I rode. I was in my “mother’s” car, going to the home of Allison Allen. Only problem with that was I had woken up as Allison two days ago, and before that I was a 40 year old man named Mark Collins. I had stopped to help a girl, who turned out to be Allison, when I had been hit by a truck, which I had learned was being driven by Allison’s attacker.

I didn’t understand it, but that seemed to be the situation I was in. The Allen residence was a nice one, in a upper-middle class neighbourhood. Along the way, my new mother took the time to show me several places to help “jog” my memory, as they all believed that was the reason why I couldn’t remember Allison’s past.

One of the stops we made was the school Allison attended, but we were not able to go in. So we pulled into the driveway of “our” house. She led me inside, and gave me a tour. We were headed for “my” bedroom, when the front door opened, and Allison’s father came in. My “mom’s” face brightened, and she took me to see him.

“James, you’re home early.” said my “mother”. He grinned, and said, “When I heard my little girl was on her way home, I managed to get away, Mary.” And then he picked her up and hugged her fiercely. He then came over to me and gave me a much more gentle hug, mindful of my bruises and dressings.

They led me back to the kitchen, sat me down, and began to make dinner together. Soon, they were laughing, turning the act of making a meal into a dance. It then struck me the quality they shared, it was Love. Love as if it was a liquid they bathed in, a pool they swam and splashed in. It was a warmth and light that radiated from both of them, spreading to the whole room.

Each also made a point to include me in their dance, creating a feeling of safety and security unlike anything I had ever experienced before. I couldn’t help but compare it to my own childhood, with its silences and storms of rage, and found myself envying Allison.

If I had had a home like this maybe . . . Soon, we were finished dinner, and curled up on a couch watching TV. I felt safe in a way unlike anything I had felt before. I found myself thinking that if I never got back to my old life, this one wasn’t a bad one.

My parents helped me go to my room, and for the third time since I was stuck in Allison’s body I had a flash of her memory. I saw myself as a little girl, dressed as a princess, having a pretend tea party with every stuffed animal in the room, and my mom and dad coming in to join the fun, which ended with me being tickled and hugged and kissed until I felt like I would burst from happiness.

I crawled into the bed, and after my parents had left, I said “Allison, wherever you are, I hope you know just how lucky you were.” Unfortunately, the good feeling didn’t last through the night.

That night, I had a nightmare of the last time I was Mark, of seeing Allison half-naked and bleeding and calling 911, and the truck hitting my car. What made it even more of a nightmare, was that somehow, I saw the scene from both points of view, my view as Mark, but now also how it looked for Allison.

Running up to my car, begging Mark to help me, watching the truck come around the corner and hitting us both. What was happening to me? How could I have both sets of memories? I spent the rest of the night tossing and turning, trying to make sense of all this before finally falling back asleep.

Where was all this going?