"You know how I used to forget who I was, when I was little?"

She went white for a moment. "It's not happening again, is it?"

"No," I lied. "But what I want to know is: did you ever find out why?"

"No, we didn't," she said. "In the end, everyone concluded — I mean the doctors and specialists concluded — that you have an very active imagination." She smiled. "More than one person suggested that you become a writer."

"Oh," I sighed, crumbling a little. *Again* with the "writer" business! As if I was making it all up...

"Come here," Mom said gently, pulling a kitchen stool in front of her own, and patting the seat. I sat down before her. She took my hands in hers.

"Tell me what's bothering you," she said.

"Is something wrong with me?" I asked, and tears came rolling down my face. "Is something wrong in my head?"

"No, honey, nothing's wrong with you! I just told you that!"

"Are you sure?" I demanded. "Would you tell me if there was?"

"Listen to me," she said, "We had so many tests run... so many doctors, tests, scans, machines... your father used every connection he has in the world of science and medicine to find out what made you forget, but no one ever found the least little thing wrong with you. No one. Every doctor, every specialist said you were a perfectly healthy young girl.

"And yes, I would tell you. Now, I would tell you."

"Now?" I echoed. "Why now?"

In answer, her eyes welled up with tears.

"Oh, I get it," I breathed. "Aunt Julia."

She nodded, and lost herself in a flood of tears. Automatically, I stood up and went to her, wrapping my arms around her. She clutched me the way that Maisie had, so long ago, and cried with the desperation of the lost. My own eyes and face were wet, but she was the one in need right now.

She needed me, so I was there. As I held her, I knew that I'd be okay. I *knew* that. I'm Marcie Whoever-The-Hell-I-Am, I told myself. I can take it. I can deal with it. Holding on her, letting her cry, somehow made me feel... I don't know. It made me feel like who I am. It made me feel like I was in the right place, helping.

When she came back to herself, when she'd collected herself, Mom sniffed and looked for tissues. I grabbed the box and put it near her.

"Thanks, hon," she said. "You've always been such a strong girl."

I didn't answer. I just took a tissue myself. I wasn't surprised to see that I was trembling, and so I took a few deep breaths.

"You know," she said, "When you were a little girl, and you'd forget who you were, you would always say that your name was Marcie Donner." She shook her head. "It was the darndest thing: Marcie Donner, Marcie Donner, every single time. I never knew where you ever heard that name! I just figured you made it up. And then, last September, when that Donner boy showed up, and you... latched onto him... well! I thought you really were going to end up being Marcie Donner." She sniffed, gave a weak smile, and chuckled to herself. "That was so strange. It was my little Twilight Zone moment."

"Hmmph," I said, in a noncommittal tone.

She blew her nose and looked at the floor for a few beats. "Listen," she told me in a very quiet voice. "Your aunt is in the hospital."

"When did this happen?" I asked.

"Yesterday morning," she said. "When I was on the phone with her, she was calling me from the hospital. She was already there when we were getting ready for the picture yesterday. She was there for some tests, and they decided to admit her right away."

"So she's really sick," I said.

"Yes," Mom replied in a whisper. "I didn't say anything because Cassie was about to leave... I didn't want her to put off her trip."

"I understand," I said.

"Would you like to come to the hospital with me now?" she asked. "I'd like it if you'd come with me."

"What about Nina?" I asked. "You don't want to bring her, do you?"

"She's having a play day at Jackie's house. It's just you and me."

"Sure, I'll come with you," I told her.

"Thanks," Mom said, and gave me a hug.

"But first," I said, "can we get out of these wet clothes?"

She laughed and wiped her eyes.

© 2008 by Kaleigh Way

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