This is a response to one of Melanie Ezell's Challenges,
number 24: Build Your Own Body.
"What's so funny?" the nurse asked with a smile.
"Oh, everything!" I exclaimed. "The room, the curtains, the bed, this tasteless food... my funny little body with its breasts and—" I stopped and looked down at my lap.
"Hmmm...," the nurse said. "You are a funny little girl, aren't you?"
That was so wrong it made me laugh even more.
Coming back to consciousness after an operation isn't the same as waking up. It's not like you were asleep; it's more like you were turned off. When it's all over, the doctor turns you back on.
When they put me under, they told me I'd wake up in the same place, in that high gurney, on those crisp, starchy sheets, surrounded by floor-to-ceiling beige curtains.
I opened my eyes for a moment and saw it wasn't that way at all... there were curtains, but they were yellow, of a rough material... the cheap, shabby kind that you find in a cut-rate hotel. And I wasn't lying on a gurney, but in a bed. The sheets were softer and less starchy, but they didn't have that snappy, blazing white, germ-free feeling of hospital sheets.
All of that was strange. And yet, there was something even stranger: The funny thing was, I didn't mind. It was all wrong, but it only made me smile. Weird, yeah... and I knew that it should bother me, but it didn't.
"Are you awake?" a soft female voice asked. "Would you like some water?" She gently put a straw between my lips, and I drew on it, tasting the icy cold water. It was too cold... but again, I didn't mind.
The anesthetic was still strong upon me, so I kept my eyes shut. The nurse took my blood pressure, pulse, and temperature. She flashed a tiny light in each of my eyes in turn. She asked me to grip her hands for a moment, and then she ran something up the soles of each of my feet. I wanted to ask her what was going on, and I especially wanted to know what on earth she was doing with my feet, but all I did was lick my lips.
She gave me a few more sips of water. I shut my eyes and heard her make a phone call to my doctor. Then I fell asleep.
When I woke up later, I was alone. My head was a little less fuzzy. I shifted around in the bed. Dear lord, every part of me felt different. My skin, of course, was younger, softer, more sensitive. I expected that; at least that was as it should be. On the other hand, my body felt different — but different in a wrong way. A *very* wrong way. I felt slinky, flexible in an unfamiliar way... Sure, I was supposed to lose my pot belly, but my waist felt small, way too small.
I lifted my head and took a look at the outline of my body, covered by the sheet.
"Oh, you're kidding me!" I exclaimed breathlessly.
My chest was too small in one way and too big in another. My whole body was absurdly narrow, like a young girl, and I had a pair of breasts stuck on the front of me. By churning my feet, I worked the bedclothes off of me, and tugged the hospital gown down. Sure enough, two fleshy mounds were fastened to my chest! What the hell!?
I was busy trying to push them off of me when the nurse walked back in.
"Hey, hey, hey, now! What are you doing?" she said. "Let's cover you back up! You'll catch your death of cold that way."
"It's all wrong," I told her. "I've got breasts."
"Of course you've got breasts," she said. "We've all got breasts."
"Ohhh," I murmured, slurring my words a little, "That doesn't make it right."
A few hours later, when the doctor arrived, I was sitting up, drinking broth and eyeing a block of wiggling Jell-O. "How's my patient?" he asked, rubbing his hands and smiling.
"Everything's wrong," I told him with a smile. "I'm not in the hospital and I'm not a woman. I mean, I am a woman, but I'm not supposed to be. I'm not supposed to look like this."
"That's a very common reaction," he told me. "But I can assure you that you very painstakingly chose to look the way you do."
"I did?"
"Yes," he assured me. "You and I — and several specialists — went over *every* detail of this new body of yours. Several times. Up to the last moment, in fact."
"Huh," I replied, but I knew he was wrong.
"Aside from that," he asked, "How are you feeling?"
"A little groggy, but otherwise fine," I said. "One thing, though... and this is really strange... but... uh..." What I wanted to say was slipping away from me, but I caught it again. "I feel like... like everything's fine. You know? Like I should be upset, but instead I feel that everything is fine. Isn't that bizarre? Have you ever had laughing gas? It's kind of like that. Everything makes me smile, even if it shouldn't. I feel like I'd say yes to everything."
"Ah, well, you don't want to do that, do you?" he replied. "Or do you?" he joked. He picked up a clipboard and started writing. "I've given you a healthy dose of a drug called a euphoric. I'm sure I told you this before the operation."
"Oh, yes, I remember now," I said.
"I have heard that comparison to nitrous oxide — what you call laughing gas — but the euphoric has a more thorough and predictable effect. It will gradually wear off, but you may feel the effects for a day or two. Maybe even three."
"Okay," I said. "But seriously, I'm sure I'm in the wrong body."
"I was quite sure you'd say that," he told me. "You changed your mind several times a day before the operation. But at this point, I am relieved to say, the die is cast."
"Huh," I replied again.
The doctor glanced over his shoulder at the nurse, who had her back to us. Then he pulled an envelope from his pocket and slid it under my pillow. I gave him a puzzled look and pulled it back out to look at it. Alarmed, he hastily shoved it back under, took my hands away from the pillow and crossed them over my belly, and whispered in my ear, "WAIT UNTIL YOU'RE ALONE!"
Right after he left, the nurse went into the bathroom. Full of curiosity, I pulled out the envelope. It contained a blue index card that had the name and address of a bank, along with the time 11:00 am, and the words "ALONE - NO NURSE." I stuck the card somewhere in the middle of Gideon's Bible, and fell back to sleep.
By evening, I'd gone to the bathroom by myself, walked all around the room, and did a few dance steps. I sat in a chair and ate a white meal: boiled fish, boiled potatoes, boiled califlower. I don't know why that was the menu. I felt fine; I could have eaten anything. Of course, it made me laugh.
"What's funny?" the nurse asked with a smile.
"Oh, everything!" I exclaimed. "The room, the curtains, the bed, this tasteless food... my funny little body with its breasts and—" I stopped and looked down at my lap.
"Hmmm...," the nurse said. "You are a funny little girl, aren't you?"
What she said was so incredibly wrong it made me laugh even more.
The next morning I told the nurse I was going out. She insisted on coming with me, but I refused, telling her I was fine and that I wanted a little time to be alone. She acquiesced, but told me over and over in various ways to "be careful."
"You're still under the influence of the euphoric, remember, and you've got a good chance of doing something silly."
"I will," I told her. "I mean, I won't. I know what I'm doing; it's just that it makes me laugh."
The woman at the front desk called me a cab. I arrived at the bank a full 20 minutes early, but the doctor was already there, waiting for me. He wore dark glasses and slouched down in the driver's seat of an old Toyota.
He gestured me over, so I climbed into his car.
"Where are we going?" I asked as I fumbled uselessly with the seat belt. He stared at me as though I was insane.
"We're going into the bank," he said. "You know this."
"No, I don't," I replied.
He swallowed hard, and looking very sternly at me, in a very tight, tense voice he said, "Listen, Mrs. Mozzicone: we've gone to a lot of trouble to set this up, and I expect to be paid for my trouble. If you're not going to pay me what you owe, I'm sure I can point your husband's friends in your direction." He was trembling as he spoke, fighting to keep his voice from breaking. "Maybe they would pay me double... or more!"
I felt my face break into a huge smile. That damn euphoric was still inside me!
I took a breath and got a grip on myself, and in the most serious tone I could manage I told him, "Doctor, listen to me carefully because this is not a joke. I'm not Mrs. Mozzicone. My name is Arlo Henson, and I'm not supposed to be a girl."
He huffed in disbelief. "Please, Mrs. Mozzicone. Don't play games with me. Don't insult my intelligence."
"I'm not playing games. I'm telling you the truth. My name is Henson. Arlo Henson. Two days ago I was a white-haired, pot-bellied man with bushy eyebrows. I was an electrician. You and I argued about what age I ought to be. You wanted me to be a kid and I told you I wanted to be at least 33. In the end we settled on 29. Do you remember?"
His jaw fell open. "Oh, my God!" he cried, and ran his fingers through his hair, making it stand on end. "Oh, my God! Oh, my God!"
"I told you yesterday that it was all wrong. I'm not supposed to be a kid. I'm not supposed to be a girl. I'm supposed to be an adult male. You've obviously mixed up me and Mozzicone. The wires got crossed, more likely than not."
The doctor fumbled to pull out his phone, and in his haste he dropped it on the floor. He was so nervous he couldn't pick it up without dropping it again. I reached down, grabbed it, and put it into his shaking hands. He went to dial, and dropped it a second time. Again I picked it up and closed his hands around it. This time he managed to hold on. He hit a speed dial.
"Hi, Jen. This is Dr. Veerecks. Did Arlo Henson wake up yet?" His body shook at the answer, but kept his voice cool. "How was his recovery?" He listened, saying yes, yes at intervals, and a soft oh my God. After a few more comments and questions, he hung up. He swallowed hard enough to send a baseball down his gullet, then sat in unblinking silence for half a minute.
"Okay," he said at last. "He — or she — or he — signed herself out AMA... got a little belligerent, but that's often a side-effect of the anesthesia." He looked at me. "But he did make some remarks about being in the wrong body."
"So... can you switch us?" I asked.
"No," he said, showing some professional irritation. "That's a popular misconception, but it doesn't work like that. The transfers are one-way. We'd have to grow a second new body for each of you, but it doesn't sound like Mrs. Mozzicone will wait around for that. She's gone."
"But I can still get the body I paid for, right?" I asked.
"Hang on a moment and let me think," he commanded, and covered his face with his hands.
"Alright," he said. "This is what we'll do." He reached into the back seat and pulled an actual manila folder from his briefcase.
"Wow," I said. "I didn't think anybody used those things any more!"
"What?" he said in a distracted tone. "Oh, this... yes, we use paper records for the more... sensitive cases. Shred them, and you know they're gone. Digital records have a life of their own. You never know where they can go."
I assumed the file was Mrs. Mozzicone's record. The doctor copied a sixteen-digit code, numbers and letters, onto his business card. "Take this card," he said. "Don't lose it, if you want to get out of that body. Without it, they won't even talk to you. Now—" he paused to swallow again, with difficulty, and went on. "We've booked you a room at a nice motel near the hospital. You stay there, at the motel, until the euphoric wears off. Give it another day or two. The day after tomorrow, give a call Build-A-Body and tell them this case number. Tell them a mistake has been made and they need to fix it. Someone will come and get you and give you the body that you ordered.
"Alright? Okay? Good. That takes care of you.
"NOW," he went on, "we need to take care of me. Mrs. Mozzicone owes me a certain amount of money, and you need to go in the bank and get it for me." He handed me a key.
"Oh!" I exclaimed. "Is this going to be illegal?"
He frowned, then said, "Frankly, yes. Is that going to be a problem?"
"No," I said, "Not while I'm on this nutty drug, anyway." Then I laughed.
I showed my key and my new drivers license to a man in the bank. He very politely showed me to a small, windowless room. There, I unlocked a tiny box in the wall, like a post-office box. Inside, I found two envelopes, one marked YOU and the other marked DOCTOR. "This is a day for envelopes," I said out loud. Mine contained a business card for a storage place. Three sets of numbers were written on the back. I tucked it into my bra. It seemed like the safest place.
Outside, the doctor tore open his envelope and found a similar card. He drove to the storage place. His card also had three sets of numbers: The first opened the front door of the building. The second was a floor and locker number, and the third was the combination to that locker.
The locker was a little five-by-five room, empty except for two big white paint buckets, the five gallon size. They had no lids; the contents were covered by white cloths. He lifted the cloths, and...
"Holy crikes!" I exclaimed. "That's gotta be a million dollars!"
"Shhh!" he hissed. "Yes, of course — It *is* a million. It better be."
"A million in each bucket?" I asked.
"Will you keep your voice down?" he whispered. "Please, stop shouting. Help me carry one." He replaced the cloths and picked one up. I grabbed the other, and struggled behind him. Surprise! My new body wasn't as strong as my old one.
The doctor took me back to where we'd met, outside the bank. He reminded me to wait "at least two or three days" before calling Build-A-Body. "Not before Thursday, anyway. I need time to get the hell out of Dodge. But that's not your concern. Don't worry, when you call them, they'll fix you up. Just tell them the case number and say that there's been a mistake. Don't mention the name Mozzicone; that's not in the records. They'll only know her by the case number."
I smiled and waved as he drove off. For some reason, the back of his car looked highly comical.
Across the street from the bank was a nice-looking diner, and I was feeling hungry. I went in and — though it was nearly noon — I ordered breakfast. The hostess placed me at a table by the front window, with a great view of the bank. I really need to sit and think this out, I told myself.
I'd had gone to Build-A-Body to start my life over. Because... let's face it: I never had much of a life. From the time I was a kid, I worked, even when I was small. Sure, I had friends, family, vacations. And I'm not saying that I suffered. It isn't that. Like anyone else, I had my share of troubles and joys. The thing is, I got to feeling as though I'd been put on a train the day I was born and all of a sudden the ride was nearly over. In the end, I outlived my wife, our son, and everybody else I knew. At the age of 86 I was all alone. So I sold my house, my car... everything I owned. It took pretty much the whole pile to buy myself a new body, a new identity, a new life. It was all perfectly legal. Everything was registered with the appropriate state agencies. I spent some time choosing my new body: healthy, of course; strong... good-looking, of course, but without exaggerating. Good teeth, good digestion, solid nerves, quick reflexes, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.
HOWEVER, unlike Mrs. Mozzicone, I didn't want to start out as a kid. I wanted to be a full-fledged adult, and to me that meant at least the thirties. Doc and I argued, as I've said: he pushed for a lower age — so I could get "more bang for your buck" as he put it — and in the end we compromised on 29. That meant that Mrs. Mozzicone was running around as a good-looking guy in his late twenties. A guy with a dazzling smile and a full head of dark hair. I hope she didn't mind. At least — from what the doctor said — she hadn't bothered to wait around to fix it.
That seemed like an important fact.
I, on the other hand, was in the body she chose: an eighteen-year-old cutie with a perky body and a name out of a romance novel. In my mind, it was the dumbest name ever, but it didn't matter. I was going to change it, and soon.
I knew who Maria Mozzicone was — or at least who she used to be. She was married to a mobster, and after more than forty years together, she killed him... brutally... for reasons that were never made clear. Greed, maybe. Jealousy, possibly. In any case, there was a lot of anger involved: news reports said that he died in a lot of pain and his corpse was viciously mutilated before, during, and after. Pictures of the scene were never shown to the public; they were judged to be too shocking.
Her trial was highly publicized, and she was always heavily guarded, even in prison, to protect her from her dead husband's associates.
Then a few months ago, she abruptly disappeared.
Some people believed she was dead. I had always suspected — and now knew for sure — that she was in the witness protection program. She must have testified and given evidence against her husband's criminal associates. She must have really delivered, because this went far beyond relocation and a new name: the government used Build-A-Body to quite literally give her a whole new identity.
They obviously wouldn't let her keep any criminal gains, so she must have set up this transfer with Build-A-Body's doctor. She stored the money, and had him pass her a key that he couldn't use.
So what was in "my" locker? I mused as I munched my last bit of toast and sipped my lukewarm coffee. If she gave the doctor two million... what kind of a tip do you give for that kind of service? Ten percent? Twenty? Were there ten or twenty million in my locker?
If I was going to do something, I was going to have to do it quickly, before the real Maria Mozzicone found out where I'd come to life.
It didn't take long to make up my mind.
In retrospect, I can see I made my mind up earlier, back at the storage place, when I stopped myself from checking the other locker. In spite of my light-headed state, some instinct warned me not to let the doctor know what he could have had.
I won't pretend... let me be clear: I knew I was about to do something wrong — morally wrong, legally wrong... badly, drastically, seriously wrong — and not only wrong, but reckless,. I dabbed my lips with a napkin and thought, There isn't any doubt: this is absolutely the stupidest, craziest, most dangerous decision I ever made in my life.
Then, the euphoric in my system made me laugh and say So what?
I paid my bill, left a twenty percent tip, and ran outside to flag a cab.
© 2012 by Kaleigh Way
"You live alone too," I countered.
"Yeah," she said, "but not the way that you do. You're like that girl in the movie.
You've got a shadow behind you. There's some guy out there in the dark who worries you."
Okay... trying to stay calm... fighting to breathe slowly and make my heart stop racing... God! It feels like it's going to fracture my ribs from the inside out!
When I woke up in Maria Mozzicone's new body, I never really intended to stay in it. I'm embarrassed to say that I let myself be seduced by the money she'd hidden away. And I'm ashamed to have to admit that I stole the money from her.
I suppose I pretended that there wouldn't be any real consequences; that I'd never be caught, never pay the piper; and above all, I let myself believe that there was nothing wrong with stealing from a thief.
The truth is, it's worse to steal from a criminal, because they don't stop at legal remedies. There's no limit to what they'll do.
Beyond all that, by stepping into Mrs. Mozzicone's life, I potentially became a target for the people who were looking for her. Namely, her husband's business partners... not a very law-abiding bunch, to put it mildly.
But I'm getting ahead of myself... I meant to tell you how my big reality check arrived.
The scene was a downtown bar, a nice place, an establishment I'd come to like and often went to twice a day. Not to drink, mind you. And the food was pretty good, but I didn't go for that, either. The main reason I went there was to talk with Laurie, the bartender.
She was a tall, smart blonde in her late twenties. I'm not sure what she thought of my visits, but I spent as much time talking to her as she could stand. The thing was, not having grown up as a girl, I didn't have the slightest idea of what on earth I was doing. There was so much to figure out, so much to learn!
Take hair, for instance: not only did I not know how to style it, I didn't know how to figure out which shampoo and conditioner to use. And did I need other products? How could I tell? Some of that stuff my hair looking greasy and limp, and others dried it out like an old bird's nest. Then, cosmetics... where to even begin! A woman at Macy's made me up one day, explaining as she went. I bought all the powders and sticks and other goop that she used, and tried my level best to imitate what she'd done, but Laurie's brutal honesty let me know I was missing the mark, and missing it badly.
Worst of all were clothes! Heels are hell, I soon discovered, but flats weren't always a smart choice either. The whole business of what to wear when, of what goes with what... it was all so immensely complicated.
I pored over women's magazines, but a lot of what I read was arbitrary and contradictory. Sometimes I felt I'd gained some insight... but never more than once an issue, but more often my reading left me more confused than before.
"You keep looking for rules," Laurie told me. "It's not about rules. It's about knowing what looks good."
"I know what looks good," I protested. "The problem is, I don't know how to get there."
What I really needed was a mentor, or at least a model, and that's what Laurie was for me, whether she wanted it or not. After all, I figured, she's a bartender, and it was her job to be nice to me, or at least to tolerate me.
For my part, I became a very heavy tipper. That, of course, helped to grease Laurie's wheels.
I'm not sure how Laurie explained my ignorance to herself, but she caught on quickly to what I needed. As soon as I'd walk in, she'd give me a quick critique on how I looked: if something didn't "go" or if I was missing something, she'd tell me right off, then make a constructive suggestion or two. Then she'd stop.
After that, she'd talk about herself. She saw I didn't share my own past, and that I didn't have a present life to speak of, so she told me about her own past and a little bit of her present. I listened closely, taking copious mental notes. I needed to learn about the world of women. What choices to make, what things to avoid, and above all, how to handle men.
In fact, on the particular night that I'm telling you about, she said to me, "Listen, honey, I saw that J-Lo film on TV last night — Enough — have you seen it?"
"Uh, no," I scoffed. "I'm not big on chick flicks, really. And I heard it wasn't very good."
She gave me a good-natured frown and raised her hand in a joking threat. "I'm gonna smack you if you say chick flick one more time! This isn't a chick flick anyway. Listen, girl: it sent chills through me, and the whole time I was watching, I kept thinking of you, living alone the way you do."
"You live alone too," I countered.
"Yeah," she said, "but not the way that you do. You're like that girl in the movie. You've got a shadow behind you. There's some guy out there in the dark who worries you."
I was surprised by her perception, but I wasn't about to own up to it. "I'm alright," I told her. "I'm a careful person."
"I know you are," she said, "but face it: you're young, pretty, small, and alone. If some big bruiser comes after you, all you've got is your charm, and that might not be enough to save your skinny little butt.
"You know what you ought to do? You ought to do what she did in the movie. You need to learn to defend yourself. You ought to learn what she learned — it's called Krav Maga. I'm telling you, that movie really shook me up, and I'm going to learn it myself." She slid a colorful brochure across the bar to me. "It turns out they teach it at the Y, right around the corner. You're a woman on your own, you need something like this."
The brochure had several photos of women fighting with much larger men. I had to admit; it made an impression on me. To my surprise, one of the guys looked a lot like the body I'd chosen for myself, the one that Maria Mozzicone was now living in. He'd be nearly a foot taller than me, and he'd have 80 or 90 pounds on me. All of it muscle. I swallowed hard.
"Hey," Laurie said, "Hey! Hey!" She snapped the brochure out of my hands.
"What are you doing?" I demanded. "I want that!"
"I didn't mean to scare you!" she said.
"You didn't scare me," I replied. "Did I look scared?"
"Oh my God, yes! You were as white as a sheet, and you didn't hear me talking to you. Forget about this stuff... just forget it. Get yourself a great big dog. A great big dog that bites."
Okay... okay... take a deep breath. So far, all I'd done was frighten myself, with Laurie's help. It was all in my head. Her advice wasn't bad, but there wasn't any immediate danger. I needed to be cautious, not afraid.
I'd just about quieted my anxiety, when something else, something real, scared the bejeezus out of me.
Above Laurie's head, behind whatever she was saying to me, was a TV with the sound on low. Even so, one unusual name came through, and I heard it loud and clear.
"Laurie!" I said, interrupting her, "turn it up! The TV! Turn the sound up, quick!"
The image told us nothing at all: it was a ramshackle house surrounded by tall grass. The television camera was obviously high above, in a news helicopter. You could see police cars, trucks, and black SUVs parked around the house. A dozen people were looking through the grass, going in and out of the house, all of them busy: police, FBI, plain clothes, search dogs....
The newswoman gave a quick summary. "At this point, police have not given an official cause of death, but they have informed us that the murder was particularly brutal and vicious. The victim has been identified as Dr. Bartholomew Veerecks, a medical doctor who worked with the Build-A-Body Corporation..."
"Will you look at that?" Laurie said, "I wonder what the FBI is doing there?" Then she glanced at me. I was shaking and I couldn't stop. "What's wrong?" she asked. "Did you know that man?"
I nodded dumbly.
"Good God, girl!" she cried and put her hand firmly over mine. "You look like you're going to fall out of that chair! Hold on! Stay with me!" With one hand she smacked down a shot glass in front of me and filled it with Jameson's. "Toss that back!" she ordered.
She didn't need to tell me twice. I threw it down my throat, shuddered and sputtered, and shook like a wet dog, but it brought me back to myself. Laurie poured another. "That one, you better sip," she said. "If you need it."
I sat there, blinking and coughing, with her eyes on me the whole time.
In a low voice, she asked, "Was he a friend of yours?"
"No," I croaked. "I... knew him. I met him... a few times. But it's a shock... I knew him..." I trailed off vaguely.
After that, my dinner arrived. Eating helped to calm me somewhat. I caught Laurie trying to stealthily change the TV channel. I told her I wanted to hear the news as it emerged, and the other patrons at the bar were interested as well. They wanted to talk about it; a few had quite strong opinions, and I was amazed how certain and well-informed some of them pretended to be, given how little any of us knew.
Of course, there was one thing I knew, that I wasn't going to share: I knew who the murderer was, and who his next target would be. It had to be Maria who killed Dr. Veerecks, and next she'd come gunning for me.
Why me? Because I had her money. It was a lot of money. Not the kind of money anyone would walk away from. Especially when that "anyone" was a maniac like her.
"Listen, honey," Laurie confided, breaking through my dark ruminations, "If you need to put your feet up, just go upstairs. On the third floor back there's an office with a couch; you can go lie down."
"Thanks," I said, "but I'll be fine."
"You look like you're in a state of shock."
I nodded, and she moved down the bar to take care of some other customers. I returned to my thoughts.
Exactly how hard would it be to find me? I wasn't sure, but I'd done my best not to leave any tracks.
I had changed my name right away. The very first day, in fact. I'd sifted through death notices at the library. There were a fair number of girls who were born 18 years ago, so I could have made more of a... well... more of a sane choice, but you have to remember that my brain was a bit addled at the time. Long story short and believe it or not, a husband and wife had named their baby girl Whimsy Carter. Even though I laughed so hard that the librarian asked me to leave, I was convinced that I'd found the most perfect, the most absolutely fitting name I could ever dream of having.
Now, of course, I wish I'd chosen something something a little less odd and a lot less memorable. I still shake my head and wonder what on earth her parents were thinking, and pity that poor dead girl who once bore the name.
Laurie, in fact, could never bring herself to call me Whimsy. She called me "Honey" instead, as if that was my name.
In any case, I'd gone back to the storage place, rented a locker as Whimsy, and with the help of a big cart moved all the money from Maria's locker to my own.
It turned out that Maria had socked away TWENTY-NINE MILLION DOLLARS: twenty-nine identical bundles, each wrapped in black plastic and duct tape.
I didn't take it all. I left two million in Maria's locker, along with a scribbled note, which I'd found taped to the wall:
Dear Mom,
Thanks for trusting me to hide your money. I'm sure you must have wanted me to have some of it at least. So I took some. Don't be mad!
You can't pretend you'd even miss it, with the big malloppo you have.
So don't be mad! You know I love you. If I ever see you, I'll buy you dinner, then we'll be even, right? (JUST KIDDING!)
Remember what you always said to me: "You're young! You have your whole life ahead of you!"
Now I'm telling you: You're young! You have your whole life ahead of you!
I'm going to miss you.
Tanti baci
Why did I leave the two million? At the time, it made me feel less greedy. I could always say that I didn't take it all. And the note? Well, it wasn't addressed to me.
In retrospect, leaving it was a little smart: it might confuse the trail. Maybe Maria would think her daughter took the money. Then she'd have two targets to find, and if her daughter... what was her name? Vanessa? No, that wasn't it... Denise? No... never mind, the name would come. Anyway, her daughter took at least a million. She might have left the country. At the very least, if she didn't hide from her mother, she'd have to hide from her father's people, wouldn't she?
Or would she?
Rita! That was the daughter's name.
So anyway... I went back, boxed up the money, and took it away, using a car I bought in another town. The only way they could pick up my trail would be if they looked at the storage rentals after I woke. I noticed that the facility had no security cameras, which meant that no one would know exactly when it was cleaned out, or even that I ever visited at all.
So what did Maria know? She knew what I looked like. What else? She almost certainly interrogated the doctor... but what could he tell her? He only knew two things: where I first woke up, and the location of the storage facility.
Aside from what she knew, Maria had three other things on her side: time, money, and persistence.
She'd have the doctor's two million, plus the two I left her. With that kind of money she could do anything and go anywhere. She could even hire help: private detectives, thugs... whatever she needed. And since she was clearly a homicidal maniac, I had to figure she'd spend every waking moment hunting for me.
Okay... scary, sure. I needed to be ready, I needed a plan, but there was nothing I could do right now.
I took a deep breath and picked up the second shot of whiskey. I took a tiny sip and swallowed it. When the alcohol hit my stomach, it gently warmed me, like a little sun rising inside of me. The feeling of well-being spread through my whole body. I relaxed and smiled. Laurie looked over and gave me a smile and a thumbs-up. I grinned and waved back. I was feeling much better.
So: How to get ready for Maria? What choices did I have? I could keep running and stay ahead of her. Or... I could find a place where she could never find me. Neither option sounded safe or smart. Or possible.
On the other hand, I could go back to Build-A-Body and ask for a new body. The only problem was that Maria probably had somebody working for her there; someone watching for me. She'd already corrupted a Build-A-Body employee once — the late Dr. Veerecks — there was no reason she couldn't do it again.
Which meant that Build-A-Body was not an option.
But... I had a glimmer of another idea... I definitely had another choice. A risky choice, for sure — a crazy, one-shot choice — one that required some serious planning and preparation, but—
My eyes drifted up to the TV, and I saw Maria's face— or my face— I mean the new face that I had chosen, the one Maria was using.
Maria had been sloppy. She was in a hurry and she didn't care. Maybe she believed her current body was temporary; that once she found me, she could take mine back. Or maybe she was just plain nuts.
Either way, it didn't matter what she thought or why she didn't cover her tracks: the police had no trouble identifying her as the murderer.
"Nice looking guy," a voice commented beside me. Startled, I looked up to see a vaguely familiar face: not someone I knew, but someone I'd seen, though I couldn't think how or where. She was a big-boned woman in her forties, a bottle blonde with the raspy voice that comes from smoking and drinking. Her clothes were expensive but gawdy, and she moved in an aggressive cloud of Chanel No. 5. My eyes teared, and I gave a quick gasp, seeking oxygen.
Her jaws were working on a piece of gum while her eyes searched my face. She stopped chewing and she asked — so quietly that I almost didn't hear — "Are you mad at me?"
"Mad at you?" I repeated, mystified. I looked into her face and was shocked to see hurt and even fear in her eyes, as if she thought that I might somehow hurt her— and then the light dawned. "Rita!" I softly exclaimed. It was Maria's daughter! How on earth had she found me?
I'm sure that the whiskey I'd drunk helped a little with what I did next. The thing was, this great big woman, who was older than me, stronger than me... was so obviously afraid of me, that it made me feel sorry for her. It brought out the father... or mother... in me. She stood there, clutching her wrists, trying to squeeze herself small in front of me. I realized, to my great disgust, that Maria Mozzicone must have been a awful mother. She must have terrorized this girl something fierce.
I turned to Rita and smiled a half-smile. "Did you come here to buy me dinner?"
Her face lit up a bit at that, but she was still uncertain.
I stood up. Even in heels, my face only came even with her breasts. I tilted my head back, looked up to her, and opened my arms. "Come here," I said.
"Really?" she asked, still uncertain.
"Yes, really." I said. "Come here."
She grabbed me, the way a starving man would clutch at a crust of bread. She wrapped her arms tight around me. Too tight. My feet left the ground, and I had to twist my head so I wasn't smothered against her massive chest. I did my best to get my arms around her, too, but I could hardly move them. She held me for a while, shaking, until I patted her and said, "Okay... okay..." a couple of times.
"Wow, Mom," she whispered, her voice full of emotion. "You're so different!" and she pressed a finger into the flesh of my upper arm.
I climbed back on my stool. She sat to my left.
"I know you told me not to look for you, but I just had to see," she said in an excited tone, and took my upper arm between her thumb and index finger. "Gosh, you're just a tiny little thing! And you're so SOFT!"
"Yeah, I know," I said. "I feel like a whole 'nother person."
Rita nodded to me. Then Laurie arrived. "Whatcha drinking?"
"Whatever she's got," Rita answered, nodding at me. Then she looked down, and scoffed in disgusted disbelief. "Forget that!" she corrected. "Give me a white russian, and make it a double."
"Did you have a hard time finding me?" I asked. I hoped she couldn't tell how hard my heart was pounding.
"Eh," Rita replied with a shrug. "Not really. I put a webcam with a motion sensor in the locker. Well, *I* didn't do it — I got that moron Petey to do it. When you cleaned the locker out, I came to this town and started looking."
"Why here?"
"There's only three towns a day's drive from that locker, and this one's the farthest." She tapped her head knowingly.
I stared at her a moment, dumbfounded. She made it sound so easy, I felt a complete idiot. After a moment I said, "I guess it's time I moved on, then."
She shrugged.
"Rita, if you can find me, someone else can, too," I told her.
"I dunno know about that. Nobody else knows what I know."
"There's Petey," I reminded her. "Is there anybody else who knows I'm here?" As I asked, as if right on cue, the front door opened slightly, and a man in a short-sleeved dress shirt slipped in. He looked like he'd stepped off the cover of a pulp detective novel: his wide chest and big biceps stretched his shirt to the limit, and his chin was the strongest, squarest chunk of bone I'd ever seen. He was very careful not to look at anyone in the room. He didn't look for a table; he didn't look for a friend. He just stepped in and stood by the door. My heart started pounding and I felt myself trembling.
"Naw," Rita repeated. "Nobody knows but me."
"Are you sure? What about that guy by the door?"
Rita glanced over and swore.
"If I was looking for me," I told her, "I'd keep my eye on you."
Rita gave me a fearful look. "Oh, God, Mom! I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!"
I grabbed her hand. "Stay calm, Rita. We need to keep our heads."
"Mom, mom, mom, I'M SORRY!"
I looked at her, uncertain of what to say. It was incredibly stupid of her to come find me. She led her father's friends right to me, although...
"Rita, listen. They can't be sure that I'm you-know-who."
At that, she relaxed a bit. "Oh, that's right!"
"But... I'm sure they're going to want to take me somewhere to... talk to me."
"Right," she agreed. "Let's slip out the back."
"No," I said. "The reason we see the guy at the front door is to make us go out the back."
"Right!" she slapped herself on the forehead. "Oh, God, Mom, I'm so sorry!"
"It's okay," I told her. "We're not dead yet." I looked around the back of the restaurant. "Just do what I say. Right now, lean forward, onto the bar. A little more. I don't want to stiff the bartender." Rita looked surprised at this, but did as I asked. While she blocked me from the view of the man at the door, I tucked a few twenties under my plate. "Now, let's head toward the bathroom. Just follow me."
I walked around the tables, heading for the ladies, and then calmly went up the stairs. I didn't look, but I was pretty sure the man in front missed our little detour.
By the time we reached the third floor, Rita was huffing and puffing. "What are we doing up here?" she wheezed.
"Taking the high ground," I said. "I need a little time to think." I pushed open the door to the office in the back. The light was off and the window was open. Outside was a fire escape. I looked at Rita and put my finger to my lips. Carefully easing my head out, I peeked down. There was a beefy man standing near the back door, smoking a cigarette.
"You know him?" I whispered. Rita nodded.
"Hey, Ma," she whispered. "There's something you should know." I nodded, and she went on in a hoarse rasp. "You know there's a price on your head, right?"
A breeze suddenly came through the window, and the blood within me froze. Was Rita hoping to collect on her own mother? It was pretty clear to me that having Maria Mozzicone for a mother was like having a picnic in hell. Could anybody blame Rita if she wanted revenge?
I wet my lips, which were suddenly quite dry. "I figured as much," I whispered back.
"Now it's dead or alive," she hissed.
"Good to know," I commented, and looked around the office. "Listen, Rita. I'm going to ease out on the fire escape, and when I tell you, I want you to hand me that plant. But don't make a sound!"
I slipped my shoes off and slid out the window. The metal grate of the fire escape hurt my feet, but I ignored it. Carefully setting my shoes down, I looked over the edge. The man was almost in the right spot. I gestured to Rita, and she handed me the potted plant, wrapped in a napkin she'd found on the desk. "Fingerprints," she explained helpfully. "I'm going to go wipe off the door knob and the sill. They's the only things you touched."
While she disappeared inside, I eased my way back to the edge of the escape and looked over the edge. The man below was restless. He kept walking to the door and back. He took out a pack of cigarettes, shook one out, hesitated, and put it back. He shifted back and forth until finally...
I let go of the pot. It struck him square in the head, and down he went. I listened for a moment, but didn't hear any reaction. "Come on!" I said to Rita, and the two of us made our way down the metal stairs. We made a hell of a racket, but no one seemed to hear.
Once on the ground, I ran to the man on the ground and touched him. Then I pulled back in startled revulsion. "Oh, my God!" I whispered. "He's dead!"
Rita looked at me as though I'd lost my mind. "Of course he's dead! What did you think?" she asked.
"I only meant to knock him out."
She scoffed. "Jeez, Mom, you really are soft!" But she smiled.
I got over my shock and quickly went through the man's pockets.
"What are you looking for?"
"Car keys," I said as I fished them out. Straightening up, I pushed the button on the fob, and a Escalade tweeted.
"You taking his car?" Rita asked.
"Yes," I said. "I can't risk going around front to get mine. Where can I take you?"
"Take me?" she asked, puzzled.
"Yes, take you," I said. "Your car is out front too, isn't it?"
Her jaw dropped. Her face lit up as though she was having a religous illumination. "Oh my God, Ma! Are you worried about ME? You're worried about ME?"
"I don't want anything to happen to you," I told her.
"You DON'T?"
"No, of course not," I replied.
"Oh, Ma!" she exclaimed, and taking me by the arms, buried her head in my shoulder. She sobbed for what seemed like an hour. I needed to get out of there, but the glimmer of an idea that I had in the bar was beginning to crystalize. Rita might be exactly the help I needed in neutralizing her mother for good. So I held her, swallowed my impatient fear, patted her head, and made sympathetic noises. At last she let me go, leaving my sweater soaked with tears and smeared with makeup.
Rita sniffed and wiped her nose with the heel of her hand. "Oh, Ma, this is the best night of my life!"
I nearly laughed, it was such an insane thing to say, but instead I told her, "I'm glad, hun. I'm really glad. But now we have to go. Where can I take you?"
"You don't need to take me anywhere," she said. "They're not looking for me. They're looking for you. Once you leave, I'll smoke a couple cigarettes and go back inside."
"Then why did you come up the stairs with me and do all that?"
She gave me with a helpless look and spreading her hands wide said, "I just wanted to be with you."
I had to smile. But, "I have to get the hell out of here, Rita. I've got to run."
"Where are you going to go?" she asked. I couldn't believe she was asking, but it was too perfect. I had to tell her.
"Ames, Iowa," I replied. It was the first name that popped into my head. Almost any place would do, and I didn't think Maria had any connections there.
"Are you shitting me?"
"No, Rita, I'm really going there. Hey, do you have a pen?" When she nodded, I held out my hand for her to write on. "Give me a phone number where I can reach you."
She stuck her tongue out of the side of her mouth to help her concentrate, and excitedly scribbled the numbers and "Rita!" with a heart dotting the i.
© 2012 by Kaleigh Way
I had to set my trap in Iowa and set myself into that trap, as bait.
I didn't go very far when I stole the dead man's Escalade. I drove away from the bar, and took a very wide berth of it, but my large circuit brought me back toward the entrance. I parked two blocks away, in front of a much wilder and more infamous bar. I left the keys in the ignition and the rear passenger window down.
Hopefully someone else would take it for a ride and muddy my trail, at least a little bit.
Then, I did something that might have been a little daring, but I figured that no one but Maria and Rita Mozzicone knew what I looked like. I clip-clopped very deliberately into the parking lot, directly in front of my bar's front door, and got into my car. My heart was pounding so hard, I could feel it in my whole body, and my knees were so wobbly I'm amazed they didn't give way.
No one stopped me. I checked my makeup in the rear-view, and touched up my lipstick, before I started the car and drove back to my apartment.
The thing was, if I'd abandoned my car, it would have served as an enormous signpost pointing directly to me. Not only for the bad guys — who'd now be looking for me — but also for the police.
When I locked my car in my garage and stood in the silent night, it hit me: I killed a man. I did it. I decided to do it, and I did it. Who knows what life that man had, what family, what friends? Yes, he was a criminal — or at least, Rita told me that he was — but he could not have been alone on Earth. I hadn't just ended *his* life. I'd damaged the lives of others, the people who'd miss him and mourn him, forever.
True, another part of me admitted, but remember what Rita told you: dead or alive. If you hadn't taken him out, you'd be at his mercy now. He could be the one killing you.
I shook myself hard and climbed the stairs to my apartment. Whatever the case, whatever the truth of it, I had to get moving. There was no way of knowing how much time I had before Maria showed up in Iowa. I had to have my trap ready. The business of what I done in that alley would follow me for the rest of my life. I didn't have time to examine it now.
... but I did have time later that night and into the morning.
It was a long train ride to Ames. The fact that I was alone with my heavy conscience made it longer.
Outside the window, in the moonless night, there was nothing to see, nothing to distract me. Only shadows. Boxy shadows of buildings, black silhouettes of trees, black fences... dark mirroring puddles shone like hematite, reflecting the dirty gray clouds in the monochrome sky.
Bad judgment, I admitted to myself. Bad choices.
When Dr. Veerecks handed me that key and admitted that what he asked me to do was illegal, I should have handed the key back and refused to participate.
And then, once I understood the situation, I never should have taken Maria's money. It was greed, pure and simple. I could pretend that it was the euphoric's fault, but it wasn't true. I knew right from wrong, and I chose to do wrong. If I hadn't touched the money, Maria wouldn't care at all about me. But once I took it, I painted a big red bull's eye on my back.
... and Dr. Veerecks would still be alive. If I hadn't taken the key, he wouldn't have gotten his money. He would have waited for Maria to contact him. Well, wait — that wouldn't have worked. She'd probably have killed him anyway, then come looking for me so she could use the key.
... or maybe not. She might have just called Rita and gotten the money. But Rita wouldn't have known who she was, so... the result would probably be more violence.
So, I made two crappy choices. But there were no good ones. Maria would still be coming after me, no matter what. This way, at least I had resources, and I knew she was coming.
The idea I had in the bar was a good one, I thought, and it could have resolved everything. But not any more. The death of that man complicated everything. I thought my situation was full of peril before, but now it had more than doubled. Now not only was Maria after me, but potentially her husband's criminal associates, and even the police. If I was caught, the FBI would have to assume that I was Maria Mozzicone, and I'm sure they'd be angry about having put me (I mean Maria) on Witness Protection.
My strongest impulse, while in the grip of that guilt and fear, was to give the money back to Maria. I hadn't spent that much. It was surprisingly hard to spend, especially when you don't want to attract attention. Would that solve my problem? If I gave it back, she'd still want to kill me, wouldn't she?
In the end, I had to cling to my idea. At the very least, it would take Maria out of circulation. I had to set my trap in Iowa and set myself into that trap, as bait.
I shifted in my seat, trying to get comfortable. I couldn't sleep. I fought the urge to look around the car. No one could have followed me. I had to be careful to not seem guilty or afraid. I closed my eyes and tried to calm my feelings. Beneath and all around me, containing me, the train barreled on, never stopping or slowing, rocking me rhythmically, and in spite of all my complex fears and volatile feelings, I fell sound asleep.
When I got off the train, I took a hotel room. I was dying to sleep, to shower, to eat. But as funky and tired and hungry as I felt, I started calling real estate agents. Three of them didn't understand what I was asking. A fourth tried to talk me into something I didn't want. The fifth listened, asked a few questions, and told me, "I don't know any properties like that, just off the top of my head, but if you'll give me a half an hour, I'm sure I can find some possibilities."
I thanked her, and while I waited for her call, I took a shower and changed.
The two of us drove all over Ames. It took several hours to visit all the properties she'd found. None of them were close to what I was looking for. But the agent paid attention, and knowing that I had cash ready to plunk down, she promised to show me better prospects tomorrow.
In the evening, I searched the internet for safes.
The next day, the agent had a longer list, and the first few were promising, but not quite right. The sixth one was perfect. It was a one-story concrete building, sitting on the line between an industrial zone and a residential one. The building had served, at different times, as a store and a workshop. There was a lot of space, a small loading dock on the side, and a big room in the back that could serve as my bedroom. The bathroom was equipped with a shower.
I was prepared to buy, but the owner decided he didn't want to sell. I ended up signing a two-year lease, which worked out much better, because it let me move in two days later.
That same day, I had a huge safe installed. At least, it appeared huge. It was ten feet wide, with two massively heavy doors that were nearly six feet high. Inside it was only two feet deep. But that was plenty for me.
As soon as the workmen left, even before dusting or cleaning or finding a bed, I got to work. I had a trap to build.
It took 18 hours, during which I didn't sleep or bathe. I ate trail mix and energy bars. I drank water and coffee. The hard part was getting the switch right. The harder part was figuring out how to test it.
When I was finally done, I curled up on a dirty dropcloth and slept for twelve hours.
The first thing I did when I woke up was to test the trap again, to be sure I wasn't dreaming that I'd finished. It looked good. Now I could relax -- or at least, not work. Now, all I had to do was wait.
I took a shower. I had some good hot food delivered. Then I ordered up the rest of my life.
I needed to stay close to my trap. I wasn't going to leave the building until Maria came for me.
There was a good grocery store that accepted phone orders and delivered the food. I got TV, phone, and internet hookups. Then I went on an ordering spree, and soon my loading dock was filling up with deliveries and packages: packages containing a vacuum cleaner, exercise machines, bed linens, curtains, and paint; deliveries of all the ordinary household appliances, a bed, cabinets, and other furniture.
My days were spent assembling things, arranging things, fixing things. I had to order tools, nails, screws. I got so busy creating my little world that I — quite surprisingly — often forgot about Maria completely.
Often, I wanted to call Rita. My mind kept going back to our exchange in the alley behind the bar: Her astonishment that I cared about her, the way she clutched at me, and how desperate she was for affection. And, above all, the way she cried, This is the best night of my life! It was heartbreaking. Had she never known a parent's love?
Unfortunately, if I called Rita, it wouldn't just bring Maria. It would bring the whole posse of criminals who by now would want my hide whether I was Maria or not.
After two weeks, time began to drag. I sunbathed on the roof. I worked out with dance videos. I adopted a kitten who wandered mewing onto the loading dock. I started leaving the TV on most of the time, for company. When I wasn't watching anything in particular, I'd turn to the news stations. Might as well stay informed.
One amazingly sunny day, I was doing two things at once: searching for my kitten (she was under a cabinet) and dancing around the place, barefoot, wearing a pair of shorts and a cutoff t-shirt. I was enjoying the sun, the sensation of the newly-cleaned floors, calling to my kitty, laughing and happy.
In the midst of my sunny joyful searching dance, a photo of Maria's face filled the TV screen.
I learned that Maria hadn't come for me because Maria had been busy. Very busy. She'd was down in Florida, where she'd lived with her husband. What was she doing there? She was killing people. Specifically, she was killing her late husband's business associates.
She must have known about the price on her head; maybe she wanted to bring the fight to them. Or maybe she had old grudges. Or maybe she was just plain crazy. In any case, she was still sloppy, not hiding her tracks. She left fingerprints, spittle, hair, footprints. Above all, the style of the killings was always the same: brutal, vicious, violent. The police couldn't help but connect the new murders with Dr. Veerecks' death, and then with Maria's husband's murder.
That Maria, and only Maria, had killed her husband, was certain. The modus operandi on this new killing spree was identical. I was sure it was her. For the rest of world, for the agents of law enforcement and the newspeople, it wasn't as clear. At the very least, there was a connection between this killer and Maria.
Surprisingly, there was no mention of Build-A-Body. I was sure that Build-A-Body had provided the picture I'd seen on TV. I was glad for the omission, though: the Build-A-Body connection would inevitably lead investigators to believe (incorrectly, of course) that the murderer was Arlo Henson.
And even though there was no one left on earth who knew me as Arlo, I still wouldn't want to see my old name dragged through the mud. My old life would be dissected, analyzed under a microscope, and in the end I'd forever be labeled as a cold-blooded, vicious killer.
Luckily, it didn't happen.
I took advantage of Maria's activity to get outside for a bit. I know this sounds grisly, but she was killing at least one person a day for over a week. Each time I heard of a new murder in Florida, I'd run out of the house. I went clothes shopping, I visited the art museum and the Reiman Gardens. I went to day spas. I walked around and struck up conversations with strangers. After being cooped up, I needed people.
And then one day, the news had no murder to report, so I stayed home. The weather changed in an appropriate direction: it turned overcast and dark.
I tested my trap. It was still working fine.
The next morning when I woke, he was sitting in a chair next to my bed, smiling.
"I was watching you sleep," he said. "You look amazing."
I made an odd squeaking noise in response. I was paralyzed with fear.
"Let me look at you," he said. He grasped the bedclothes and whisked them to the end of the bed, leaving me uncovered. I was lying on my side, wearing a white babydoll.
He ran his hand up my leg. "Oh, how smooth!" he sighed.
The touch of his hand on my leg was electric. His skin on my skin... there was some kind of palpable chemistry there.
"You feel it too, don't you," he said. It wasn't a question, but I nodded mutely.
"I did a good job on your body," Maria said. "Just like you did a good job on mine." He punctuated the mine with an open-handed slap on his chest. It made a resounding, solid thunk. He was a big, strong man.
"Mmm, I did a real good job on you," Maria went on, taking one of my butt cheeks in her hand. She was exploring, examining, and she liked what she found.
The strange and horrible thing about it — something I never expected and absolutely did not want — was that Maria was turning me on. In a big way. That body... here, now... was hot. Really hot. I wanted him, and he obviously wanted me.
"When I broke in here," Maria told me, "I was going to slap you awake. I was going to toss you around, just for fun. And after I got my money, I was going to kill you." I blinked and tried to swallow, but my mouth was dry. Very dry.
"Then I saw you," he went on, "and I couldn't believe it. You are so absolutely... delectable... edible... I just want to kiss you all over and gobble you up! Do you know why?"
"Wh-why?" I managed to croak.
"We are the perfect couple. Think about it. You are my ideal woman, and I am your ideal man."
I looked at the swelling in his pants, and I knew how long that cock was going to be. I'd ordered it, I asked for it, and now there it was, pointing in my direction.
"Did you have a hard time finding me?" I asked.
Maria scoffed. "Are you kidding? You were stupid to tell Rita where you were going. As soon as she told me, I called a PI. It took him all of two hours to get your address." He shrugged.
"Where is Rita now? Is she okay?"
He scowled. "She's in the car, the damn ungrateful bitch."
"In the car?"
"Yes, safe and warm in the trunk." When Maria saw my horrified expression, he made a dismissive gesture. "It's not the first time she's had to ride back there."
He stood, and his face turned ugly. His right arm began to tense, and I braced myself for the blow I was sure was coming. "Do you know what that idiot said?" I shook my head. "When I told her that *I* was her mother... she said..." he curled his fingers into a fist "... she told me that she wanted you as her mother."
I watched him closely, wondering if I could manage to duck that fist. It would be hard, since I was lying down.
Then Maria looked at me. Her gaze traveled up my legs, over my hips, to my breasts and finally my face, and the anger dropped from his expression. His fist opened and relaxed. He leaned forward and in a hoarse whisper told me to take my clothes off.
He devoured me with his eyes, and said, "You know what? Maybe you can be her mother. If you play your cards right. If you're a good girl and do exactly as you're told. The three of us can go play house someplace warm..." He stopped. His chest heaved. He grunted, "I can't wait any more" and pulled his clothes off, dropping them on the floor.
The image of him standing there, naked, full of desire, is forever stamped on my memory.
I wish I could say I resisted, but I didn't. I wanted it bad. I wish I could say that he wasn't good, that he didn't last, and that I didn't feel a thing — but none of that was true, either.
God help me.
To tell the unvarnished truth, I had the most profound, earthshaking sexual experience of my life. I never had sex like that before, and I doubt I ever will again. It reduced me to a quivering, silent, empty, spent, wordless, utterly satisfied pile of warm flesh and mussed hair. There was nothing more to wish for. He fell asleep on top of me, his weight trapping me completely. One of my legs and half my hips were pinned beneath him. I tried to push him off or wriggle my way out, but there was no room to move and nothing left in me. The series of orgasms had blown out everything I had in me.
I closed my eyes for a moment, just to gather my strength, and the next thing I knew, a fully clothed Maria was shaking me awake.
It wasn't gentle or tender, but she didn't hurt me.
"Now to business," he said. "I want my money."
"Oh, yes!" I replied, pushing myself up with my elbows. "Let me open the safe for you!"
He laughed. "Oh, no. No, no. Did you think it would be that easy? You'll pull out a gun and shoot me. No thanks. *I* will open the safe."
He grabbed my upper arm and led me, still naked, into the room with the safe. After pushing me into the corner farthest from the door, he asked me the combination, and punched the numbers one by one into the keypad. When he hit the last digit, the lock beeped three times and a green LED glowed.
Maria chuckled and grasped the handles. As soon as he pushed down on them, two thousand volts of electricity shot into him. His body vibrated in a horrible, jolting dance, until at last he fell and let go of the handles.
There was no money in the safe. There were batteries, wires and electrical equipment. The safe was effectively a huge taser, and nothing more. I ran from the room to grab a broom handle and a notecard. I used the wooden stick to reach inside the safe, hit the off button, and break some connections. Then I tucked the card inside the neck of his shirt.
"I don't know whether you can hear me," I told him, "but this is where your money is. I'm sorry I took it. I was wrong to do that. But I didn't spend much. I hope you can forgive me and leave me alone."
The sex was great, though, I added mentally, as I jumped into some clothes and fled the building.
I hesitated at Maria's car. I couldn't hear a thing, but I believed her when she told me that Rita was inside. I wanted to let her out or at least knock on the trunk and tell her things were going to be okay.
But I didn't. It had to be this way. I ran off. I called a cab and left her there.
That night on the TV news in my hotel room I watched the FBI take Maria into custody. An anonymous tip (mine, of course) had led the lawmen to the storage facility.
Of course, there was no money there. Just as there was none in my safe.
The television news also reported that Maria had a woman locked in the trunk of her car. The woman wasn't identified, but they said she was unhurt (at least physically).
They never reported the connection between the murderer and Build-A-Body, and the names Maria Mozzicone and Arlo Henson were never mentioned either. Thank goodness.
Once the story fell out of the news, I gave Rita a call. She didn't answer. I tried repeatedly. I left messages, but she never responded. So I went to Florida and looked her up.
She was miserable. She was overjoyed to see me, but she was still miserable. The lifetime of abuse from her mother, capped by the kidnapping, had broken her spirit. I could see that she was sliding into depression. If she went far enough into that abyss, she would never come out.
I moved in with her, and she liked that. She called me Mom and clung to me like a child. Sometimes she cried when I left her, even if I was only in the next room.
Normally, children don't choose their parents, and parents don't choose their children. In our case, I felt — and Rita obviously felt — that somehow I was her mother, and she was my daughter.
I don't mean I became her mother. I just was her mother. I don't know how to explain it, but something happened in that alley over that dead man's body.
Once I had that thought — or realization — it brought an idea into my head. The more I thought about it, the more compelling it became. Finally, I called Build-A-Body to ask if it was possible. After four calls and two consultations, they agreed that it was possible. It took a few more calls for them to agree to actually do it.
I very gingerly sketched the idea out to Rita, and she lit up like a Christmas tree. She was pounced on the idea, with tears of joy. She wanted it more than anything.
So we went, with a pile of Maria's money, back to Build-A-Body.
It took months of preparation. I had to get shots to prepare my body. Rita had to undergo countless psychological and legal sessions to be sure she understood the procedure, the cost, the risk.
They told her over and over, "We can't guarantee that your memory or personality will survive intact. Your current life might seem like a dream, or a previous incarnation. But the most likely result is that you won't remember it at all."
"Sounds like heaven," Rita would always reply, "sign me up."
At last they did. They prepared a tiny little body, using her DNA and mine, and transferred her consciousness, her memories, her personality, into a three-month-old embryo, which they implanted in my womb.
That was five months ago. She's been living under my heart ever since, and I can't wait for her to be born into her new life.
I'm going to name her Renata.
© 2012 by Kaleigh Way